29. Voss - No Survivors
The smoke curled thick and acrid, wrapping around the docks like a noose. Shadows moved through the industrial maze, but Voss was already ahead of them—tracking their footfalls, measuring the weight of their steps, breathing in the scent of sweat and steel.
He didn't hesitate.
Didn't warn them.
He just dropped.
Like a shadow breaking loose from the sky, he landed hard, boots cracking against the metal grates—a thunderclap of force and violence.
The first enemy barely had time to register his presence before Voss's blade punched through his throat.
Silent. Precise. Deadly.
The second tried to turn—a mistake.
Voss caught him mid-motion, twisting his arm until the bones cracked, then yanked him forward into his own knife.
The others reacted too late.
Gunfire erupted—but Voss was already moving.
His circuits flared, power humming through his veins like wildfire, his muscles coiling and releasing with lethal precision.
The third enemy fired—two rounds, clean shots.
Voss tilted his body just enough, letting the bullets graze past, then closed the distance.
His fist met bone, and the man collapsed instantly, skull dented.
Another enemy rushed him from the left—a blade arcing toward his ribs.
Voss snatched the wrist mid-swing, twisted—ripped the arm clean from its socket—and used the momentum to slam the body against the steel crates.
A wet, sickening crunch.
The last man standing hesitated—his grip on his rifle shaking as he stared at the carnage.
Voss's silver eyes burned, his body dripping in the blood of his enemies.
"Run."
The man dropped his weapon and bolted.
Voss let him. A mistake he would regret much later when he check the footage from the comman room.
He tapped his comm, voice cold as steel:
"James. I need more targets."
James's voice crackled through the line, smooth but edged with dark amusement.
"You just wiped out an entire squad. You still hungry?"
Voss wiped blood from his face with the back of his hand, his circuits still burning under his skin.
"Always."
James chuckled lowly, then his voice dropped into a controlled, lethal tone:
"Then head east. There's another group trying to breach the secondary gate."
Voss's jaw tightened, his muscles coiling again.
"Not for long."
And then—
He moved, disappearing into the smoke.
The metal scaffolding rattled as Voss moved—fast, silent, relentless.
Blood dripped from his knuckles, staining the ground in his wake, but he didn't slow.
Didn't stop.
Because the secondary gate was under attack.
And no one was getting past it.
James's voice crackled through the comms:
"Four targets, lightly armored. Setting up charges."
Voss's jaw locked.
"They won't finish."
The faint glow of active explosives flickered against the steel, strapped to the gate's primary locking mechanisms. The enemies worked quickly, but they were too focused on their task—
They didn't see him coming.
Their last mistake.
Voss dropped from above, landing hard behind them. The impact sent a shockwave through the ground, the air ripping apart with force.
The first man barely turned before Voss's blade sank deep into his back, severing his spine.
The second went for his rifle—too slow.
Voss caught the barrel, yanked it forward, and smashed it across the man's face, sending teeth and blood spraying across the steel.
The third lunged, a serrated blade flashing toward Voss's ribs.
Wrong move.
Voss sidestepped, grabbed his arm, and twisted—
A brutal snap, followed by a choked scream.
The last man bolted—smart, but not fast enough.
Voss fired once, the shot punching through his leg. He collapsed, screaming.
Voss closed the distance, pressing a boot to the man's chest.
"Who sent you?" His voice was low, even. Deadly.
The man choked on his breath, eyes wide with pain and panic.
"I—I don't—"
Voss pressed harder.
"Name. Now."
A beat—then, through bloodied lips:
"Hale."
Voss's silver eyes darkened, the name coiling through his mind like poison.
Brigadier Hale.
A man who wouldn't waste bullets when a knife to the throat was quieter.
A man who didn't take risks unless he already knew the outcome.
A man who should have stayed out of Voss's business.
He may have been his first commander but Ross had no loyalty toward the a strategist thathadd fought too many wars, sent too many men die, and knew too well that power wasn't won with brute force but with silent moments and always three steps ahead.
Voss's finger twitched on the trigger.
"You were dead the second you stepped on my docks."
The man shook his head, desperate, wild.
"No, you don't get it—he knows. He knows about—A"
A single shot silenced him.
Voss exhaled slowly, his circuits dimmed back to a simmer, his hands steady as ever.
James's voice cut in:
"Hale's playing his hand early?"
Voss rolled his shoulders, cracking his neck.
"Looks that way."
The comms crackled, James's voice smooth but edged with urgency.
"Got a fresh set for you, Boss—" a data ping hit Voss's HUD, marking enemy positions in red. "Five hostiles, northeast quadrant, moving toward your sector."
Voss didn't slow.
Didn't answer.
Just adjusted his grip, blood still slick on his gloves as he moved.
His boots crushed gravel and glass, his breath steady despite the smell of burning metal and the sharp tang of blood thick in the air.
The nearest team was just ahead.
Too slow.
Too loud.
Too stupid to realize they were already dead.
Voss pulled the pin from the grenade with his teeth, his voice calm, almost bored.
"Stay on the line, James."
And then—
He tossed it.
A dull thunk as it hit the ground, a brief moment of realization from the enemy team—
And then—
Boom.
The shockwave rippled outward, shrapnel slicing through bodies, structures, comm signals.
Silence.
Then, James's voice crackled back in, dry as hell.
"Effective."
Voss didn't respond.
Didn't need to.
He was already moving again.
Across the field—
"Incoming. They're hitting the line!" Ava's voice cut through the comms, sharp, controlled. "Security's snipe, falling back, Ross Leah supply truck moving to exit —"
Voss's jaw tightened.