Chapter Eleven: A City Under Siege

Bravo Team and Anya Petrescu led what remained of the resistance through the Romanian wilderness, their bodies aching from battle and their minds clouded with exhaustion. The weight of war clung to them, each step feeling heavier than the last. The journey stretched into days, forcing them to rely on what little supplies they had scavenged from their ambushes.

The terrain wasn't forgiving. Thick forests and rolling hills made travel slow, while distant patrols forced them to alter their route multiple times. They navigated ruined roads, bombed-out villages, and empty farmhouses, always wary of enemy movement.

At night, they camped in abandoned homes or beneath the thick canopy of trees, taking turns keeping watch. The cold September air bit through their clothing, a cruel reminder that winter was approaching.

By the time they reached the outer districts of Bucharest, it was clear the war had consumed the city. Fires smoldered in the distance, casting an eerie glow over the skyline. The sound of sporadic gunfire echoed from within, and military convoys patrolled the streets.

"This isn't a city anymore," Gaz muttered, gripping his rifle. "It's a battlefield."

Anya knelt behind the cover of a collapsed building, scanning the area with a pair of binoculars. "We have to be careful. The Resistance here isn't as strong as it used to be… if they're still alive at all."

Jackson wiped sweat from his brow. "So, what's the plan?"

Anya led them to a hidden route—an old sewage tunnel entrance half-buried beneath rubble. It smelled foul, but it offered cover from enemy patrols. One by one, they slipped inside, moving cautiously through the darkness.

"Feels like déjà vu," Isabelle whispered, gripping her knife.

They navigated through the tunnels, avoiding booby traps set by the remaining resistance. Emerging in a ruined district, they kept to the shadows, using the destroyed buildings as cover. Their goal: find any remaining resistance fighters and regroup.

As they crept through the ruined streets, the question loomed—was Bucharest still worth saving, or had they walked into their own grave?

The tunnels beneath Bucharest were old—far older than the sewer system in the previous hideout. The air was damp, thick with the scent of mildew, rust, and decay. Rats skittered away from the dim glow of the team's flashlights, and the narrow passageway forced them into a single-file formation.

Anya led the way, moving with the familiarity of someone who had traveled these tunnels before. Behind her, Elias kept his rifle up, watching for any sign of danger, while Jackson, Irina, Isabelle, Gaz, and Dr. Mercer moved cautiously in the middle.

"Stay quiet," Anya whispered. "The enemy patrols above aren't deaf. Sound carries in these tunnels."

As if to reinforce her point, a sudden, muffled explosion rumbled through the walls. Dust and debris shook loose from the crumbling ceiling. Somewhere in the city above, another building had been obliterated.

Isabelle exhaled. "Hell of a welcome to Bucharest."

Hours passed as they navigated the labyrinthine tunnels beneath the city. It was clear they had been used before—old crates, empty ammo boxes, and remnants of past skirmishes lined the passageways. Signs of struggle were everywhere: dried bloodstains on the walls, bullet holes scarring concrete pillars, and the remains of a makeshift barricade that had long since been destroyed.

Gaz ran a hand over a spent shell casing. "Somebody fought here."

"But did they survive?" Irina muttered, keeping her weapon at the ready.

Anya stopped suddenly, holding up a clenched fist—a signal for them to halt. Everyone froze.

A sound. Faint. Barely audible over the distant echoes of war above.

Then—voices.

Anya cautiously approached a rusted metal door tucked into the tunnel wall. Behind it, the muffled voices became clearer—Romanian. Not Russian.

She knocked in a specific pattern: two fast, one slow, then another two fast. A silence followed. Then the unmistakable sound of guns being cocked on the other side.

A harsh voice called out, "Parola!" (Password!)

Anya's grip on her rifle tightened. "Glorie celor căzuți." (Glory to the fallen.)

A pause. Then—clank. The sound of locks disengaging.

The door cracked open just enough for a man to peek out, his face gaunt, eyes wild with suspicion. His rifle was aimed directly at Anya's chest. Behind him, several others stood, all armed, all ready to kill.

The man's gaze swept over the foreigners behind her. "Who the hell are they?"

Anya squared her shoulders. "Allies."

The man spat on the ground. "Allies? We don't have allies anymore."

Before anyone could speak, another figure stepped forward—a woman, older, battle-worn. Unlike the first man, her expression was hardened but calculating. She studied Anya for a moment before shifting her attention to Bravo Team.

Her eyes narrowed. "And why is an Osiris standing in front of me?"

Jackson felt his stomach tighten.

The room's tension became suffocating.

Was this a rescue… or another fight waiting to happen?

The tension in the underground chamber was suffocating. The resistance fighters had their weapons trained on Bravo Team, fingers hovering over triggers, while Anya stood between them and her former comrades. The woman who had recognized Jackson's name—the one with cold, calculating eyes—stepped forward, her gaze locked onto him like a hunter stalking prey.

"The son of Roberta Osiris walks into our hideout, armed, with an American special forces team?" she said, voice sharp with disbelief. "Tell me why I shouldn't put a bullet between your eyes, right here, right now."

Jackson held her gaze, his expression unreadable. "Because if you kill me, you'll waste the only chance you have at hitting back."

A bitter laugh erupted from one of the resistance fighters. "Hitting back? What do you know about suffering? Your mother sits in her throne while the rest of the world burns."

Anya lifted a hand, silencing them. "Enough. We don't have time for this."

But the older woman wasn't backing down. "Then prove to me that you are not your mother's pawn." She turned to Anya. "You vouch for them? Then let's see if they are truly on our side."

She gestured for one of her men to step forward—a gaunt, wiry fighter with a scar running down his cheek. He pulled out a dossier and slapped it onto a makeshift table.

"There is a high-ranking Russian officer stationed in the city," the older woman said. "Colonel Viktor Mikhailov. The man who has ordered the executions of hundreds of Romanians—fighters and civilians alike. The man who commands the occupation forces in Bucharest."

She looked back at Bravo Team.

"Kill him. Then we'll talk."

A long silence stretched between them.

Elias finally spoke. "You want us to assassinate a Russian colonel, in an occupied city crawling with enemy patrols, with no intel on his movements?"

"Yes."

Gaz let out a low whistle. "Hell of a welcome, indeed."

Anya turned to Bravo Team. "It's the only way."

Elias exchanged looks with his team. They didn't have the luxury of debating their options—not when the resistance could turn on them at any second.

Finally, Elias nodded. "Fine. But we'll do it our way."

Jackson exhaled sharply. "Looks like we're back in business."

Infiltrating the Military Outpost

The plan was simple: Get in, grab the package & get out.

The execution, however, would be anything but easy.

 The Target: A Military Intelligence Outpost.

Anya had provided details: the Russians had converted an old government records building into a makeshift intelligence hub. Communications officers worked inside, gathering reports from patrols and coordinating troop movements in Bucharest. If anyone knew where Colonel Viktor Mikhailov was, it would be the officers stationed there.

Bravo Team had no choice but to go in silent, unseen, and deadly.

The outpost was lightly fortified—most of its guards were stationed at the front, assuming no one would be reckless enough to attack in the heart of an occupied city. That worked in Bravo Team's favor.

Midnight. No moon. Just thick clouds and the distant glow of burning buildings.

Bravo Team moved through the alleyways, shadows between the ruined structures, their footfalls barely making a sound on the war-torn streets. Irina and Isabelle led the way, their suppressed weapons ready. Jackson and Gaz followed, sweeping the rooftops for snipers.

Elias and Anya stayed close behind, watching their flanks. Dr. Mercer—though not a soldier—had been forced to come along. He wasn't staying behind in a resistance bunker that didn't trust him.

From a distance, the outpost looked quiet. Too quiet.

A few guards stood at the front entrance, smoking and laughing, their rifles slung lazily over their shoulders. A watchtower overlooked the west side, and an antenna array on the roof suggested they had radio equipment inside.

"We don't have time for a long fight," Elias whispered. "Quick and surgical."

Anya nodded. "We take an officer alive and break him."

Elias gave hand signals. The plan was set.

Gaz took point, moving low beneath a crumbling balcony. He pulled out a knife, crept up behind a Russian guard near the side entrance, and sliced his throat in one smooth motion. The soldier gargled, twitching violently, before Gaz eased his body down onto the concrete.

Irina and Isabelle flanked left, moving toward the back door.

Jackson climbed a drainpipe, reaching the roof in near silence. A single enemy sentry stood near the antenna array, staring into the distance. Jackson moved fast. A swift chokehold and a brutal snap of the neck sent the man crumpling to the rooftop.

Elias and Anya followed through the side entrance as Gaz unlocked it.

Inside, the outpost smelled of cigarettes, damp concrete, and stale sweat. A hallway led toward a room with radio equipment—voices in Russian echoed faintly.

Irina signaled. Two officers. Three soldiers.

Elias nodded. No gunfire unless necessary.

Isabelle made the first move. She slipped inside and knifed the first soldier in the kidney, catching his body before he collapsed.

 Irina followed up, driving her blade into another's jugular, her hand muffling his scream as blood pulsed out in a grotesque rhythm.

 Gaz and Jackson grabbed the two officers, yanking them backward and slamming them onto the ground. One resisted—so Jackson pistol-whipped him hard. The man groaned, blood pooling beneath his forehead.

 Anya fired a suppressed shot into the last guard, dropping him instantly.

Silence. Just the sound of their own breathing.

Elias crouched beside the ranking officer, who was still conscious but dazed. A lieutenant. Perfect.

They didn't have much time.

Elias grabbed the Russian lieutenant by the collar and dragged him into a storage room, shoving him against a steel filing cabinet.

"Where's Colonel Mikhailov?" Elias asked. Calm. Direct. Unforgiving.

The officer coughed, spitting blood onto the ground. "I don't—"

Anya pistol-whipped him. Hard. Teeth cracked. Blood splattered.

Elias crouched down. "That wasn't a request."

Jackson leaned against the door. "Maybe he needs motivation."

Irina stepped forward, holding her knife. "Let's start small. How many men guard him?"

"I— I don't—"

Isabelle grabbed his hand and SLAMMED it against the steel cabinet, breaking two fingers. "Try again."

The lieutenant screamed.

"Bastards! You— You'll be hunted—"

 Gaz pressed the muzzle of his suppressed pistol into the Russian's kneecap. "If you think they'll save you in time, you're dead wrong."

The officer trembled. The pain and fear were breaking him. It wouldn't take much more.

Elias gave him one last chance. "Tell us where Mikhailov is. Now."

The lieutenant gasped, swallowing his pride—and then, finally, he spilled the information.

The Intel They Needed:

1. Mikhailov is in a heavily fortified hotel-turned-command centre near Revolution Square.

2. He moves with a personal guard of elite Russian Spetsnaz and Chinese operatives.

3. He rarely leaves—except for high-level meetings.

4. A convoy picks him up every three nights and takes him to another location.

Jackson cracked his knuckles. "Sounds like we've got our next move."

Elias nodded. Now, they just had to figure out how to kill him.

But first…

What do they do with the Russian officer?

Elias exchanged a glance with the others. Killing the officer would be easy, but something about the way he spilled the information so quickly nagged at him.

"This guy's still useful," Elias decided. "We take him."

Jackson frowned. "Risky move, boss. We don't need dead weight."

Anya crossed her arms, sizing up the bloodied Russian lieutenant, who was still trembling from his broken fingers and shattered teeth. "He's not dead weight. He's leverage."

Gaz sighed. "How the hell do we sneak him out?"

Elias turned back to the officer, crouching down to his level. "You're coming with us. You try to scream, you try to run, you make one wrong move…" He pressed his knife against the man's throat, the cold steel biting into his skin. "I will personally gut you."

The officer swallowed hard, eyes darting between them. He knew he had no choice.

 Irina tore off a strip of cloth from a dead soldier's uniform and gagged him.

 Isabelle zip-tied his wrists behind his back.

 Gaz slung his rifle and got ready to carry him if needed.

Jackson adjusted his earpiece. "Alright, we're on borrowed time. Patrols will check in soon."

"We take the back alleys," Anya said. "Resistance safe house isn't far. They'll decide what to do with him."

Elias nodded. Time to disappear into the city.

They moved fast but controlled, slipping out through the side exit into the cold night air. The sounds of Russian patrols echoed down the streets, but Bravo Team moved through the shadows, avoiding open streets and floodlights.

At one point, a Chinese drone buzzed overhead, sweeping the ruins with its infrared scanner. The team hugged a crumbling wall, staying motionless as the red glow passed over them.

When the drone moved on, Elias signaled for them to keep moving.

The safe house wasn't far. An old bookstore, long abandoned, where the underground resistance kept hidden caches and temporary shelters.

They slipped inside through a back entrance, into the dusty interior filled with old, rotting bookshelves.

The resistance members inside aimed weapons immediately.

 Anya raised a hand. "Stand down. He's our prisoner."

The resistance lowered their weapons, but their expressions were pure distrust.

Elias yanked the officer forward. "Find us a room. We're not done with him yet."

Anya nodded, leading the way.

The Russian officer wasn't getting any rest tonight.

The wooden floor creaked under Elias's boots as he shoved the Russian officer forward. The prisoner stumbled, gasping through the blood smeared on his lips, his hands still bound behind his back with zip ties.

The resistance fighters in the bookstore didn't lower their weapons. Some of them—ragged, tired, but armed to the teeth—looked ready to execute Bravo Team on the spot.

Anya stepped forward, her voice sharp. "You heard him. We need a room. Now."

One of the resistance fighters, a hardened man with a thick beard and an AK-12 in his hands, eyed the officer with contempt. "What the hell are you doing bringing a Russian bastard in here?" His Romanian accent was heavy with distrust.

Elias kept his voice even but firm. "Because we're not done with him."

Another resistance fighter, a younger woman with a shaved head and a pistol tucked into her belt, sneered at them. "You think we trust you enough to just let you waltz in here with an enemy? For all we know, you're working with him."

Gaz scoffed, adjusting his grip on his suppressed SCAR rifle. "If we were working with him, you'd already be dead, mate."

Tension crackled in the air. Fingers twitched over triggers.

Then, Anya spoke again. "Enough. If you don't trust them, then trust me. Find us a damn room before I start making orders myself."

After a few tense beats, the bearded fighter gritted his teeth, then nodded toward the back of the shop. "Upstairs. First door on the left."

Isabelle exhaled a small breath. "About time."

Without another word, Bravo Team dragged the officer upstairs, his boots thudding against the steps. The room they entered was cramped, dusty, and smelled of old paper and mold. A single wooden chair sat in the middle of the room.

Perfect.

 Elias kicked the back of the officer's knees, forcing him down into the chair.

 Jackson ripped the gag off his mouth.

The officer coughed, spitting blood onto the floor. He looked up at them, eyes filled with hatred but also fear. He knew what was coming.

Elias crouched in front of him, pulling out his combat knife. He turned it in his hands, letting the dim light catch the steel.

"Now," Elias said, voice calm, measured. "Let's continue our conversation."

The officer's breathing was ragged. His face was already bruised from the first round of questioning back at the outpost, but Bravo Team wasn't done. Not even close.

Anya crossed her arms, staring him down. "Tell me more about the conditions of the resistance under this city. I know you people know."

The officer smirked, blood staining his teeth. "Go to hell."

Irina's fist shot out, cracking him across the jaw.

The officer let out a dry chuckle. "They're finished. Running low on supplies, food, and weapons. They can barely hold the tunnels under the city. Soon, they'll starve, or we'll root them out like rats."

Bravo Team exchanged looks. This was worse than they thought.

Anya's expression darkened, but she pressed on. "And Mikhailov? What's his role in all this?"

The officer's jaw tightened. Elias crouched in front of him, gripping the Russian's hair and yanking his head back. "Talk."

The officer's head snapped to the side, but he still grinned through the pain. "I'm not telling you a damn thing."

Isabelle pulled her knife from her vest, stepping forward. "I hate the tough ones," she sighed. "They always break, eventually."

Elias nodded. "Let's make this simple. You either talk, or we carve the answers out of you. We're on a tight schedule."

The officer's expression hardened, but there was a flicker of doubt in his eyes.

Gaz, leaning against the wall, folded his arms. "You already gave us something before. Think your superiors are gonna let that slide? They'll kill you for what you told us. Might as well be useful to us instead."

The officer clenched his jaw, muscles tensing. His hands flexed behind his back—probably testing the zip ties, seeing if he had any chance of escape. He didn't.

 Jackson stepped forward, gripping the officer's hand. Before he could react—CRACK.

 A scream tore through the room as Jackson snapped one of his fingers.

"You've got nine more," Jackson said, voice flat. "So talk."

The officer gasped, shaking, but still refused.

Anya, who had been silent until now, finally spoke. "You know, I spent my whole life under Russian rule. You invaded my home, my country. I know what men like you do to people like us. That means I don't feel bad about this."

She grabbed the officer's ear and sliced a small part off.

The officer screamed again, thrashing.

 Isabelle grabbed his hair, forcing his head back. "Still want to be brave?"

It took three more broken fingers, two cuts, and a threat to remove an eye before he finally caved.

"Alright! Alright! I'll talk!"

Through gasping breaths, the officer spilled everything.

"Colonel Mikhailov is overseeing the occupation. He's keeping the city in line—public executions, mass arrests. He's making an example out of anyone who resists."

Anya took a sharp breath. "Where is he now?"

The officer hesitated. A knife pressed against his throat changed that.

"He's scheduled to oversee an execution in Victory Square tomorrow. The city's officials will be there. A show of force."

The room went silent. Elias stood, glancing at Anya. The opportunity was clear.

She met his gaze and nodded. "If we don't act fast, the resistance won't last another month. The Russians are bleeding us dry. Killing Mikhailov won't just prove your loyalty—it'll buy us time to fight back."

Elias turned to his team. "Then we make sure it counts."

– A Dangerous Opportunity

The room hung thick with tension as Elias and his team processed the information. The flickering candlelight cast jagged shadows across the damp, peeling walls, giving the place an air of quiet decay. The Russian officer sat slumped in the chair, bound and exhausted, sweat beading down his temple. His uniform was stained with blood, his breathing uneven. He had given them what they wanted—because he had no other choice.

Anya stood still, her arms crossed, lost in thought. Her jaw was clenched so tight it looked like it might crack. Elias could tell she was holding back a storm. This wasn't just about the resistance's survival—it was personal. The Russians had turned Bucharest into an open grave, and the resistance was barely holding on. She exhaled slowly and turned her gaze to Elias.

"If we don't act now, there won't be anything left to fight for," she said, her voice steady but weighted. "Mikhailov has to die."

Elias nodded, but he needed to be sure. "Killing him won't magically rebuild the resistance overnight. He's a high-ranking officer, yeah, but the Russians will replace him. Are you ready for what comes next?"

Anya's dark eyes locked onto his, unwavering. "I'm ready for vengeance."

Elias studied her for a moment, then turned to his team. Jackson leaned against the wall, arms folded over his chest, his expression unreadable. Isabelle was checking the magazine in her rifle, her lips pressed together in thought. Gaz cracked his knuckles, clearly eager for a fight. Irina, ever the tactician, was already considering the angles of their next move. Dr. Mercer, the only one without a military background, had paled slightly at the casual talk of assassination, but he said nothing.

"We're gonna need a plan," Irina said. "An execution in Victory Square? That's not gonna be easy to get close to. Security will be locked down tight."

Anya nodded. "The officers in charge will be in a secured area, away from the crowd. Mikhailov will be heavily guarded. We won't get a second chance."

Elias turned back to the Russian officer, who had been watching them in silence. He smirked weakly, shaking his head. "You think killing Mikhailov will change anything? You're desperate. Running out of places to hide. You'll all be dead soon enough."

Elias ignored him. He crouched down, resting his elbows on his knees, getting eye level with the officer. "Where exactly will Mikhailov be standing? How many guards?"

The officer hesitated, but the cold edge in Elias's voice told him hesitation was not an option. His lips parted reluctantly. "There's a platform. Central stage, elevated. He will stand with the local officials, giving his speech before the executions begin. Guards will be on the stage and surrounding the perimeter. Snipers on rooftops."

Elias glanced at Anya. "How well do you know Victory Square?"

Anya nodded. "Well enough to get us close."

Isabelle exhaled sharply, shaking her head. "This is a death trap. A sniper's nest, armed guards, a packed crowd? One wrong move, and we're dead before we even get a shot off."

"Then we don't give them a chance," Jackson said. His voice was even, his expression unreadable. "We strike fast. Get in, take the shot, and disappear before they can react."

Gaz grinned. "Now that's my kind of plan."

Elias stood and rolled his shoulders. He turned back to Anya. "We're going to need a way in. How do we get past the checkpoints?"

Anya's lips curled into a faint smile. "I have a contact. If he's still alive, he can get us uniforms."

Dr. Mercer, who had been silent the entire time, finally spoke up. "And if this contact is dead?"

Anya's expression hardened. "Then we do it the hard way."

Elias turned to the Russian officer, tilting his head. "You're gonna help us."

The officer let out a dry, bitter laugh. "I'd rather die."

Jackson took a step forward and yanked the officer's head back by the hair, pressing his combat knife just under his jaw. The Russian's breath hitched, his bravado crumbling.

"That can be arranged," Jackson said flatly.

Elias raised a hand, signaling Jackson to ease up, but his voice was firm. "You're gonna walk us through every last detail of that execution. Security patterns, guard rotations, access points—everything. If you're lying, we'll know."

The Russian officer swallowed hard, staring at Elias. There was no mercy in his eyes.

For the first time, he understood.

These weren't just soldiers. They were hunters.

The Russian officer's breathing was shallow, his eyes darting between the Bravo Team members. He had already given them valuable intel, but now he understood—his usefulness was the only thing keeping him alive.

Elias leaned in slightly, his tone ice-cold. "Start talking."

The officer hesitated for only a moment before exhaling sharply. "The main checkpoint into Victory Square is at the eastern entrance, heavily guarded. Most of the soldiers are stationed there, expecting resistance to come from outside the city. The secondary entrance, behind the old municipal building, is where officers and VIPs are escorted through. Security is lighter, but you'll need clearance."

Anya crossed her arms. "How do we get that clearance?"

"There's a transport schedule. The officers arrive in waves, escorted in armored vehicles. If you intercept one before it reaches the checkpoint, you can take their IDs and uniforms."

Jackson smirked. "Intercept? You mean ambush."

The officer's throat bobbed as he swallowed. "Yes."

Elias exchanged glances with his team. A vehicle ambush would be risky, but it was their best shot.

Irina stepped forward. "Weapons check. If we're doing this, we need to be precise. We'll only have seconds to neutralize the guards before they radio for help."

Anya looked at the officer. "How often do these transports move?"

"Every three hours. The next one is in two."

Elias turned to Anya. "You mentioned a contact earlier. Where do we find him?"

Anya hesitated, then sighed. "A bar near the old theater district. If he's still alive, he can help us. But if not—"

"We find another way," Isabelle finished, loading a fresh magazine into her rifle.

Elias stood, rolling his shoulders. "Alright. We move out in thirty. If this contact is dead, we go straight for the transport."

Jackson yanked the Russian officer to his feet. "What about him?"

Elias stared at the officer for a long moment before nodding toward a rusted radiator pipe. "Tie him up. If we're still alive by morning, we'll decide what to do with him."

Gaz grinned. "If he's lucky, the rats get him first."

Jackson shoved the officer down into a chair, binding his hands behind him. The Russian didn't resist—he knew there was no point.

Elias turned to the team. "This is gonna be messy, but we don't have a choice. We get the intel, we get the uniforms, and we finish this. Everyone clear?"

A round of nods.

Elias exhaled, cracking his knuckles.

Time to move.

– The streets of Bucharest

The streets of Bucharest were a ghostly mix of ruins and occupation. Russian and Chinese patrols marched in controlled formations, their boots echoing against cracked pavement. The night air was thick with the scent of burning wood and gasoline—makeshift fires in abandoned buildings, the remnants of a city suffocating under military rule.

Bravo Team moved through the alleys, sticking to the shadows, their steps calculated. Anya led the way, her knowledge of the city proving invaluable. The bar she mentioned was in a rundown part of the old theater district, a once-thriving place now reduced to shattered windows and empty storefronts.

Elias signaled for the team to halt as they approached a corner. A Russian patrol of three men passed, their rifles slung lazily over their shoulders. Gaz tensed, ready to pounce, but Elias gave him a slight shake of the head. Not yet.

The patrol moved on. Bravo Team pressed forward.

The bar's entrance was concealed behind a half-collapsed bookstore. Its sign was faded, and the windows were boarded up. It looked abandoned—except for the faintest glimmer of candlelight inside.

Anya motioned for them to stay back. She stepped forward, knocking three times in a specific rhythm. A pause. Then, the sound of a lock sliding.

The door creaked open just enough for a gaunt man to peer out. His face was partially hidden under a wool cap, his eyes weary and suspicious. When he saw Anya, his expression shifted from caution to relief.

"Petrescu," he breathed. "I thought you were dead."

"Not yet," Anya muttered. "Let us in."

The man hesitated, scanning the group. His eyes lingered on Elias and the others before he sighed and stepped aside.

Inside, the bar was a relic of its past life. Dust-covered tables, a cracked counter, and empty bottles lined up like forgotten memories. A dim oil lamp provided the only light.

The man locked the door behind them. "Who are they?"

"Survivors," Anya said. "We need information."

The man rubbed his face. "You're looking for the Resistance (The main Resistance of Romania), aren't you?"

Elias stepped forward. "You know where they are?"

The man scoffed. "That depends. Are you here to help them, or get them killed?"

Anya grabbed the man's collar. "They're my people, Vasile. You think I'd risk them?"

Vasile's lip curled, but he relented. He glanced at Bravo Team. "You trust these foreigners?"

Anya nodded.

Vasile exhaled. "Then listen carefully. The Resistance is underground—literally. They're hiding beneath the old metro tunnels, moving between sectors to avoid detection."

Elias crossed his arms. "And how do we reach them?"

Vasile leaned in. "You don't. Not unless they want you to."

Elias and Anya exchanged a look. That complicated things.

"Then we make them want to," Jackson said. "We take out a high-value target, shake things up."

Vasile narrowed his eyes. "What are you thinking?"

Elias pulled out the map they took from the Russian officer earlier. "There's a VIP transport route. Officers move through here." He tapped a location near Victory Square. "We hit them. Hard."

Vasile sighed. "You have no idea what you're up against."

Gaz smirked. "We never do."

Elias turned to Anya. "You still in?"

Anya nodded. "I started this war. I'm finishing it."

Elias looked around at his team. "Then let's get to work."

Time for the hunt.

–Bucharest's Shadows

Bravo Team didn't waste time. They holed up in the abandoned bar for a few hours, resting in shifts while going over the stolen intel. The map detailed Russian and Chinese troop movements, officer transport schedules, and secure locations in the city.

Their target was a high-ranking Russian colonel overseeing occupation efforts in Bucharest. He was due to leave the military outpost near Victory Square in an armored convoy in just under six hours.

Elias traced the route on the map with his finger. "They'll take this main road, but they'll cut through a smaller street here—faster, fewer obstacles."

Gaz nodded. "That's our chokepoint."

"We'll need eyes inside the outpost before we strike," Irina said. "Figure out who's riding with him, security detail, what kind of vehicles they're using."

Anya leaned forward. "I know a way in. Maintenance tunnels beneath the outpost. They used to be part of the old city infrastructure. Some of them still connect."

Vasile exhaled sharply. "You're insane."

"Just desperate," Anya shot back.

Elias stood. "Then we breach the outpost, grab an officer, and make him talk. No one moves until we know exactly what we're dealing with."

Jackson cracked his knuckles. "Let's go hunting."

Infiltrating the Military Outpost

The military outpost near Victory Square was a repurposed government building, reinforced with sandbags, guard posts, and floodlights that cut through the night. Patrols moved along the perimeter, a mix of Russian and Chinese soldiers.

Bravo Team and Anya crept through the storm drains beneath the building, moving through the damp, claustrophobic tunnels. The air smelled of rust and mold.

They reached a rusted grate. Above, the muffled voices of soldiers echoed. Elias pulled out a suppressed pistol and nodded to Irina.

She took out a fiber-optic camera and snaked it through a crack in the grate. "Two guards," she whispered. "Weapons ready, but they look bored."

Elias raised his hand—go.

Jackson gripped the grate and lifted it just enough for Isabelle and Gaz to slip through first. Isabelle moved like a ghost, her knife slicing across one guard's throat before he could react. Gaz grabbed the other, muffling his cry as he drove his blade into the man's ribs.

They dragged the bodies into the shadows.

Elias climbed out next. "We split up. Irina, Isabelle, you're on overwatch. Jackson, Gaz, Anya, we're going for the officer."

They moved swiftly, using the shadows and blind spots between patrols to navigate the compound. The officer barracks were on the second floor.

A sentry stood at the stairwell. Elias gave a quick hand signal—silent.

Jackson slipped behind him, wrapping a forearm around his throat and twisting—a sharp snap. The body crumpled.

They reached the officer's quarters. A dim light flickered under the door.

Elias counted to three, then kicked the door open.

Inside, a Russian major sat at a desk, startled as he reached for his pistol—too slow. Anya slammed him against the wall, her knife pressed against his throat.

Gaz shut the door behind them.

Elias pulled a chair into the center of the room. "Sit," he ordered.

The officer hesitated. Jackson struck him across the face with his rifle. "I said sit."

The Russian stumbled into the chair, blood trickling from his lip.

Elias crouched in front of him. "Your colonel's transport. Who's riding with him? Security? I want details."

The officer spat at Elias' boots.

Anya grabbed his hand and slammed a knife through it, pinning it to the chair. The man screamed.

"Details," Anya said coldly.

The Russian gasped, his face contorted in pain. "Four escort vehicles… twelve men total… two armored jeeps, two motorcycles."

Elias leaned in. "And?"

"A UAV… watching from above," the officer groaned. "Gunship on standby… if needed."

Jackson exhaled. "That complicates things."

Elias looked at Gaz. "Make sure he doesn't raise the alarm."

Gaz nodded and pulled a silencer from his belt.

Phft.

The Russian slumped over, lifeless.

Elias turned to Anya. "Time to set the trap."

 They set up the ambush in an old tram tunnel beneath the city. It was a perfect kill zone—narrow, confined, with only one exit.

Explosives were rigged beneath the cracked tracks. Sniper positions were established in the ruined buildings overlooking the entrance. Bravo Team took their positions, weapons ready.

Then they waited.

The convoy arrived on schedule. The lead vehicle rolled over the first charge—boom. The explosion flipped the jeep, fire engulfing the street. The two motorcycles skidded out, crashing into the rubble.

Bravo Team struck like predators.

Irina and Isabelle sniped the gunners before they could fire. Jackson and Gaz flanked the convoy, moving through the debris. Anya closed in on the remaining guards, cutting them down with ruthless efficiency.

The final vehicle, the armored transport, tried to reverse.

Elias lobbed a grenade beneath it. The blast tore through the undercarriage, sending flames and shrapnel flying.

The door burst open. Colonel Mikhailov stumbled out, coughing, his uniform singed.

Elias approached, rifle raised.

The colonel glared at him, blood running down his temple. "You… don't know what you're doing," he muttered.

Elias aimed. "I do."

Bang.

The colonel fell.

Jackson kicked over the body. "Think the Resistance is watching?"

Anya smirked. "They are now."