Death
Chapter 1: Death
The moon was a pale ghost in the sky, casting silver streaks through the thick jungle canopy. Every leaf shimmered with dew, and the air was tense—heavy with the scent of danger.
Rudra, 34, crouched low behind a moss-covered log, eyes sharp and steady. He wore full combat gear, his AK-47 gripped tightly in calloused hands. A sleek German P226 pistol rested at his side. His earpiece crackled faintly.
"Agent 1, are you ready?"
"Ready."
He tapped twice on the comms—confirmation.
From his left, Nikhil whispered, "Three targets—south tower. I take the shot. The rest are yours."
"Understood," Rudra replied, his voice like steel.
Crack!
A suppressed shot. One. Two. Three. Clean. Dead.
Rudra surged forward.
His boots made no sound on the jungle floor. The moment he reached the bunker's edge, he spun into the doorway and let hell loose. His AK-47 roared like thunder. Bullets ripped through the air—metal piercing bone, flesh, and concrete. Five men dropped before they could raise a weapon.
Then—a whisper of movement behind him.
He pivoted instinctively.
BANG!
BANG!
Two pistols fired. Two bullets collided in mid-air, shattering each other like a spark of war gods crossing paths.
No time to think.
He dove left, rolling behind a metal crate. The enemy opened fire. Sparks flew as bullets ricocheted off the walls. Rudra ducked and drew his pistol, answering with his own sharp rhythm—one round, one kill. But the last man wouldn't go down easy.
Both clicked empty.
No words.
Both men drew knives.
They collided in a blur—metal slashing, fists pounding. Rudra parried a blade aimed for his heart, twisted his wrist, and slashed low. Blood sprayed, but the terrorist countered with a headbutt and slammed Rudra into the wall. Dazed, Rudra barely rolled aside as the blade came down again.
Clang!
The knives clashed—again and again—until the fight turned feral. No technique, only rage.
The terrorist spat, "If your government sent men like you… these kids must be worth nothing."
He lunged, but Rudra caught him mid-charge, locked his legs, and slammed him into the ground.
Crack!
The blade drove into the enemy's neck. Blood pooled. No remorse.
Rudra pushed up, breathing heavily. Blood coated his arms. His heartbeat remained calm.
He wasn't done.
He sprinted to the inner chamber. The screams of children echoed through the concrete hallway. A rusted door. A flickering bulb.
Inside—one terrorist, one terrified child, one gun to their head.
"On your knees," the man growled. "You die, or the child dies."
Rudra knelt slowly, lowering his weapon. His face calm. His mind racing.
The man smirked.
Whip!
A flash of silver. The combat knife from Rudra's boot flew—straight into the terrorist's forearm.
"ARGHH!"
The weapon fell. Rudra exploded forward like a beast unchained.
One step. Two. Snap.
He broke the man's neck in a single motion.
The silence after was deafening.
He turned, kneeling by the children. He checked for injuries, untied them.
"Mission successful. The children are safe."
They moved through the hall, Rudra shielding the kids with his body. The exit was close—daylight peeking through the ruins.
Then—
Tick.
A metallic sound. He turned.
A half-dead terrorist, crawling, blood leaking from his mouth.
A grenade pin on the floor.
"GO TO HELL!" he screamed, throwing the grenade toward the children.
Time stopped.
Rudra ran. Faster than thought. He leapt, grabbed the grenade mid-air—
And smiled.
BOOM.
A fireball swallowed the hallway.
When the smoke cleared, all that remained of Rudra was blood and torn armor. Pieces of a man who gave everything.
"Agent 1… do you copy? Agent 1, come in?"
The comm buzzed, unanswered.
Rudra Singh died a hero.
But fate wasn't done with him yet…