Truths Spoken in Bullets

Cole crouched beside the heavy door, his ears sharp, his breath silent. From inside, a deep, frustrated voice crackled through a comm device:

"Sir, the building's under attack! We don't know who they are, but... we're losing men!"

Another voice answered older, colder, detached:

"Then fight back. You're not a child. Kill or die."

A harsh click the line cut off.

Someone inside had shut the comms down.

Then came the anger. Someone inside cursed loudly, voice rising with fury.

"That son of a bitch! Sending us to die while he sits on his ass!"

Footsteps shuffled. Someone barked orders:

"Go! Find that bastard who's killing our guys! Stop him! MOVE!"

The door swung open.

Cole didn't hesitate.

The first man out dropped before his foot even hit the floor shot clean through the forehead. The second collapsed mid-step, a bullet cracking into his chest. The third tried to duck back but Cole was already inside, his weapon painting the air with thunder.

Gunfire filled the room.

Dust rose like smoke over a battlefield. The walls bloomed with bullet holes, and bodies dropped like rag dolls. Cole moved like a whisper in a storm his reflexes cold, precise.

Each shot had a name. Each name was already forgotten.

And then… silence.

But someone was missing.

Cole knew it.

His eyes scanned the room with trained sharpness. Shards of glass cracked under his boots. He stepped carefully, eyes narrowing on a slight shift of shadow near the back.

A cabinet.

He moved in.

With a sudden jerk, Cole reached behind and yanked a man out by the wrist. The thug struggled, eyes wide with panic, but Cole was calm steady. He didn't raise his gun. He didn't need to.

His stare was enough.

"Tsk tsk… You don't look cheap enough to die here."

The man's back hit the wall. Sweat trickled down his temple. Cole's voice remained low, but it carried weight like a verdict:

"You're going to send a message to the rest of your men."

"Tell them the attack is over. The threat's gone. The exits are secure. No one needs to move."

"Then, you and I will leave this place together."

"I'll take one of your cars... and if you're lucky, you'll live long enough to regret today."

The man's trembling hand reached for the radio.

Cole didn't blink.

His finger never left the trigger.

Not because he had to shoot

…but because in this world, survival belonged to those who spoke the language of bullets.

And Cole?

He was fluent.

Cole pressed the barrel of his gun gently against the hostage's back. He wasn't forcing it just a reminder that it was there.

Silence always had a cost.

And right now, that cost was being carried on a single breath.

"We're heading to the garage," Cole said.

His voice was calm, but there was a quiet threat simmering beneath it.

"No noise. No drama. We take the quiet route."

The man hesitated for a moment.

Cole leaned in, his breath grazing the man's neck cold, not warm. Calculated. Controlled.

"If anyone sees us...

Just tell them to keep walking."

"Because dying today... isn't in anyone's best interest. Right?"

The man swallowed hard. His hands were shaking. Still, he nodded.

"Okay... okay. Just stay calm. I'll do what you say. Please."

"Walk," Cole ordered.

"Slowly. No sudden moves."

Each word etched itself into the hostage's spine like a warning carved in stone.

"The only reason I'm not killing you right now...

is because it would be a waste of time.

But push your luck... and you'll be just another body on the floor."

They moved, one step at a time.

The building's narrow, grim hallways swallowed their silence.

Cole stepped carefully, avoiding echoes. Every shadow whispered threats.

Every pause, a quiet test.

They neared the garage.

The heavy steel door loomed ahead.

Cole's eyes scanned the surroundings.

His finger hovered close to the trigger

the kind of closeness only forged through years of living beside death.

And then...

The hostage made his move.

Maybe he thought Cole wasn't paying attention.

Maybe there was a final spark of courage in him.

Maybe he wanted to die a hero.

But Cole... was made for moments like this.

A fraction of a second.

A shoulder shift.

A clean motion.

The gun fired with a sharp, guttural crack.

BAM!

The hostage collapsed.

The bullet had buried itself deep in his chest, silencing everything.

Cole didn't stop.

Didn't look back.

Because sometimes, silencing your conscience...

was the only way to stay alive.