Chapter 427

Raindrops pattered against the leaves, creating a soft, fragmented sound.

Andrew Smith's fingers lightly traced the trigger of his submachine gun, the cold metal keeping his senses razor-sharp. He glanced sideways at Hank Miller, who was holding his breath, eyes locked on the path ahead.

"All rounds chambered?" Andrew whispered.

Hank gave a tight nod, gripping his semi-automatic rifle. "Ready."

The two exchanged a knowing look before melting deeper into the underbrush. They had camouflaged themselves with dead branches and fallen leaves, nearly indistinguishable from the surrounding foliage.

In the distance, intermittent voices mingled with the clatter of metal. Andrew narrowed his eyes, straining to pinpoint the direction.

"Getting closer," Hank murmured.

Andrew raised a silent finger to his lips. Both men froze like boulders, their breathing barely audible.

The rain intensified, droplets rolling off leaves and soaking into their clothes. Neither flinched.

Then—movement. Shadows flickered between the trees. Through the downpour, Andrew made out the distinctive uniforms.

"Forty-three," he counted under his breath, relief faint in his tone.

Hank tightened his grip. "Fewer than expected."

Their ambush point was the only viable path to the high ground—a narrow trail flanked by steep cliffs, forcing the enemy to advance single file.

Andrew adjusted his stance, leveling his weapon. Rain dripped from his cap, blurring his vision, but his focus never wavered.

The lead enemy reached the trail's end, now less than ten meters away. The man scanned his surroundings warily but missed the trap mere feet from him.

"Wait," Andrew mouthed to Hank.

One by one, the enemy filed past. Midway through the column, the commander suddenly halted.

"Damn it," Hank muttered.

The commander stepped toward a large rock—and began unbuckling his belt.

Andrew's stomach dropped. Their worst-case scenario was unfolding.