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Suddenly, an anti-tank missile streaked through the air, striking the self-propelled howitzer armored vehicle. Not only did it hit its mark, but it also triggered a catastrophic detonation, and, most fatally, this all happened not far from the convoy.

As the smoke and dust from the explosion slowly dispersed, the devastation that emerged was hellish in its brutality. The government officer in sunglasses, being farther away, fared better; the blast wave merely knocked him to the ground, leaving him filthy and disheveled, but alive. For the soldiers inside the self-propelled howitzer’s chassis and those within thirty meters, their fates were far grimmer. Some were blown to shreds on the spot, others had their organs ruptured by the concussive force, left twitching and coughing up blood, barely clinging to life. Still more were torn apart by flying metal fragments, limbs severed, writhing on the ground in agonizing screams.

Fortunately, the government troops had previously split into two groups—over a hundred were inside the village searching for tribal villagers, so the explosion’s casualties numbered fewer than twenty. The greatest loss, ironically, was the self-propelled howitzer itself. Worth millions, the nation of Kazhema possessed just over a hundred such vehicles, deployed here as a show of force. Yet, it was destroyed before firing a single shot.

Scattered government soldiers throughout the village heard the explosion by the church and, realizing disaster had struck, abandoned their search for “remnants” and rushed toward the blast site, shouting as they went. As they assembled and the officer in sunglasses recovered from his shock, angrily ordering his men to find and counterattack the enemy, the insurgents, having seized the initiative, emerged from the woods and stormed the village, using the buildings as cover to launch their assault.

The deafening rattle of rifles, the whoosh and thud of RPGs, and the heavy suppressive fire of .50 caliber machine guns erupted from two directions, converging on the government troops. Though they lacked heavy armor, the insurgents’ firepower was nothing to scoff at.

“It’s the rebels! Those damned traitors are ambushing us! Push forward—wipe them all out!” the officer bellowed. “Move the armored vehicles up! Everyone, follow me! Hurry, move it!” he shouted again. “Where’s my tank? What are you waiting for? Fire! Blast those bastards into the sky!”

“Get an armored vehicle over here, load all those foreigners into it, assign a squad to escort them out—their lives can’t be lost here!” he continued, never losing his bandit-like swagger despite the chaos. Though arrogant, he wasn’t an idiot; ruthless, yes, but not incapable. His hasty commands and the firepower of T-55 light tanks and Viper armored vehicles soon stabilized the situation.

The insurgents had attacked from the west and south, while the government forces held the north side of the village, using the cluster of buildings for cover. With their armored vehicles’ thick skins and fierce weaponry, they also controlled the only major road leading east out of the village. While government and insurgent forces clashed fiercely across the church and central road, there was, in fact, no fighting on the eastern side.

Thus, the PMCs—Xing Xiaolong, Tiger, and the others—hidden in the eastern houses, remained unscathed and undetected. This was, in part, thanks to the government troops, who had already slaughtered the villagers.

“Calling the captain! Those two bastards are highly trained and evaded me in the woods—their movements were too professional and the visibility too poor. I lost the targets,” came the angry voice of Baldy over the radio. The point scout PMC quickly added, “Captain, there are eleven hostages, all loaded into the armored personnel carrier, with three armed pickups escorting them. Eighteen government soldiers are aboard. The convoy is heading toward the village entrance. What are our orders?”

Hostage rescue was now the top priority. Tiger ignored the vanished missile team and immediately pressed his earpiece to issue orders: “The convoy leaving the combat zone is our best shot, but we must act before they leave the village—I can’t follow them out. Baldy, you’re on suppression—take out the heavy machine guns on the pickups. Begin when they’re a hundred meters from the village entrance to prevent reinforcements from arriving too quickly.”

“Black Fox, take the others and block the road at the entrance. Coordinate with Baldy to eliminate all targets on the armed pickups. I’ll handle the armored personnel carrier. I’ll force it to a stop before it leaves the village—I’ll need backup. Magician, you’re with me. That’s it for assignments. Move! Move! We’re on the clock!” Tiger’s instructions were sharp and clear, his words clipped and precise. The PMC team responded instantly, each heading for their designated positions without hesitation.

“You, with me,” Tiger said to Xing Xiaolong, patting his shoulder. He slid down the stone wall from the second floor, weapon at the ready as he advanced toward the village entrance. The massive load on his back did nothing to slow his stride. Xing Xiaolong knew this was a critical moment; not daring to slack for an instant, he steadied his breath and matched Tiger’s pace.

Reaching the back of a house on the right side of the entrance, Tiger dropped his pack and pulled out a grenade launcher, attaching it to Xing Xiaolong’s HK433 rifle. He handed over a set of 40mm grenades as well. Just like that, the rifle that properly belonged to Xing Xiaolong was requisitioned.

“Who brings a grenade launcher and ammo but no tactical rifle, just a submachine gun as backup? What kind of people are these?” Xing Xiaolong silently grumbled, rolling his eyes. He drew his hotel-issued CZ75 pistol but found it lacking, so he instead pulled out his R8 revolver—a weapon he had spent so much effort customizing that he was determined to get his money’s worth.

That was exactly what Xing Xiaolong was thinking.