A loud crack wakes me from my daze as I glide atop the Ural bike.
I angle to slide around the corner, scraping a side of the vehicle against the coarse pavement, and reactivate the Chronos to avoid the incoming fire. From the singular shot, I can assume that it originated from the IS sniper likely on the lookout for Syrian Army reinforcements. I slide a bit further into the town's alleys, a place relatively barren of bullet casings and hop off the motorcycle, removing its key from ignition. Replacing my sidearm into its holster, I unsling my rifle and allow myself to adopt a more combat-appropriate mentality.
My heels touch as I carefully pan my surroundings. I am between many buildings that are tightly packed - a result of rapid industrialization during the earlier half of the 20th century, I assume. The light of the Middle Eastern sun shines little on this area, which permits the rejected animals of society a safe haven. It also is quite possibly one of the filthiest areas I could imagine, which I assume is result of the more human-shaped animals that run the black market in these parts.
A bullet flies just past me in real time.
What? How?
I turn to come face to face with the aggressor. From the instant I register what's happened, my blood boils hot with rage. I'm a killer - I know I am and accept both the noble and callous parts of that characterization - but this… thing is nothing short of an animal, bloodthirsty and vicious. It's him.
"Thought you'd show up here," I snarl in a heavily accented Arabic, trying to sound more self-assured than I feel at this very moment, "though, I must say, your entrance was far from impressive, especially for one revered and feared by entire nations."
I can see in his eyes that he understands me, but he says nothing, just aims at me once more and toggles the fire selector to automatic like the good little indoctrinated robot that he is. I exhale deeply and drop to roll out of the tight corridor where the bullets shred the walls. A bullet strikes my back; the projectile is blocked by ceramic but the percent of the shock that isn't resonates through my entire body.
I grit my teeth as I put a wall between us. I tear the rifle scope off its mount and stuff it into my utility pouch. My fingers hover over before toggling the fire selector, switching my rifle to fully automatic. From a crouching position, I lean around the corner and blindly unload a full magazine downrange. I steal a glance to see whether my rounds had an effect, but he's already out of sight.
God, Vasily, you're an idiot sometimes. What did you expect the guy to do, sit around and wait for you to brew the tea?
I insert a fresh magazine and rise to a stand, hugging the walls of the alley as I advance. A door with a boot print dent lies before me, which is most likely the way he escaped. I hurl a flashbang into the room through the misshapen door frame. It pops, and after a second's wait, I kick the door through and push into the room.
Nothing. I back out into the alley again as my adrenaline surges even more.
I hear a heavy metallic thump and look down to see a rather innocuous-looking ball roll toward my feet. I jump back into the room as the grenade explodes. From its force, the door is torn from its damaged hinges and hurls toward me. On the ground, pinned by its dense wood, the most I can do to contort my neck to watch as the Teleporting Jihadist ambles down the staircase from the roof, a position I had neglected. Arrogance is evident in his gait.
"You, Russian, speak so highly of your militaristic prowess, yet you are the one who has - what is it you Western sympathizers say? - fucked up. Twice."
He slides his rifle onto his back and draws a Beretta M9, chambering a new round. I wait until he comes into a close-enough range before retracting my legs and kicking the door at him with all my might.
I grab my rifle and scramble out of the room, as he clearly has a tactical advantage in close quarters. I scuttle out into the open, the Syrian soldiers still frozen in the throes of their battle, completely unaware of the small-scale skirmish happening so close to them. From the shadows, I see my counterpart emerge like a creature made of darkness, limping almost imperceptibly from the blunt-force trauma.
Doors as projectiles. Who knew?
For a moment all I can really see are his eyes reflecting the sunlight, and they seem pained, like those of a chained, beaten animal. The thought of Adil flits across my mind, and his memory conjures up the image of a gentle beast made fierce by entrapment. But the sunlight refracting through the deep copper color of my enemy's eyes replaces that thought with a vision of a hideous scaled monster, flaming in the eyes and foaming at the mouth.
It's a hydra, its single surviving head determined to avenge its brothers.
A shiver shuttles down my spine, and I subconsciously grip my gun tighter. Our eyes lock and what I thought was pain shows instead to be fanaticism, madness, a wild devotion to death and its irrational justifications.
"I know what you've done," the hydra hisses, but its voice sounds faintly human. "And I know that you're going to die for it."
I suppose he speaks of his fallen comrades - perhaps even the ones I've targeted personally - though I can't say for sure. I grin predatorily - a cat that's lured its mouse within inches of a trap - and taunt him to come my way. This confrontation has surpassed the dangers spoken of during the initial briefing, and I ought to escape at this moment… but I find this duel far too entertaining, too exhilarating.
I've finally found a true strategic equal.