"F***! F***! Nichols, come with me."
John Pocali cursed, patted the shoulder of the teammate beside him, and as he ran, he pulled a magazine from his pocket, tapped it lightly, and the empty magazine fell out, the new one snapped right in.
It was as smooth as flowing water.
Clearly, he was an old bandit.
Bursting out of the room, he heard footsteps on the stairs and raised his gun for a burst of fire while a drug trafficker beside him pulled the pin of an MK II defensive hand grenade and threw it downstairs.
Boom...
Dust flew up, somewhat pungent.
"Get out of the way! John!" A voice came from behind Pocali, he stepped aside, and saw a teammate rush out, cursing incessantly, "Damn cops! Bastards! Sons of bitches!"
In his hand, he held an M34 white phosphorus hand grenade!
He pulled the pin and threw it downstairs, but he clearly extended his arm too far, and the cop leaning against the wall below didn't care what it was.
