"OMG!"
Boom!
Straight to heaven.
Clearly, sniper rifles were somewhat inferior to rocket launchers.
"Change positions, quick!"
Two men scurried to another room, disheveled; within minutes, mortar shells blasted in their direction.
In another alley,
"Ricardo! Reload! Reload, motherfucker, are you dead yet?" Sergeant Gómez bellowed.
They were eight, trapped in a building down an alley, surrounded by gangs of drug traffickers; just looking at them made your scalp tingle, and only pickup trucks could enter — tough to turn around.
"Yell what?!"
"I can hear you!"
Ricardo, holding his ears, yelled back, handing over a drum magazine. Gómez reloaded and continued firing, sliding in suppressive fire, but something was off—the barrel was getting hot!
"Where's the spare barrel?!"
Ricardo felt behind him and his heart sank—fucking empty!
Gómez gave him a look and cursed, "You're definitely the idiot God sent to make my life miserable."
"Don't panic, I've got a plan."
