The convoy was heavily secured. The cars all looked alike—sleek, black, and armored. The vehicle in the center was bulletproof, the one Azrael and his father rode in. Surrounding them were the rest of the convoy's cars, each filled with five men, including the driver. The entire crew consisted of thirty-two men, each trained and ready for anything. Or so they thought.
As they approached a lonely stretch of road, thick clusters of trees lined both sides. It was the perfect spot for an ambush. The drivers, knowing the danger, instinctively pressed the gas pedal harder, accelerating toward a major road where they could escape.
The driver of the lead car glanced down to adjust the music volume. He lifted his head just in time to see something too late—a rocket streaking toward them with terrifying speed. He barely had time to react.
BOOM!!!
The car exploded with a deafening roar, flipping end over end before it slammed into the car behind it. Both vehicles were instantly engulfed in flames. The shockwave rattled through the convoy, rattling the windows and sending debris scattering.
The convoy screeched to a halt, tires skidding on the dirt. Without hesitation, the men jumped from their vehicles and crouched low, using the car doors as shields, ready for gunfire. It was a defensive posture, but one that reeked of desperation.
Mr. McLord grunted in frustration. "Of all days, these miscreants chose today to ambush me," he muttered under his breath. His voice was sharp with anger. He'd been reveling in the excitement of his son's success earlier that morning, and now this—his joy quickly turned to bitter disappointment.
Azrael's expression hardened. He removed his combat pods and glanced around. "What's going on?" he asked, his voice calm yet filled with steely resolve.
"It's an ambush, sir," the driver replied, his eyes narrowed in concentration. He yanked off his own pods, keyed into the transmitter on his shoulder, and spoke quickly into the comms. "All units, prepare for combat. Now."
The men responded instantly, moving to defensive positions. They were ready—but nothing happened.
Silence. The seconds stretched uncomfortably. Tension thickened the air, making every breath feel heavy. One of the guards, braver than the others, stood up, scanning the surrounding trees. As soon as his head cleared the top of the door, a sharp crack rang out, followed by a dull thud.
The guard collapsed, a clean shot through the bridge of his nose.
A wave of panic spread as another burst of gunfire erupted from the trees, peppering the convoy. The men who had been watching the guard fall now found themselves under a hail of bullets. Screams echoed from behind the cars as the ambushers picked them off one by one. Azrael's side was losing men.
"These aren't just common thugs," Mr. McLord observed grimly, his voice low. "These are professionals. Trained men, hiding in the trees, picking us off one by one."
Azrael's brows furrowed in thought. "You're right," he said, scanning the treeline. "This is no random attack. The timing of that first rocket was deliberate. They knew exactly when to strike, forcing us to stop. This is the work of someone skilled. I'm impressed…"
Mr. McLord palmed his face in exasperation, muttering, "We're done for."
"...And pissed," Azrael said flatly. He stripped off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves, revealing the tattoos and scars that marked him as someone who'd seen the battlefield before. He pulled out his pistols, clicking the safety off with a snap.
Without hesitation, he opened the car door and rolled out into the chaos. Bullets flew around him, but Azrael was already moving, his pistols firing in controlled, precise bursts. Each shot found its mark—one sniper after another fell from the trees. It was as if Azrael could feel the rhythm of the battle, his movements quick and fluid, his aim deadly accurate. His body seemed to operate on a different plane, one where every move was calculated, every shot inevitable.
He rolled, ducked, and leapt across the vehicles, using them as cover, as he made his way toward the edge of the forest. He was fluid, agile, like a force of nature, taking out the snipers hiding in the branches. His hair, tied back in a tight knot, bounced with each movement as he danced between the cars, leaving a trail of fallen enemies in his wake.
The tide of the battle shifted. The snipers were thinning out. Azrael's assault had taken the pressure off his men, and they began to regroup, firing back and gaining ground.
But then, just as it seemed the worst was over, the unmistakable sound of helicopter blades cut through the air. Thump, thump, thump.
Not one, not two—but five helicopters appeared overhead, descending like predators swooping in for the kill. The gunners in the helicopters opened fire, spraying the convoy with a barrage of bullets. The air became thick with the sound of rotary blades and gunfire.
Azrael's heart skipped a beat. Who were these people? It was clear they weren't military—at least not from the government. If this was the kind of operation they were running, the military would have intervened by now. This wasn't just a gang trying to take out McLord. This was something far more dangerous.
Azrael stood frozen for a moment, stunned into silence.
"GET OUT OF HERE NOW!!" His father's voice boomed in his ear through the comms.
Azrael turned, his pulse quickening. He could see the rocket coming before he even heard the warning. It streaked through the air, heading straight for his father's vehicle.
The impact was inevitable. Time seemed to slow down as the rocket struck, slamming into the car's bonnet with a deafening explosion. The sound of the blast was overpowering. Azrael was still a distance away, but the shockwave hit him like a physical blow. His ears rang violently, and his vision blurred with the intensity of the blast. His father's car was gone.
The world seemed to slow, his heart crashing as he watched the fiery remains of the vehicle. His father was gone. The only other person in the world he truly cared about. The man he'd barely begun to know.
Azrael stood there for a heartbeat, unable to move, his mind blank. And then, the rage hit.
His roar pierced the air, raw and primal, a mixture of grief, fury, and a thirst for revenge. His eyes burned with bloodshot anger. He was no longer thinking, only feeling—the overwhelming wave of loss and the desperate need to avenge it.
The ground beneath him was littered with the bodies of his men. Not a single one was left alive. His team was gone. The convoy was obliterated. And now, he was alone.
Azrael stumbled into the woods, the shock and pain still coursing through him, but there was no time for grief. The ambushers were still hunting him. Their presence was like a shadow, closing in.
The helicopters circled above, waiting for the perfect moment to strike again. Azrael, alone and surrounded, had no choice but to run deeper into the forest, to fight his way through whatever came next.