The 1515 terrorist's final scream was like a boulder cast into the lake, ripples spreading outward at an incredible speed.
Major Petrovsky darted forward, swiftly crouching down, reaching out his fingers to quickly probe the carotid artery of the corpse—
No movent, only a dead silent chill.
This guy is truly cold now.
His gaze imdiately fell on the crude yet deadly radio, its red signal light already extinguished, but it seed as though the air still carried the silent shriek when it sent out the warning signal into the unknown distance.
"Bastard!"
An expletive in Russian squeezed through Petrovsky's teeth.
He suddenly lifted his head and scanned the surroundings, as if the mountains, boulders, and dried riverbeds, every shadow hiding countless eyes ready to pry.
He was assessing just how many wolves the alarm would draw with the scent.
Whether it was the patrol team nearby or the madn from the 1515 Ard camp nearby.
Now, imdiate action based on the situation was necessary.
Ti beca the most extravagant commodity.
"Clean up the scene! As fast as possible! Drag the bodies and weapons into the rock crevices and cover them with sand and dirt! Quick! Quick! Quick! We have no ti!"
His voice suppressed a torrential fury and imnse urgency, like the magma surging underground before a volcanic eruption, each "quick" striking the heart of every team mber like a whip.
The team mbers, initially lax due to the successful ambush, were completely jolted awake by this sudden change and the Major's rare loss of composure.
Everyone realized the seriousness of the situation.
Nobody spoke, only the accelerated movents.
The heavy corpse was roughly dragged by two people, leaving dark red marks on the sand and stone; scattered AK rifles and magazines were hastily picked up and thrown into deep stone crevices like trash; the technical sergeant crazily rummaged over the recon soldiers' bodies, prying off the caras from their helts, removing the core modules of the individual radios from their waists, all stuffed into his thickened waterproof backpack.
anwhile, not far away in the vehicle, Song Heping took a deep breath of cold and turbid air, as if trying to suppress the sudden chill rising in his chest.
He closed his eyes, and countless worst-case scenarios flashed through his mind.
The most worriso situation materialized in the worst possible way.
The secrecy of the operation was this squad's greatest reliance for survival.
Now, everything seed on the verge of being broken...
But the keywords "Russian," and "Alpha Vehicle" like boulders tossed into a calm pond, would certainly stir the highest level of vigilance and chain reactions among all surrounding forces—the "1515" extremist organization, prowling like hyenas, incredibly sensitive to any disturbance.
They would set up observation posts across this region, dispatch large forces here, searching every inch, then swarm like sharks sensing blood.
The SSO Squad suddenly transford from covert stalkers to exposed prey.
Every kiloter ahead was fraught with potential ambushes; every mountain ridge could hide lethal threats.
"Hunter, ready."
Song Heping skillfully checked the rifling of his HK416 once more, confirming the bolt's smooth operation, "Looks like from now on, our good days are over."
The Hunter didn't respond, not even nodding.
He rely adjusted the bipod of his SV-98 sniper rifle on the edge of the car window, his cold gaze seemingly welded to the high-powered scope, pupils slightly constricted, like the most patient predator, beginning to scan inch by inch the vantage points and rock shadows most suitable for ambush and observation on the sides and rear of the convoy.
He demonstrated his utmost preparedness for combat with absolute focus and a ready-to-fire muzzle.
The convoy dared not linger even for a second longer.
There wasn't even ti for preliminary analysis of the precious acquired thermal imager, trying to glean any information on enemy deploynt.
Having covered the battle traces as best as possible, the three "Typhoon" K armored vehicles sped away at far beyond previous traveling standards, fleeing this place of misfortune as if cursed.
Despite everyone understanding that amidst the 1515 Ard's search and pursuit, such hurried concealnt was no more than a futile, self-deceiving act.
The atmosphere in the cabin instantly plumted to freezing point, heavy, oppressive, as if even the air was congealed into iron blocks, weighing down on them until they couldn't breathe.
The subtle, probing and slightly boastful sense of ease that once existed among the team mbers vanished without a trace, replaced by heightened tension over unknown risks ahead.
The radio maintained strict silence, but inside the channel, everyone's suppressed, slightly heavy breathing transmitted one unmistakably clear ssage: We've been exposed!
After a brief silence, "Shadow" Yefimov's voice broke over the encrypted channel, laced with inescapable remorse and deep self-bla, even slightly hoarse: "Major... it was my mistake. I confird the first target, but... I should have fired again or controlled the second faster... ensuring his complete death."
As the closest assault officer, he felt himself undeniably responsible.
"It's not entirely your fault, Yefimov."
Petrovsky interrupted him.
Though still stern, he wasn't solely condemning; he knew at this mont stabilizing morale was more important than pursuing bla.
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