Leah and Mike instantly understood the plan.
Outside the factory, darkness blanketed the area. Because of the rough road, the military truck couldn't move very fast. As it rounded a corner filled with rubble, it slowed even further.
At that exact moment—
Two dark figures burst out from behind the shattered walls by the roadside, launching themselves silently and precisely toward the underside of the truck.
Bossie and Carver.
With incredible arm strength, Carver grabbed hold of a beam beneath the truck. With a swift twist of his body, he wedged himself into the tangled structure between the axle and the driveshaft, locking himself in place like a rock.
Bossie followed immediately, securing a stable grip of his own.
The two of them clung beneath the vehicle like remoras attached to a whale, perfectly hidden in the truck's shadow.
Unaware of anything unusual, the truck continued rattling down the road, carrying two of Rock Fortress's most elite "passengers" toward an unknown destination.
Inside the factory, Leah and Mike confirmed through the faint static of the radio that Bossie and Carver had succeeded.
"Good luck," Leah whispered softly before turning her attention back to the glass office.
Now it was their turn.
Before this base noticed anything wrong, they had to grab that tongue and squeeze out more intelligence.
Leah's eyes turned cold and focused again. She and Mike began moving toward the lower platform, silently approaching the unsuspecting leader's office.
Inside, the boss was still chewing on a cigarette, frowning over a stack of paperwork, completely unaware that danger had already arrived.
...
Beneath the truck's chassis, the heavy metal beam pressed against Carver's chest. Every bump in the road felt like a hammer slamming into his ribs.
The driveshaft spun furiously beside their ears, whipping up wind that stung their faces.
Bossie wasn't having an easier time. He gripped another crossbeam tightly, curling his body as much as possible to avoid scraping against the rough ground.
Both men were relying entirely on their core strength and sheer willpower to hold on.
"Fuck… this is way worse than crawling under tanks in the desert," Carver muttered through clenched teeth, his voice barely a breath and completely drowned out by the roaring noise.
Bossie said nothing. He simply shot him a look, telling him to conserve his strength.
Meanwhile, his ears worked relentlessly, trying to pick useful clues out of the engine roar and the grinding tires—
how many turns they took, the general direction, changes in speed.
Before retiring, Bossie had served in the 75th Ranger Regiment's regimental reconnaissance company. Tracking and reconnaissance were second nature to him.
The truck drove for roughly twenty minutes.
It stopped twice along the way, apparently at guarded checkpoints. They caught fragments of brief conversations.
"Hey, Johnny. How's tonight?"
"Same as always. Hurry up already. I'm freezing my ass off."
During the second stop, they heard the much clearer sound of a large gate opening.
Eventually, the truck slowed again. The tires rolled over a stretch of rough, uneven ground before the vehicle finally came to a complete stop.
The engine kept running, idling with a low rumble.
"We're here! Unload!" a hoarse voice shouted.
Then came the clatter of doors opening, people jumping down from the truck, and the noisy bustle of unloading.
Carver and Bossie pressed themselves tightly against the underside of the vehicle, staying perfectly still while using the shadows and the truck itself as cover.
Carefully, Carver tilted his head and peeked through the gap between the axles.
They seemed to be inside something like an indoor parking area. The ground was rough concrete, with piles of junk and cargo containers scattered around.
The lighting came mostly from a few hanging emergency lamps and the truck's headlights, casting dim, wavering shadows.
Several armed men wearing red bandanas supervised the unloading, carrying the wooden crates toward a freight elevator or the stairwell beside it.
"Move it! Mr. Lorenzo doesn't like waiting!" the hoarse voice barked again, this time with a faint hint of fear.
Mr. Lorenzo.
Carver and Bossie silently committed the name to memory.
Taking advantage of the noise and confusion, Carver gave Bossie a quick look.
Bossie understood immediately. Moving as slowly as possible, he pulled out a miniature signal transmitter from his tactical vest—no bigger than a fingernail.
He waited for the right moment, then flicked his wrist lightly, sending the tiny device precisely into a pile of junk in a nearby dark corner.
The device would emit a weak signal continuously for up to seventy-two hours.
Their final insurance.
The unloading lasted about ten minutes.
Once the wooden crates had all been carried away, the truck driver and the escorts appeared to leave as well, their footsteps gradually fading.
The parking area fell quiet again, leaving only the steady rumble of the idling engine.
"Go," Carver mouthed silently.
Like a pair of eels, the two slipped carefully out from under the truck. They quickly rolled behind the nearest pile of discarded tires and crouched low, minimizing any chance of being spotted.
Holding their breath, they carefully observed their surroundings.
This was clearly part of a large underground parking garage connected to a main building.
The air was thick with the stench of mold and urine. In the corners, there were even scattered remains of the walking dead and dried bloodstains—apparently gathered together after being cleared away.
"We need to get inside and take a look," Bossie whispered, pointing toward the freight elevator and stairwell. "We need the layout of this place—and a headcount."
Carver nodded.
They slipped away from the tire pile, moving quickly along the shadows near the wall until they reached the stairwell's fire door.
It wasn't locked.
Bossie tested the door carefully with a thin wire, confirming there were no booby traps attached, then slowly pushed it open just enough to slip through.
Inside was a pitch-black stairwell that smelled even worse.
The two entered quickly and shut the door behind them.
"You take down, I take up?" Carver suggested.
The stairs led upward to the main floors, while downward likely meant deeper basement levels.
Bossie pointed upward.
"The main force should be up there. Stay sharp."
They split up.
Bossie moved silently down the stairs, while Carver climbed upward like a lizard on the wall.
After going up two flights, Carver carefully peeked through the window of a fire door.
This floor appeared to be a dormitory converted from office space. A few kerosene lamps hung along the corridor, illuminating several double beds.
The rooms were filthy and chaotic. In one of them, several Red Scarf members were gathered around a table playing cards, shouting loudly.
Beer bottles and rifles lay scattered nearby.
"I'm telling you, Lorenzo's idea was fucking genius!" a burly man with tattoo-covered arms took a swig of beer and burst out laughing.
"Who would've guessed those National Guard pussies would fold so easily? We scored a ton of good stuff without even trying!"
"Hey, keep it down! Mr. Lorenzo doesn't like us bringing that up all the time," another man, slightly more sober, warned. Still, his tone carried a hint of pride.
"But seriously, those soldiers—and those idiots civilians who tried to run with them—they were loaded. Military trucks, weapons, gear, food. Their supplies will keep us living easy for a long time."
Carver's heart suddenly jolted.
The National Guard.
Civilians.
Did these bastards attack a government evacuation point?
...
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