Chapter 51: Bag ’em and Tag ’em
The night pressed down like a heavy, wet shroud, suffocating the air beneath the dense forest canopy. Crickets screamed their frantic chorus, drowning out the distant wail of sirens echoing through the valley.
Mario's boots tore through the mud, his breath coming in sharp, painful bursts. The forest swallowed him in darkness, branches clawing at his skin like skeletal fingers. Beside him, Zaldy stumbled, cursing under his breath as he dragged his injured leg through the muck. Blood oozed from a shrapnel wound in his thigh, leaving a glistening trail behind them.
"Keep moving," Mario snapped, pushing a low-hanging branch aside. "We're not safe yet."
Zaldy grunted, his rifle clutched tight against his chest, knuckles white beneath his gloves. His eyes darted, wild and unfocused, scanning every shadow, every flicker of movement. The forest was a labyrinth of twisted trunks and tangled roots, each rustle of leaves a potential threat, each gust of wind a phantom bullet.
They had entered the Purnas mansion grounds with fifteen men—battle-hardened fighters, veterans of Sulu's jungle warfare, men who had ambushed military convoys and survived military airstrikes. Now, only four remained.
Four.
Mario's mind reeled. He expected a few amulets—maybe two or three men wearing them, the kind that could deflect a bullet or two. He had heard rumors of amulets strong enough to turn away steel, but he had never seen them work firsthand. He wasn't a superstitious man. He was a fighter, a killer. Superstition was a tool to keep the weak in line.
But tonight... tonight he had seen the impossible.
He had watched as Pedro's men advanced through hails of gunfire, the bullets ricocheting off their skin like pebbles against a wall. He had seen Emilio take a shot to the chest, the round flattening against his shirt as if it had hit solid stone.
But the rice...
Mario's jaw clenched as he remembered the moment. John, one of Pedro's younger guards, charging through the living room, fearless, invincible. Then the rice showered down from above, a ghostly white rain. John screamed, clawing at his skin, and then the bullets found him, tearing through his chest with sickening ease.