In Mayou City, Republic of Mali, eight figures dressed in black tactical gear darted through the alleys. Behind them came the dense pounding of footsteps.
"They're just ahead! Kill them! (Bambara)" Dozens of gang members in tattered T-shirts chased after them down the alley, AKs raised.
"Zero-Two through Zero-Four, come with me. Zero-Five through Zero-Eight, take that route. Use the terrain to split them up and pick them off one by one!" Zero-One, the team leader, gestured toward a fork in the alley.
The eight-man team immediately split into two groups and ran in opposite directions.
The pursuers behind them split into two groups as well, chasing after them in different directions. At first glance, the number of enemies each group had to face seemed unchanged. But losing half their men meant that the volume of fire they could unleash was cut in half. A thinner barrage meant there was a chance to turn the tables.
If the enemy pinned you down with gunfire so you couldn't even get out of cover, you could forget about turning the tables.
The pursuing gang members clearly hadn't thought that far ahead. All they knew was that they had to kill the trash who'd just stirred up trouble!
In the narrow terrain, the Splitters were like fish back in the water. Once they found cover, they held their breath and waited for their "prey" to come to them.
The gang members chasing them hadn't expected their targets to set up an ambush ahead.
They charged straight ahead with their rifles, brazen as could be. The moment they rounded the corner, they saw four gun barrels jutting out from beside the wall.
"Take cover!" shouted a gang member at the front. But before he could duck away, his head was blown apart, and bright