The Plan is Underway

"Snipers are in position. How's it looking on your end?"

Cross touched the in-ear micro-communicator. He was over two kilometers from Textile Factory No. 17. Even for a top-tier sniper, hitting every shot at that range was impossible—but Cross could. His surplus of adrenaline made him more accurate the farther the target.

The attack wasn't scheduled for night. That would've hindered Cross's sniper cover, and darkness only spelled trouble. After all, Textile Factory No. 17 was Brotherhood turf—they knew the terrain better.

Cross faced the factory head-on. All the high ground fell within his firing range. He'd scouted multiple times to lock in this optimal position, with no threatening sniper points nearby.

Through the scope, the garbage truck rumbled across the bridge and pulled up to the factory gate.

"No issues. The rats are in position!" Fire Fox sat in the passenger seat, her reply cold.

"Careful. It'll take the rats a while to flood the factory. During that time, you'll catch a wave of fire. Try not to shoot—I'll cover you. Save your ammo for later."

That was Cross's style: snipe if he could, use a pistol if he had to, go hand-to-hand only when forced, and never waste words.

"Understood!"

Fire Fox finished her reply and nodded to Wesley. He shifted into reverse and slammed the garbage truck hard into the factory gate.

The moment the garbage truck appeared, the Brotherhood's killers sensed something off. Many pushed open small windows to peer down. Every one of them was a killer, sharp on alert—but precisely because they were all killers, none had ever imagined anyone would attack this place.

Boom!!!

The factory gate crashed open. The killers stared at the reckless garbage truck, snapping out of their daze as they grabbed their weapons and aimed down.

Wesley had picked the parking spot perfectly. The driver's seat wedged right into the doorway, using the terrain for cover. From the wall, the inside of the gate was a blind spot, and the truck's reinforced iron plating couldn't be pierced by ordinary bullets.

Sloan spotted the garbage truck through his window. At his command, dozens of firing points unleashed a hail of ammunition—all semi-automatic rifles.

Suddenly, Sloan felt a chill of death. Without a second thought, he dropped flat to the floor.

A scream rang out from the rooftop. A body plummeted past the window, making Sloan's face twitch. When the dull thud of impact reached his ears, a wave of cold dread surged through him.

"Damn you, Cross!"

Sloan hugged the wall's shadow, retreating from the dangerous window to his third-floor office—the safest room in Textile Factory No. 17. He was the leader, tasked with relaying the Loom's orders, not grabbing a gun to fight invaders.

Sloan had considered many scenarios, but never that Cross would be bold enough to launch an assault. The numerical disadvantage was too stark—anyone who could do basic math wouldn't choose this.

He'd recalled members scattered on missions to widen the search for Cross. Now he regretted it. He should've acted sooner.

Fire Fox pressed a button, opening the garbage truck's sealed compartment. Like dumping trash, she shoved over a thousand rats out.

The relentless gunfire had the rats squealing in terror. As they spilled out, they scattered in all directions. The open space offered no comfort, but the dark factory looked far safer, so they bolted straight for it.

Seeing the rats, the Brotherhood's killers grew uneasy. A few who knew "Pesticide" recognized the danger and started shooting at them.

Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang...

Cross's cheerful sniping spree began. In Bullet Time, picking off figures on the high walls or at windows was child's play.

Realizing they were up against a sniper, the killers raised their own rifles and aimed. But when they peered through their scopes and saw the sniper two kilometers away, every last one of them chickened out.

Too far—beyond their range!

Bang! Bang! Bang---

After a few more shots, no one dared to show their face.

From the small gate inside the wall, a dozen killers charged out, guns blazing. They wanted to take out Wesley in the garbage truck. Shielded by the high wall, they didn't have to worry about sniper fire.

The logic was sound. But they hadn't taken a few steps before Fire Fox and Wesley, pressed against the gate's gap, hurled grenades that forced them back. Two explosions later, the brave unlucky bastards were shredded by shrapnel, dead within moments.

The grenade blasts froze the killers in their tracks. The rats, even more agitated, all scurried into the factory.

Soon, curses and gunfire erupted inside. The rats, driven mad, tore through the place like a virus spreading. Ordinary rats wouldn't have made the killers' faces drain of color—but rats strapped with watch-shaped bombs were a different story.

More and more killers joined the rat extermination. The rodents were everywhere, and their sheer numbers drove the killers to desperate wails.

Killing a rat didn't mean disarming the bomb. Watching the countdown on the watches, chaos in the factory only grew.

Too little time—no way to defuse!

Driven by survival instinct, some tried to rush the gate, only to be blown back by Fire Fox and Wesley. Killers firing from windows were picked off one by one by Cross.

The unbreachable fortress had become a coffin with no escape. Once they were dead, they'd just need a priest for burial!

Time ticked by. Fire Fox listened to the desperate screams from the factory, but her eyes held no pity.

Inside were many like her, deceived by Sloan—people who saw themselves as assassins of fate, fighting for world peace. Unknowingly, they'd become Sloan's accomplices in profit.

To be fair, these people were innocent. They were just victims.

But Fire Fox's faith had turned her heart ice-cold. These killers were innocent—so were the people they'd killed. How many happy families had been shattered? How many children wept at their parents' graves? These killers might not have known, but they were already sinners.

"Time's up!"

Fire Fox glanced at her watch and, together with Wesley, dropped to the ground, heads covered.

Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom---

A barrage of explosions ripped through the factory, nearly simultaneous. In an instant, every window shattered. Screams and wails echoed through the smoke and dust.

The factory became a living hell. Dust choked the air, cutting visibility. Scattered loom parts littered the ground from the blasts, but even more were broken limbs and dark red bloodstains.

The Watch Bombs alone weren't powerful enough to wreck the factory like this—but the special ingredient in the Peanut Butter was a different story. Its explosive force when heated was no joke.

Those killed outright were lucky. They didn't have to bleed out in agony. The ones missing arms or legs, or impaled by wooden splinters and metal parts, were the unlucky ones. They didn't have much time left—no ambulance would make it, and even if one did, there were too many wounded to save.

"It's time to move. The plan's going smoothly. From here on, be careful—I won't be able to provide much cover."

Cross stared through the scope, a flicker of satisfaction in his eyes. He kept his sniper posture, ready to prevent anyone from escaping the textile mill. Knowing the Brotherhood's members as he did, if anyone tried to slip away in the chaos, it would likely be Sloan.

"Copy that!"

Wesley replied, taking a deep breath. His heart rate spiked instantly as he entered Bullet Time. But by the time he turned around, Fire Fox had already dashed ahead, forcing him to scramble after her.

The two advanced through the main entrance, leaping over the blasted-out windows. Their neural reflexes surpassed human limits, their minds racing to analyze every piece of sensory data. Their brains transmitted commands at lightning speed, targeting anyone still capable of resistance.

Meanwhile, Russell breached through the back door. The plan was a pincer attack—clear the textile factory, the first-floor hall, from both ends.

As Russell burst in, the enemies ahead were busy engaging Wesley and Fire Fox. Seeing their backs turned, he lobbed a grenade into the densest cluster, then raised his M4A1 and opened fire on the rest.

Of course, before that, he'd already thrown out his Flashbangs!

Begging for support!