Mithril Squad

Mark Russell, a former member of the United Kingdom SAS and now the leader of the "Mithril" mercenary squad, was crouching in the shadows of a stairwell corner in an ordinary residential building, his fingers unconsciously stroking the cold barrel of a gun.

He was nearly 1.9 meters tall, with a very short buzz cut, and an old scar running diagonally from his brow bone to his cheek, which added a touch of ferocity to his already rugged face. But at this moment, a subtle shadow of gloom was hidden in his usually calm gray-blue eyes.

China. The very location of the mission was like a bucket of ice water, dousing his initial excitement upon accepting it. He had been a mercenary for over a decade, his footprints covering the Middle East, Africa, and Eastern Europe —areas ravaged by war or plagued by out-of-control governments—but China ... it was too "clean," too orderly.

The speed and power of official forces are a nightmare that no experienced foreign mercenary would want to face easily. If the employer's offer hadn't been outrageously high—enough for him and his team to live comfortably for several years—and if the mission briefing hadn't seemed ridiculously simple, he definitely wouldn't have taken the job.

Mission objective: A young Asian male named "K", suspected of being a hacker or technical expert. In the photo, he has an ordinary face and indifferent eyes, the kind of person you would easily blend into a crowd.

The employer provided extremely detailed information: the target's exact current address.

The requirements were clear: at the designated time, infiltrate their residence, subdue them using non-lethal means (a tranquilizer gun or stun gun), and remove them, keeping the entire process as quiet as possible to avoid alerting others. The handover point and evacuation route had been planned, and the employer promised comprehensive logistical support.

It looked like a standard "Rat" mission. The target had no armed guards or sophisticated security systems as described; it was just a tech geek's hideout. For Mark and his crew of veterans who had survived countless battles, this kind of job was practically a vacation.

"Boss, last confirmation, target inside, signal not moved." The deep voice of sniper and spotter "Hawkeye" came through the headset; he had taken up an excellent observation point on the roof of the opposite building.

Mark raised his wrist and looked at the tracking signal synced on his tactical watch. The little red dot was indeed firmly stationary inside the target apartment, having remained motionless for over two hours. It seemed the target was either asleep or engrossed in the world of computers.

"Roger that." Mark pressed the call button, his voice extremely low. "All teams, final equipment checks. Team A, advance with me from the front. Team B, hold the stairs and elevator. Team C, vehicles on standby. Remember, survive, try to avoid bloodshed. Move out!"

He made a concise and powerful attack gesture. Behind him, five team members, also dressed in dark urban combat uniforms and with camouflage paint on their faces, spread out silently like Ghost. Two members of Team A followed Mark closely, while three members of Team B occupied key positions at the top and bottom of the stairwell. Their movements were clean and efficient, demonstrating a high level of professionalism.

Mark and his assault teammate "Butcher" each pulled their primary weapons for the mission from their armpit holsters—two modified P226 pistols fitted with extended threaded barrels and large suppressors, their chambers loaded with specially made subsonic ammunition.

This combination can greatly suppress the noise and flash of gunfire at close range, making it almost undetectable to neighbors under the cover of noisy city background sounds. This was prepared for them by their employer through special channels. Mark knew all too well the difficulty and cost of obtaining such equipment in China, which also indirectly confirmed that his employer was no ordinary person.

They quickly and quietly approached the security door of their target apartment. It was an old-fashioned iron security door that looked quite worn. The team's lock-picking expert, "Key," immediately stepped forward, took out several small and precise tools from his tool bag, and, using the light of a miniature headlamp, began to work on the lock. His movements were quick and steady; in less than thirty seconds, with a soft "click," the outer mechanical latch was pried open.

However, there was another door inside. It was a sturdier-looking steel inner door, equipped with an electronic password and fingerprint lock.

Mark frowned. This hadn't been mentioned in the briefing. These smart locks were much more troublesome than mechanical locks; forced entry would trigger an alarm, and it was very loud.

"Key" gestured for Mark to step back. He took out a palm-sized device from his bag, connected it to a data cable, and carefully removed a corner of the smart lock's touch panel, inserting the cable. The device's screen lit up and began rapidly scrolling data. This was a specialized hacking tool capable of bypassing the encryption of some common smart lock brands.

Time ticked by, and the corridor was silent except for the faint hum of the equipment and the team members' soft breathing. Mark felt his heart race slightly. Every second they lingered increased the risk.

About a minute later, the "Key" made an OK sign, and the instrument screen displayed "unlocked successfully." He gently turned the inner door handle, and the steel door silently slid open a crack.

Mark and "The Butcher" immediately positioned themselves on either side, pistols at the ready, leaning slightly forward, preparing to charge in using standard tactical formation.

Mark took a deep breath, winked at "The Butcher," and then abruptly pushed the door open with his shoulder, pointing his gun inside. He quickly slipped inside, taking a favorable position on one side of the doorway. "The Butcher" followed closely behind, taking the other side.

However, the moment they burst into the house and their eyes swept quickly across the living room, Mark's blood seemed to freeze instantly.

The panicked tech geek they had expected wasn't in the living room.

On the contrary, facing the main gate, stood seven or eight fully armed men!

These men were all dressed in heavy black tactical vests (Mark immediately recognized them as having level 3 ballistic protection), tactical helmets with night vision goggle mounts, and masks that covered the lower half of their faces, revealing only pairs of cold, emotionless eyes.

Their weapons made Mark's heart sink even more—the two leading men held two short-barreled assault rifles (likely modified Type 95 rifles) level, the muzzles pointing menacingly at the door; the men behind them carried submachine guns or pistols, all ready to fire at any moment.

What made Mark even more desperate was that the enemy was clearly prepared, their formation perfectly deployed, blocking all possible angles of attack and escape routes. The curtains in the living room were tightly closed, with only the beams of tactical flashlights crisscrossing in the dim space, illuminating the dust particles floating in the air, and also the chilling blue glare of the enemy's gun muzzles.

Time seemed to stand still for half a second.

Mark's brain raced, but he came to only one conclusion: It's over. He's completely fallen into a trap.

His subsonic pistol, against this level of protection (Level 3 armor can effectively stop most pistol rounds, including subsonic rounds), at such close range, would probably be less than a tickle. Meanwhile, the opponent's rifle could easily tear him and "The Butcher" to shreds.

Resistance is pointless; it will only turn everyone into sieves immediately.

The "Butcher" had clearly come to the same conclusion; he froze on the spot, his finger not even daring to touch the trigger guard.

Mark acted decisively. Without hesitation, he released his grip on the gun, letting the expensive modified P226 fall to the polished floor with a thud. Then, he slowly and very clearly raised his hands, palms open, to indicate that he was completely harmless.

Seeing this, the "Butcher" immediately followed suit, throwing away his gun and raising his hands.

The armed men in the living room showed no signs of relaxing; their rifles remained firmly pointed at them. One of them made a gesture, and immediately two team members stepped forward, roughly pinning Mark and "The Butcher" to the ground, binding their hands behind their backs with plastic cable ties, and quickly searching them to remove all their weapons and equipment.

"Key" and the Team B members outside the door had clearly heard unusual noises inside (a gun being thrown and a thud as a body fell to the ground), but according to plan, they didn't foolishly rush in to their deaths. "Hawkeye's " urgent voice came through the headset. "Team A! Report the situation! What's happening inside?"

Mark's mouth was covered, preventing him from answering. He only heard "Key's " hushed command through his earpiece, "Plan exposed! Repeat, plan exposed! Execute evacuation plan two! Disperse and evacuate immediately! Team C, prepare to provide cover!"

However, before he could finish giving his instructions, another mutation occurred!

Outside the window, a deep, powerful roar of propellers suddenly came from afar! It wasn't just one; it sounded like there were at least two! And the sound was rapidly approaching, clearly heading towards this building!

Immediately afterwards, the screech of brakes and the roar of engines came from the street below. Through the gap in the curtains that weren't fully drawn, Mark, pressed to the ground, could barely see the bright headlights flashing outside the window. There were more than one car, and judging from the sound, they were heavy vehicles.

"Outside! So many vehicles! Are they... are they military vehicles? And armored vehicles!" Hawkeye's voice in the headset was filled with shock and a hint of panic. "Damn it! We're surrounded! From all sides!"

The sound of the propellers was almost overhead, and the huge roar of the airflow clearly indicated that a helicopter was hovering on the roof or at low altitude.

Mark's heart sank to the bottom. This kind of commotion... This wasn't just about catching a tech geek; it was like stirring up a hornet's nest—no, it was like stirring up a dragon's den!

The armed men holding him down seemed to have expected this, showing no surprise, but instead becoming even more vigilant in controlling him.

Rapid, chaotic footsteps came from outside the door, followed by a few short, suppressed gasps and the sound of bodies hitting the wall, then a heavy thud. Clearly, Team B and "Key," who had tried to evacuate, had also failed to escape.

Mark's cheek pressed against the cold floor, his mind filled with only one thought, a mixture of absurdity, anger, and a hint of self-mockery:

Damn it, this job paid way too little... way too little! The target information the employer provided is a complete joke! This isn't some lone tech geek; this is clearly a super tough guy with a private army who can instantly summon helicopters and armored vehicles!

All he wanted to know now was who this damned "K" was, and who this employer who had ruined their lives was.

But these questions will likely remain unanswered for the time being, because a pair of cold handcuffs have already firmly locked his wrists.