Cleanup and Endgame
The embers of the explosion drifted slowly through the night sky, like black snow. The main house was now a ruin belching smoke and flames; most of the once sturdy timber and stone structure had collapsed, with only a few charred remnants stubbornly pointing towards the sky.
The burning wood crackled continuously, and the air was filled with a strong smell of burning, the acrid odor of burning chemicals, and... the nauseatingly sweet smell unique to burnt flesh.
The distant gunfire had ceased completely long before the RPG explosions. Eagle Creek Ranch returned to an eerie silence, as if thoroughly cleansed by violence. Only the whistling of the wind through the distant treetops and the faint, uneasy commotion emanating from the livestock pens further away could be heard.
Several beams of light pierced the darkness, approaching from afar. Three unmarked, matte black modified SUVs, like three steel behemoths emerging from the night, rolled over the scattered glass shards and burning debris on the front lawn, coming to a steady stop about twenty meters from the ruins of the main house. The engines gave a low growl and then shut off.
The car doors opened almost simultaneously, and eleven figures leaped out in single file, their movements swift and silent, the only sound being the slight scraping of their boots against the ground when they landed. They wore uniform dark gray urban combat suits, made of fabric with infrared protection and some fire resistance, simple in style, without any badges or markings.
Everyone wore black, full-coverage skull masks, revealing only their eyes and breathing filters at the mouth and nose; their gazes were cold and indifferent behind the masks.
They held compact HK MP5SD silenced submachine guns or short-barreled AR carbines with suppressors, their muzzles hanging naturally, but their fingers resting on the guards, their bodies slightly leaning forward, maintaining a combat posture ready to fire at any moment.
They are ABZ. Ghost, Blade, Scavenger.
No one spoke. There wasn't even eye contact. The action began the instant the vehicle came to a complete stop, as if a program rehearsed a thousand times was running automatically.
The team leader—the most agile and with a cheetah-like rhythm in his movements—raised his right hand and made a few simple sign gestures. The eleven team members immediately split into three groups, spreading out in a fan shape, like mercury spilling onto the ground, quickly and silently taking control of all entrances and high points around the main house ruins.
Two men occupied the remaining low wall in the front yard, pointing their guns into the depths of the ranch and towards the way they had come. The other two went around to the back of the main house, blocking any possible escape routes. The remaining seven, including the leader, headed straight for the still-burning ruins, where debris was constantly falling.
The flames flickered in the night wind, stretching and twisting their shadows, casting them onto the scorched ground and broken walls like a chaotic dance of demons.
The team leader didn't rush into the main ruins, but instead quickly surveyed the perimeter first. He stepped over a section of a still-burning portico pillar carved with eagle patterns, his sharp eyes scanning the area. Scattered on the ground were various fragments: shards of crystal glasses, twisted silver cutlery, half a charred Bible, the hem of a floral dress covered in black ash... and, even more shockingly, some charred lumps whose original shape could not be accurately identified.
He raised his left hand and tapped twice on his throat microphone—a signal to "locate the main target area and prepare to enter for cleanup." The six team members behind him immediately rallied their formation, two in front, three in the middle, and one at the back, and stepped into the still warm and structurally unstable ruins in a standard indoor cleanup formation.
The scene inside was even more horrific than outside. The epicenter of the explosion was still faintly discernible—a shallow crater in the ground, with radial cracks appearing on the surrounding stone slabs. The shockwave and flames had almost destroyed everything. Furniture burned to its skeleton, molten plastic and metal objects distorted into bizarre shapes, and scorch marks splattered across the walls...
And, people.
Or rather, it was once a human being.
Near where the long dining table once stood, several charred corpses lay scattered in various poses, all severely carbonized and incomplete. Some were curled up in a ball, some were kneeling or prone, and some had their limbs separated. The high temperature and impact made most of the features difficult to identify, but the remaining fragments of clothing, body size, and relative positions could roughly correspond to the number of members of the Johnson Family Clan.
The ABZ team members didn't pause for a second, not even lingering over the horrific sights. To them, it was no different than clearing away a pile of lifeless obstacles. Their eyes quickly scanned every corner where someone might be hiding, under toppled furniture, and in every gap created by the collapse.
The team leader gave a hand signal. Two team members immediately stepped forward, pulled out high-powered flashlights from their leg pouches, and turned them on. The cold white beams pierced through the smoke and darkness, carefully examining the head and chest of each charred corpse.
Confirmed. Finishing shot.
"Pfft." "Pfft."
The weapons, equipped with highly efficient silencers, emitted a slight, muffled thud, like forcefully slapping a wet sack. The bullets precisely penetrated the charred heads, striking the brows or temples, ensuring that even the slightest remaining sign of life was completely extinguished.
The team member fired an extra shot into the heart of the largest of the charred corpses, which was lying near the fireplace and still clutching a charred wooden gunstock (which could be vaguely identified as a lever-action rifle).
"Puff."
The movements were clean and efficient, without a single unnecessary action. After finishing off the body, the team member would gently nudge it with their toe to check for stiffness and lack of reaction before moving on to the next target.
The entire cleanup process was quiet, swift, and efficient. The only sounds were the faint thud of boots crunching over the ashes, the occasional "crack" of burning wood falling, and the short, muffled blasts of finishing shots. There was no communication, no hesitation; it was like the most sophisticated killing machine executing a predetermined erasure procedure.
The interior of the main house ruins was cleared. The team leader gave another sign language instruction. The team split into four people and began to inspect the side rooms (possibly kitchens and storage rooms) connected to the main house that had not completely collapsed. These rooms were relatively lightly damaged, but were still in a state of disarray.
They kicked open the twisted and deformed door, their flashlight beams sweeping through every corner, cabinet, and under the table. In a corner of the kitchen, they found the lifeless body of a middle-aged woman wearing an apron, her lower body trapped under a collapsed cabinet. She was likely a maid who hadn't been at the party. They fired another shot at her.
Meanwhile, the team leader, along with two others, retreated from the ruins of the main house. He raised his hand and made several hand gestures to the team members responsible for perimeter security in the distance. Soon, the two team members emerged from the darkness, walked quickly over, and reported rapidly in a low voice in Vietnam- accented English:
"The perimeter has been cleared. Three bodies of armed men, dressed as ranch workers and carrying shotguns and pistols, were found in the eastern workers' shed area. They have been confirmed dead and have been finished off. Two more bodies were found near the western stables and were similarly dealt with. A patrol pickup truck at the edge of the southern woods was destroyed; the two people inside were dead and have been finished off. No other survivors or suspicious moving targets were found. The livestock were startled but pose no threat."
The team leader nodded to indicate that he understood. He glanced at his military-grade luminous watch; less than fifteen minutes had passed since they arrived at the scene and began the cleanup.
"Final checks. Evacuate in five minutes." The team leader finally spoke, his voice coming through the mask filter—deep, hoarse, and devoid of emotion—in English with a heavy Vietnam accent.
The team members immediately dispersed to conduct a final check before leaving. Two of them quickly resurrected the ruins of the main house, inside and out, to ensure that no targets requiring follow-up shots were missed. One person checked the area around the SUV to confirm that no obvious footprints or items had been left behind.
The other man walked to a nearby ranch patrol pickup truck that was riddled with bullets and still smoking. He took a small cylinder from his tactical vest, pulled the safety pin, and threw it into the driver's seat. A few seconds later, a muffled thud came from inside the vehicle, and flames shot out from the shattered window—this was the destruction of any traces that might contain the organization's DNA.
The team leader stood still, his gaze slowly sweeping over the land that had just been cleansed by blood and fire one last time. The burning ruins of the main house, the faint outlines of corpses in the distant workers' sheds, the panicked cattle thrashing behind their fences... everything indicated that the mission objective had been achieved.
The Johnson Family Clan, from Andrew Sr. to his youngest son Benjamin, from core members to potentially informed armed employees, has been physically wiped out. Eagle Creek Ranch has become a desolate, uninhabited place that has just experienced a "horrible accident" or "gang warfare."
In the distance, on the southeastern horizon, a faint but gradually clearer siren, distinct from natural sounds, could be heard—the sirens of police cars and fire trucks. The law enforcement forces of Skagit County were finally alerted by the towering flames and the gunshots, possibly reported by a distant neighbor. But it would take at least twenty more minutes for them to arrive at the scene.
There's enough time.
The team leader raised his hand and tapped the throat microphone three times – the evacuation signal.
Like robots receiving a command, all team members immediately stopped what they were doing and quickly moved towards the off-road vehicle. Their movements were swift and silent, without the slightest panic. They opened the doors and filed in. The engine started almost as soon as the last person got in, humming softly.
Three black SUVs turned around, without turning on their headlights, relying only on their dim side marker lights and the drivers' excellent night vision, and followed the tracks they had come from, driving away from the blazing ruins and quickly disappearing into the dense protective forest belt at the edge of the ranch, vanishing into the deeper darkness of the night.
They come like Ghost and leave like phantoms.
All that remained was the main house burning ever more fiercely behind them, the increasingly piercing sirens of police cars, and the 120-year history of a family that had just ended on this land, and a brief nightmare that began with greed and betrayal and ended with flames and bullets.
An hour later, when the first Skagit County Sheriff's pickup truck, flashing red and blue lights, bumped into the front yard of Eagle Creek Ranch, all they saw was a still-burning, crackling ruin, several burning sheds and vehicles, and... scattered, gruesome mutilated corpses, which looked particularly horrifying in the firelight.
Thick smoke billowed straight into the starry sky.
The sirens, shouts, and urgent calls for reports on the walkie-talkie shattered the last vestiges of silence on the ranch.
But the Ghost that created all of this has long since vanished, as if it had never existed.