Muzzle flashes flickered wildly in the dim interior. Using the Firebird's two armored doors as mobile cover, Jack and Clay unleashed precise burst fire like twin reapers harvesting souls.
Langston's crew, ex-cops with training and numerical superiority, quickly recovered from the initial shock. Using server racks and cabinets for cover, they returned fire in a disorganized barrage.
Even with the roar of gunfire, the command truck's directional loudspeakers—now playing Wagner's "Ride of the Valkyries" at full blast—could still be heard. The shattered eastern door only helped the music carry further.
"All we're missing is a Huey with rocket pods and we're back in 'Nam," Clay shouted with a grin.
Unlike the Korean War, which the U.S. seldom talks about, Vietnam had become a strange kind of cultural touchstone—cowboys, rock music, protests, hippies, and a certain headcase of a president all blended into one nostalgic national hallucination.
"Reloading!" Jack called, emptying his second mag.
Clay switched to sustained bursts to keep pressure off. As Jack slammed a fresh mag into his Noveske, the red dot framed Langston's fleeing silhouette. He hesitated, shifted slightly, and instead dropped a suit shielding Langston's retreat.
Now wasn't the time to end him—Langston needed to live long enough to spill the location of the missile deal.
Maybe it was the shock of the initial assault, or maybe it was sheer fear—Langston's crew didn't want this fight. Only a few stayed to offer wild, suppressive fire with SMGs, while the rest bolted for the western exit alongside their boss.
The data center—housed inside a converted industrial warehouse—was massive. Over 70 meters from east to west, more than 20 meters wide. There were multiple exits. Jack and Clay had breached from the east; Langston's group was retreating west, toward the helipad.
Outside, the AS332 "Super Puma" had started spinning its rotors, but it wasn't ready for takeoff. Big birds like that need at least 10 minutes to spin up and go.
Meanwhile, outside the structure, Jubal and the others were advancing under cover fire from the two female snipers—cleaning up rooftop shooters and those dug in behind perimeter defenses.
Suddenly—BOOM!
A northern gate blew inward. Two flashbangs followed. Then three fully geared operators stormed in—two men, one woman. Lavoie's elite private security.
Their arrival immediately relieved the pressure on Jack and Clay. The number of muzzles aimed their way dropped by half as enemies diverted fire toward the new intruders.
"Pop pop!" Clay double-tapped a shooter behind a cabinet, pivoted to aim at another behind a server rack—only to watch Reacher crash into the man like a freight train.
Glass shattered. The guard's AR-15 bent under Reacher's crushing grip as the muzzle slowly turned... toward the shooter's own forehead.
CRACK.
Skull and brain matter sprayed across Reacher's already bloodied face.
"Big guy!" Jack skid-slid to Reacher's side, slinging the MDX508 rifle from his back into Reacher's hands. He tossed two mags across as well.
"Can you cover me?" Reacher blinked hard, still half-blind from the flashbang. He'd been caught too close to Lavoie's entry team.
But none of that mattered. His bloodshot eyes locked onto Langston's fleeing figure with a predator's focus.
"Don't worry, he's not getting out of here," Jack said, clapping him on the shoulder.
If Langston had stayed put and made a stand, things might've been trickier. The interior was too big for flashbangs to dominate, and there was too much cover.
But Langston wanted out. Badly. That $65 million deal was so close he could taste it. Dying here with a bunch of psycho vets and rogue agents? Not an option.
"We've gotta complete the exchange—get the money—then get the hell out of this goddamn country before the Feds show up!" Langston yelled, crouched behind a filing cabinet.
The Super Puma's engines were screaming louder now. Just a few dozen meters more, just one little door to push through...
He had three men left. One shouted, "What about the others?"
"I'll wire their families the money!" Langston lied through his teeth, then sprayed the far end of the room blindly and shoved one man forward.
"You! Open the door, dumbass!"
Gunfire was dying down. The enemy side—Jack, Clay, Lavoie's crew—was using suppressed weapons. Most of the remaining noise came from Langston's desperate spray-and-pray tactics.
Which, tactically, meant one thing: they were being annihilated.
The unlucky guy he kicked stumbled to the exit. His hand barely touched the handle before three rounds hit him center mass—Lavoie's team didn't miss.
He crumpled. But the impact opened the door just enough for the rotor wash outside to catch it. Dust swirled in, and the door slowly creaked open—then jammed against the corpse.
Langston saw salvation in the flickering light.
"Go! Run! Move!" he roared, emptying the rest of his mag at random. He shoved another guy in front of him like a meat shield and followed behind.
The Super Puma was now fully spinning up. Langston made it to the chopper, reached out—and just as his fingers touched the side handle—
CRACK.
A high-pitched screech tore through the air, followed by a low, distant boom.
Langston froze. Then felt his arm go numb.
A .50 BMG round—thick as a carrot—had shattered his arm and punched a crater in the concrete behind him. Dust puffed upward.
"AHHHHH!"
He stumbled to his knees, clutching his shredded limb, screaming in pain.
The chopper door flung open. Langston's last two bodyguards were just turning toward the noise—
—and O'Donnell and Dickson lit them up. Their rifles spat fire, pouring years of grief and fury into each bullet.
Langston looked up, dazed, and saw them step out of the chopper like avenging angels.
And realized—there was nowhere left to run.
______
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