The sudden eruption of the M2HB completely shattered the previous balance. Colonel Johnson's men were caught off guard by the heavy machine gun's onslaught, unable to even think about Owen—they all scrambled for cover in panic.
While they had been talking earlier, Owen had used his phone to mark the positions of all the gunmen. Each location was programmed into the M2HB's firing trajectory.
What he hadn't expected was the colonel suddenly turning violent and firing without warning—nearly catching him off guard.
To thank him for the Ferrari, the fat man Eddie hadn't just gifted him the M2HB; he had also helped install the beast into the back of a van.
It provided both concealment and a logical excuse for the machine gun's presence on-site. As expected, when the colonel's men arrived, they never bothered to check the van. Believing themselves in total control, none of them had even inspected it.
The M2HB continued to roar, 12.7mm rounds tearing through the battlefield. Despite its poor accuracy—even with pre-set trajectories—the sheer psychological impact was immense.
Anyone it did hit was rarely left whole. The lucky ones were killed instantly, their torsos shredded beyond recognition. The unlucky ones were split in half but still clinging to life, howling in agony on the ground.
Taking advantage of the chaos, Owen crawled on all fours into a pre-planned hiding spot—a small cover position where he had stashed all his gear.
He ripped open his trench coat, revealing the RCBS tactical vest underneath. The colonel's earlier shot hadn't struck the vest's ballistic plate directly—it had hit one of the spare magazines in his chest pocket.
Owen pulled out the damaged mag. The handgun bullet had already flattened, stuck in the metal, but the magazine itself was done for, dented and unusable.
Tossing it aside, Owen picked up his M4A1 and began returning fire from behind cover.
The staccato of his rifle echoed across the field. Although some of Johnson's men spotted Owen, most of them remained focused on the van, convinced that someone inside was controlling the machine gun.
Bullets clanged against the van's shell, and with each thunderous M2HB shot, the vehicle visibly shuddered—its structure barely holding under the recoil.
During the distraction, Owen managed to take out two men. Swag, from his vantage point, was doing even better. In the chaos, the colonel's side had already lost half its force—though few had fallen to the machine gun. Most had been picked off by Owen and Swag in coordinated attacks.
Swag's sniper rifle was devastatingly accurate. Positioned on high ground, every shot brought someone down. Despite wearing vests, the enemies weren't equipped with heavy armor—Swag's rounds punched through easily.
Gradually, the enemy began to recover from the initial shock. Painful lessons had taught them that regular tree cover was useless against 12.7mm rounds. Hiding behind one was no better than standing out in the open.
With the M2HB's fire as cover, Owen and Swag pressed their advantage.
Through the M4A1's red dot sight, Owen saw the reticle align with a target. He fired—hitting the man's lower leg. As the enemy collapsed in pain, Owen leaned out and, with a clean follow-up shot, finished him off.
Then, suddenly, the M2HB fell silent.
Eddie had only provided a 200-round belt. Any more would've risked overheating the barrel after 100–150 rounds.
By now, the upper half of the van was practically gone—chewed up by its own mounted weapon. The vehicle itself had nearly fallen apart from the recoil.
With the heavy weapon out of the equation, Colonel Johnson began rallying his men for a counterattack. Almost instantly, all muzzles turned toward Owen. He had just peeked out to drop another target when a barrage of bullets rained his way.
Owen ducked back too slowly. A bullet slammed into his chest plate.
The impact rang out sharply—then the round shattered into fragments. Owen was thrown backward, landing hard. Another bullet zipped past his head, searing his hair and filling the air with the acrid stench of burnt flesh.
As the enemy advanced, Swag shifted tactics—from assassinations to suppression. His rate of fire increased dramatically. Two of the fastest runners were downed in seconds, halting the entire charge.
Owen took the opportunity to regroup. Using grenades and rifle bursts, he managed to repel the enemy alongside Swag.
They tried several more times to storm his position, hoping to close the distance and overwhelm him, but every charge ended the same—with lead and blood.
Owen focused fire on those at the rear, while Swag sniped the ones up front. Their coordination turned the attackers into sitting ducks. With every push, the attackers lost more men.
Soon, of the original dozen or more enemies, only five or six remained. There were no wounded—all who fell were promptly executed.
Now the survivors huddled behind a large boulder, unable to move.
Owen had one last MK3A2 grenade. It had already proven itself remarkably effective—not just for kills but also for area denial.
Seeing the enemy turtle up, he exchanged a glance with Swag and lobbed the grenade.
Two men panicked and jumped out, only to be instantly mowed down—one by Swag, one by Owen.
No one else was stupid enough to try it again. Owen, still fuming from nearly being killed, tossed aside his M4A1 and pulled out his M9. With a quick flick of his arm, he sent a bullet curving through the air.
Pa~! The round spun in a graceful arc and struck one of the enemies hiding behind the rock. The man staggered slightly—just enough for Swag to finish the job with a clean headshot.
The entire sequence unfolded in a flash, leaving the remaining enemies dumbfounded.
No one could figure out how the bullet had hit. The only explanation was a ricochet—but two ricochets landing in the same spot? Impossible.
"Owen, they're trying to run…"
Swag's voice crackled through the earpiece as Owen debated a third curved shot.
Owen immediately holstered the M9, raised the M4A1, and gave chase. In truth, his arm was barely holding up—after two consecutive trick shots, his muscles were cramping, and his joints ached. Another attempt might've broken something.
"Cover me~~"
Rifle in hand, Owen advanced while firing. The terrain here was too open—they could only cover a couple of exit routes. If the enemy was set on escaping, they'd likely succeed.
He just hoped to stall them.
Reaching the boulder, Owen spotted Colonel Johnson retreating with Nina and two others.
He fired hastily—missed. Gritting his teeth, he gave chase. At this angle, Swag couldn't help anymore—it was all on him now.
1 vs. 4. Owen figured he could manage.
He sprinted forward, just starting to accelerate—when an instinctive chill shot through him. He dove forward, sliding across the dirt.
Right where he'd just stepped, a glint of metal caught the sun—tripwire.
Cold sweat drenched his back. The enemy had planted booby traps.
Looking around, he saw more wires just meters away. If he hadn't spotted the faint glint just in time, he'd have run straight into a death trap.
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