Jolting awake with heavy breaths and a sheen of sweat on my forehead, I scanned the dark, empty bedroom around me. It felt like a hideout, shrouded in shadows with an unsettling air. With a big sigh, I muttered to myself, "What the hell was that? A dream? It seemed so realistic."
The oppressive silence hung in the air until a cold presence cut through it. A figure stood in the dark corner of the room, its eyes glowing a menacing red, cat-like and sharp.
"Ah, so this is what your room looks like," it said, the sarcasm dripping from its deep voice. "Don't tell me you forgot our deal."
"Aldric," I said, the recognition clashing with my exhaustion.
"Yes, that's correct," he sneered, his tone both mocking and sinister. "This may be the same world where you came from before your sad demise." He leaned closer, almost enjoying the moment. "Who knows, maybe you might meet her again. Maybe she—"
"Shut it!" I interrupted, a growl escaping my throat, feeling anger flare at the reminder of my past.
"Whoa, did I touch a nerve?" Aldric shot back, laughter punctuating his words. "Now go get your little revenge."
With a loud thud echoing through the dimly lit room, the knocking on the door jolted Alex from his thoughts. Instinctively, he reached for his pistol—but panic struck as he realized it wasn't there. He wasn't in uniform.
Frantically scanning the room, his eyes landed on his jacket hanging by the door. He rushed over and slipped it on, feeling a familiar texture brush against his side pocket. His heart raced—his **Ruger Vaquero .44 Mag** was there. He swiftly drew the pistol, a sense of preparedness momentarily calming him.
As he opened the door, gun in hand and ready for whatever awaited him, he was met with the last person he expected to see: Arthur.
A rush of complex emotions flooded through Alex—grief, anger, sadness, but above all, joy that his best friend was still alive. The turbulent feelings mingled within him, almost overwhelming.
"Guess I drank too much last night," Alex muttered, trying to mask his emotional turmoil with casual bravado. "What time and day is it?"
"2200, Sunday, sir!" Arthur responded in a tone sharp as a soldier's.
"Status report," Alex commanded, his demeanor shifting back into operational mode.
Arthur took a breath, gathering his thoughts. "We located the terrorists. They're holed up in an abandoned warehouse at the docks, moving large containers. It looks to be a transaction exchange. Hawthorne received confirmation and gave us the go-ahead. He's with Scott and Jones, waiting for us."
"Alright, let's move out," Alex said firmly, the urgency of their task quickly refocusing his mind.
As they readied for their mission, Alex inquired, "How's the perimeter?"
"Favorable for us," Arthur replied, scanning the surroundings. "There's enough cover to get close without detection."
"Good," Alex nodded, feeling a surge of determination.
Arthur continued, "There are about 13 guards patrolling outside and around 10 inside, with 3 at the main entrance."
"Alright," Alex said, nodding decisively. "Swift and quiet. Night goggles on."
They gathered their gear, both moving with a practiced ease that came from years of teamwork. The thrill of the hunt coursed through Alex as they prepared to take down the threat looming over them, the bond with his friend restoring a sense of purpose—no matter the risks that lay ahead.