Jones allowed himself the faintest smile. “Still alive. That’s the only score that counts.”
They commandeered the truck. Jones hotwired it as shrapnel pinged off the armor. The gate splintered under the vehicle’s weight, and they roared into the forest, the prison lights shrinking behind them like dying stars.
Here’s a short story inspired by IGI 2: Covert Strike .
“I can run.”
Nightshade’s cell was a reinforced door with a keypad. Jones didn’t have the code. He had something better—a portable bypass tool he’d “acquired” from a disgraced MI6 quartermaster. He pressed it to the panel, and the lock clicked open in twelve seconds.
“The scenic route,” Jones replied, handing her a pistol. “Can you walk?”
“Change of plans,” he said, pointing to a fuel truck parked near the south wall. “We’re leaving loud.” Jones allowed himself the faintest smile
Nightshade looked at him. “You lost the stealth bonus.”
Inside, the prison smelled of rust, sweat, and burnt coffee. He moved through the corridors like a ghost, pausing at every corner to peek with his tiny fiber-optic camera. Two guards at the end of the hall, one smoking, one complaining about the cold. Jones pulled a flashbang from his vest.
He grabbed a grenade from his belt, pulled the pin, and lobbed it toward the main generator. The explosion turned the night orange. In the chaos, they sprinted across the tarmac. Bullets cracked past. Nightshade fired twice, and a sniper tumbled from a water tower. Jones hotwired it as shrapnel pinged off the armor
He’d already disabled two patrols with a tranquilizer dart to the neck and a chokehold that left no marks. The third guard, however, was different. He’d turned a second too early, his flashlight beam slicing through the mist like a scalpel. Jones didn’t think. His hand moved—a clean, suppressed burst. Three rounds. The guard crumpled into the mud without a sound.
The rain over Siberia was a liar. It fell soft as a whisper, promising peace, while below, the Krasny Prison Facility hummed with enough firepower to level a small army. David Jones adjusted the strap of his suppressed MP5 and pressed closer to the icy rock.
Inside, a pale woman in a gray jumpsuit looked up from the floor. Her eyes were hollow, but sharp. “Took you long enough,” she whispered. “I can run
The white light and thunderclap sent them stumbling. Before the first man could blink, Jones was on them. A rifle butt to the temple. A knee to the second’s chest. They fell in a heap.