The helicopter blades passed through the night air, the constant beat soft against the cacophonous wind. The Grand Hotel of Midnight loomed below, a glass-and-steel skyscraper, its formerly welcoming lights now flashing erratically.

Inside the helicopter, Elias Vance and his five-man ASPD team were silent, all of whom gazed at the equipment in their hands. In their black tactical vests were a few spare magazines, communications gear—if only because the jammers inside the hotel complex would make the gear useless, anyway—and small SMGs strapped around their waist.

Elias gazed at his rifle, then at his comrades. Reynolds, Torres, Deke, Carter— hard men who were used to city combat. They had been trained for this.

And still…something wasn't right.

Eighty-plus terrorists, zero demands? Too clean. Too perfect.

The instant they touched down, it would become hell.

Ross's voice was heard in their earpieces. "ETA: 30 seconds. Stick to plan—rooftop insertion, descend level by level. No heroics.".

No heroics.

Elias gripped his rifle more firmly. No way that was ever happening.

The helicopter banked, reducing its speed as it approached the hotel rooftop. The helipad was empty, save for the neon "MIDNIGHT" sign flashing in the distance.

"Move! Move! Move!"

The ropes dropped. One by one, the team rappelled down, boots thudding on the rooftop in practiced silence. Elias landed last, scanning the perimeter. No resistance. No snipers.

Too easy.

Torres pointed ahead. "Roof access secure. In position."

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

They took up positions in front of the stairwell door, rifles high. Elias gestured. Torres kicked the door wide.

And then—hell broke loose.

A metallic sound clinked.

Grenade.

"MOVE!" Elias cried.

The world exploded. The blast ripped through the doorway, shrapnel slicing through the team.

Deke was blown apart instantly.

Reynolds fell, his leg in awful shape, screaming.

Gunfire bursts from the shadows, muzzle flashes lighting the stairs.

An ambush. They were waiting.

Elias dove to the ground, rolled over, and shot blindly into the smoke. Bullets ricocheted off the walls. Torres dropped to the ground, blood spattering the concrete.

Carter, struggling for breath, leaned against the railing, holding his throat—his blood flowing through his fingers.

Reynolds attempted to crawl off, but a figure emerged from the smoke wearing a mask and—

BANG.

One shot to the head.

Elias was alone.

His ears were ringing and blood on his lips. His tactical team, the ASPD's best, was eliminated within less than one minute.

This wasn't a hijacking.

This was a massacre.

Emerging from the smoke was a figure—a man wearing a dark vest, with his rifle slung loosely over his shoulder. Not hurrying. Unhurried.

The man cocked his head, looking amused.

Then he spoke.

"You should have kept out of this, officer."

Elias's vision blurred.

The last he remembered seeing when all went dark—

A boot slamming into his head forcefully.