Chapter 51: Bag ’em and Tag ’em

Chapter 51 - 51: Bag 'em and Tag 'emThe night pressed down like a heavy, wet shroud, suffocating the air beneath the dense forest canopy. Crickets screamed their frantic chorus, drowning out the distant wail of sirens echoing through the valley.

Mario's boots tore through the mud, his breath coming in sharp, painful bursts. The forest swallowed him in darkness, branches clawing at his skin like skeletal fingers. Beside him, Zaldy stumbled, cursing under his breath as he dragged his injured leg through the muck. Blood oozed from a shrapnel wound in his thigh, leaving a glistening trail behind them.

"Keep moving," Mario snapped, pushing a low-hanging branch aside. "We're not safe yet."

Zaldy grunted, his rifle clutched tight against his chest, knuckles white beneath his gloves. His eyes darted, wild and unfocused, scanning every shadow, every flicker of movement. The forest was a labyrinth of twisted trunks and tangled roots, each rustle of leaves a potential threat, each gust of wind a phantom bullet.

They had entered the Purnas mansion grounds with fifteen men—battle-hardened fighters, veterans of Sulu's jungle warfare, men who had ambushed military convoys and survived military airstrikes. Now, only four remained.

Four.

Mario's mind reeled. He expected a few amulets—maybe two or three men wearing them, the kind that could deflect a bullet or two. He had heard rumors of amulets strong enough to turn away steel, but he had never seen them work firsthand. He wasn't a superstitious man. He was a fighter, a killer. Superstition was a tool to keep the weak in line.

But tonight... tonight he had seen the impossible.

He had watched as Pedro's men advanced through hails of gunfire, the bullets ricocheting off their skin like pebbles against a wall. He had seen Emilio take a shot to the chest, the round flattening against his shirt as if it had hit solid stone.

But the rice...

Mario's jaw clenched as he remembered the moment. John, one of Pedro's younger guards, charging through the living room, fearless, invincible. Then the rice showered down from above, a ghostly white rain. John screamed, clawing at his skin, and then the bullets found him, tearing through his chest with sickening ease.



It worked.

The rice worked.

Mario's mind churned. How many of those men were wearing amulets? Two? Three? Five? No. There had been more. Too many. These weren't ordinary guards. The Purnas family was wealthy, powerful, deeply rooted in old beliefs. Those amulets—they weren't just trinkets. They were something far older, far stronger.

Zaldy stumbled again, his leg giving out beneath him. Mario caught him under the arm, hauling him up.

"Stay with me," Mario muttered, more to himself than to Zaldy.

Zaldy's eyes were glassy, his breath ragged. "Mario... what the hell was that back there?"

"Doesn't matter," Mario said, eyes forward. "Just keep moving."

They pressed on, the trees tightening around them, branches weaving into a suffocating cocoon. Mario's heart pounded in his chest, each beat reverberating in his skull like a drum. Sweat stung his eyes, and his hands trembled as he adjusted his grip on the rifle.

Ahead, a flicker of light—a campfire. Shadows danced across the trees, twisting and contorting like specters. Mario stopped dead, pulling Zaldy behind a thick trunk.

"What is it?" Zaldy rasped, voice weak.

Mario squinted, peering through the underbrush. Six, Eight figures stood around the fire, their backs to him. Civilians. Farmers, maybe. One of them held a shotgun. The others had machetes strapped to their belts.

Mario's stomach sank. This wasn't just any group of armed civilians. They were locals. And they were waiting.

"Ambush," Mario whispered, but before he could move, a voice rang out.

"Drop your weapons!"

The command echoed through the trees, firm and unyielding. The man with the shotgun stepped forward, eyes hard and unblinking.

Mario and Zaldy exchanged a glance. Their rifles were heavy in their hands, the barrels glistening with mud. Zaldy's leg buckled, and he fell to one knee, panting, eyes rolling.

Mario swallowed. They were outnumbered. Outgunned. Out of time.

"Do it," Mario muttered, letting the rifle fall to the ground with a muffled thud.

Zaldy did the same, his grip loosening, fingers slick with blood.

The armed civilians moved in, surrounding them, eyes cold and unyielding. The man with the shotgun stepped forward, pushing the barrel against Mario's chest.

"You came from the firefight nearby?" the man asked, his voice low and accusatory.



Mario met his gaze, jaw clenched. "We're part of Special Action Force. 1st Special Action Battallion"

The man's eyes narrowed, dark and probing. "SAF, huh? Well, you're more than a terrorist. Where's the rest of your unit then?"

Mario's jaw tightened. Behind him, Zaldy's breathing was slowing, each breath a shallow, wheezing rasp.

The man raised his shotgun, pressing the barrel against Mario's forehead. Cold steel met sweat-slick skin.

"You got five seconds to tell me why we shouldn't paint the ground with your brains."

Mario's gaze remained steady, but inside, his mind was a whirlwind. The mission was over. The extraction team was long gone. They were on their own now, trapped in enemy territory, surrounded by ghosts and armed men.

The moon hung high, a cold, watchful eye as Mario and Zaldy knelt in the mud, their hands clasped behind their necks. The armed civilians formed a tight circle around them, rifles and shotguns aimed squarely at their heads. The tension in the air was palpable, thick and heavy like the dense humidity of the forest.

Mario's knees ached, the rough ground digging into his flesh. Zaldy's breathing was a ragged wheeze beside him, his leg still bleeding beneath the torn fabric of his pants. The blood had soaked through, staining the dirt a dark, glistening crimson.

The silence was shattered by the crunch of boots against gravel. Emerging from the shadows, a man in his forties strode forward, flanked by three men in casual attire. His presence commanded immediate respect. The armed civilians relaxed slightly, their grips on their weapons easing as he approached.

"Sir Ismael," one of the armed men said, dipping his head. "We caught these two stragglers."

Ismael's gaze was sharp, calculating. He wore a tailored button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up, revealing strong forearms marked with old scars. His jaw was set, eyes dark and unforgiving as they locked onto Mario and Zaldy.

"What about Ryan's side?" Ismael asked, his voice carrying a controlled, authoritative tone.

"No word from them yet, sir," the man replied. "But we informed them we caught these two. They're claiming to be SAF."


Ismael's lips twisted into a scoff. "SAF? In our backyard? I don't think so."

Mario's jaw clenched. The Special Action Force cover was a last-ditch attempt. It was a gamble, and they had lost.

Ismael crouched down to Mario's level, his face inches away. The stench of cigarette smoke and aftershave clung to him. He grabbed Mario's chin, forcing him to look up.

"You look like shit," Ismael said, voice calm and measured. "Who sent you?"

Mario said nothing. He kept his jaw tight, eyes defiant, staring through Ismael.

Ismael smirked. "Silent type, huh?" He turned to Zaldy, who was struggling to keep his eyes open. "And you? You gonna talk?"

Zaldy's head lolled forward, his skin pale and clammy. The shrapnel wound on his thigh continued to bleed, the crimson spreading like ink on paper.

Ismael stood up, his gaze sweeping over the men. "Take them. We're done here."

The armed men moved in, yanking Mario and Zaldy to their feet. The world spun as Mario was dragged forward, boots scuffing through the dirt.



The dirt road stretched out like a dark, winding snake, its edges shrouded in mist and moonlight. Two black vans waited, engines idling softly, headlights dimmed.

Mario's head swam, his vision blurring as they were hauled out of the forest and onto the road. The van loomed ahead, its rear doors open like a waiting maw.

Ismael's men pushed Mario and Zaldy forward, forcing them to kneel once more. One of the men flicked open the van doors, the hinges creaking. The interior was dark, a suffocating void.

"Get them in," Ismael ordered.

Mario tried to resist, but a rifle butt slammed into his back, sending him sprawling forward. He hit the van floor hard, the metal cold against his cheek. Zaldy was thrown in beside him, his wounded leg twisted at an awkward angle. He groaned, eyes rolling back as the pain surged through him.

Ismael's face appeared above them, eyes shadowed, jaw clenched. "You two better pray Ryan's side has better news. Because right now? You're worth less than the bullets we wasted on your friends."

The doors slammed shut, plunging them into darkness.

Outside, Ismael turned to his men. "You three, with me," he said, jerking a thumb at the remaining van. "Let's go."

The other armed men dispersed, climbing into the second van. Engines roared to life, and the vehicles pulled away from the dirt road, their headlights slicing through the mist as they headed deeper into the forest.

Inside the van, Mario lay on his side, breathing hard, the scent of gasoline and sweat thick in the air. Zaldy's labored breaths echoed through the darkness, each one shallower than the last.

"You still with me?" Mario muttered, eyes fixed on the ceiling.

Zaldy's eyelids fluttered. "Yeah... for now."