130: Chapter 130 A Loyal Dog Doesn't Bit Its Owner

The helicopter formation was three minutes away from Eden Island's coastline.

Marcus stood in the cabin, one hand gripping the overhead bar and the other snapping his tactical tablet back onto his chest mount. He glanced behind him; all twelve members of the USS Elite Guard were present, clad in matching black Kevlar tactical armor. Their red goggles were pulled down, automatic rifles hung at their chests, and every pocket of their tactical vests was stuffed with magazines.

No one spoke. There was only the roar of the rotors.

Marcus spoke up.

"I'm only saying this once."

Everyone's gaze focused on him.

"Primary objective: Rescue. There's a group of victims locked in the underground cells; they are witnesses and the people the Boss specifically ordered us to retrieve. Not a single hair on their heads is to be harmed."

He held up two fingers.

"Second: Clear. All armed personnel on the island—whether they're standing, lying down, or struggling—kill them all."

Someone raised a hand: "What about the zombies?"

"Zombies aren't considered armed personnel, but they aren't considered living either. Shoot on sight, don't waste time confirming."

Marcus tapped his index finger on the location of Epstein's villa on the tablet.

"Third: Recover all B.O.W. assets. Tyrants, Lickers, Hellhounds—take what can be taken, and destroy what can't on the spot. Leave no trace."

He stowed the tablet, his gaze sweeping across each team member's face.

"Any questions?"

Silence.

"Very well, move out!"

"Yes, Sir!"

As soon as the words left their mouths, the fuselage lurched downward.

The helicopters had already crossed the coastline, the jungle canopy racing past beneath them. Marcus looked down through the cabin door; in the moonlit forest clearings, a few corpses were scattered here and there—some were still moving, but not in a way that was right.

"LZ for Unit One confirmed, no biological threats detected," came the report from the lead scout chopper over the earpiece.

"Drop."

The three helicopters hovered in sequence over a clearing at the edge of the jungle. USS members filed out via fast-rope, their boots hitting the damp, soft grass. They instinctively crouched low, advancing into the jungle in three-man tactical fireteams.

Marcus was the first to slip past the tree line.

Through his night vision goggles, the jungle became a deep green labyrinth. The air was thick with an indescribable smell—blood, gunpowder, and a sickly sweet scent similar to rotting fruit.

A byproduct of the T-004 Virus.

Marcus was all too familiar with this smell. Samantha's lab smelled like this every single day.

He raised his left fist, and the team halted.

About eighty meters ahead, moving heat signatures appeared in his night vision.

At least six.

"Two o'clock, six targets, moving," Marcus whispered.

The sniper behind him had already set up his rifle: "I see them. Three... no, four are human. And two—"

He paused.

"Hellhounds."

Marcus narrowed his eyes.

In the night vision display, four guys in mercenary gear were running for their lives. One of them was limping, his left sleeve missing, his bare skin covered in bite marks. Behind them, two Hellhounds the size of small calves were in pursuit.

The two beasts were running at a leisurely pace, as if taking a stroll.

Marcus had seen this behavior before. Hellhounds were pack hunters; they weren't trailing slowly because they couldn't catch up, but because they were waiting for their prey to exhaust themselves.

But that wasn't his concern.

"All units take note, wait for the mercenaries to cross first—"

He didn't finish.

The four mercenaries had already burst out of the bushes, slamming directly into the USS line.

The moment the lead bald mercenary saw Marcus, his pupils contracted sharply. Without even hesitating, he raised his hand and fired a burst.

"Contact!"

Marcus rolled to the side. Bullets hit the palm trunk behind him, sending splinters flying.

The USS members dropped to the ground with practiced precision, but no one returned fire.

Because they didn't have to.

The two Hellhounds had finally waited long enough for their prey to stop. They lunged at the mercenaries from behind—the first one clamped its jaws onto the bald man's shoulder and, with a whip of its head, threw him and his gun three meters away. The second pounced on the other two, its fangs tearing through the gaps in their body armor.

Screams echoed through the jungle.

The last mercenary—the one with the injured arm—saw his companions being torn apart and fell back on his haunches, firing wildly at the Hellhounds. One Hellhound took several rounds to its flank and let out a furious roar.

"Marksman," Marcus said.

"Copy."

A muffled gunshot rang out.

The mercenary's head burst like a watermelon, and his body slumped backward.

From the first shot to the last, less than five seconds had passed.

The jungle fell silent once more.

Marcus stood up and brushed the dirt off his clothes. He glanced at the four mercenary corpses on the ground—two mauled by Hellhounds, one with a snapped neck, and one with a headshot from a sniper rifle.

Zero casualties.

The USS side hadn't even broken a sweat.

"Report: four enemy armed personnel neutralized," the comms officer reported over the earpiece.

Marcus didn't reply.

His attention was on the two Hellhounds.

The two beasts, which had just been as fierce as demons from hell, now came to a halt. They raised their heads, noses sniffing the air, and their crimson eyes turned toward Marcus.

Marcus crouched down, removed a glove, and reached out to pet the larger Hellhound's head. Its skin was as rough as sandpaper and felt rock-hard, but it actually half-closed those blood-red eyes, and a low vibration emanated from its throat.

Like a cat purring.

A Hellhound capable of tearing a man to shreds was purring under his hand.

"Good work," Marcus patted its neck and stood up.

He pressed the comms button on his earpiece.

"Boss, Alpha Squad has landed. First engagement: four armed targets eliminated, zero casualties on our side. Additionally, recovered two Hellhounds in the jungle; they are in good condition."

The comms were silent for two seconds.

Then Chen Feng's voice came through, sounding quite relaxed.

"Well done. Let them join your squad."

"Copy that."

Marcus put his glove back on. "Adjust formation: Hellhounds in the lead, three-man cells following. Objective—the villa's underground entrance."

"Sir!"

The two Hellhounds gave a low growl and were the first to dart into the depths of the jungle. Their movements were silent, every step precisely avoiding dry branches and fallen leaves.

They were more useful than any trained military dog.

Marcus led the team to follow, listening to reports from other squads over his earpiece as they moved. Bravo Squad had reached the eastern beach and was advancing toward the underground cells. Charlie Squad had circled to the north of the villa, preparing to block the mercenaries' last line of retreat.

Everything was proceeding according to plan.

As he was thinking, the Hellhounds at his feet suddenly stopped.

Both beasts lowered their bodies simultaneously, and a sound Marcus had never heard before came from their throats—not a roar, but more like some kind of warning.

Marcus raised his fist, and the team halted.

He looked in the direction the Hellhounds' noses were pointing.

About two hundred meters ahead, at the edge of the jungle, was an open lawn on the west side of the villa. Under the moonlight, Marcus saw a makeshift barricade made of overturned Jeeps, tables, and chairs.

Behind the barricade, at least fifteen figures were moving.

The metallic glint of gun barrels flashed in the night.

"Boss," Marcus pressed the comms button again, his voice very low. "Alpha Squad has discovered the last organized resistance. West lawn, approximately fifteen to twenty personnel, temporary defensive line established."