Badge of the Death Game

Chapter 038

Back in the car, Cody was the first to speak. "Those men in there," he said, his voice still carrying a residual edge. "They were serious operators."

"No question," Soren agreed. "Military background, most likely. Hard to say whether they're active or retired."

If they were retired, it was nothing to dwell on. But if they were still active duty — a team of foreign soldiers quietly sourcing weapons in Sunvale — then something significant was being set in motion somewhere, and it had nothing to do with them.

"Wait, those guys in the shop?" Evan asked, glancing between Soren and Cody with a look of mild confusion.

"Yes," Cody said. "The moment I walked in and saw them, it was like being in a room with three hungry wolves. I almost drew on them." He paused. "Good thing Soren said something when he did."

Howard nodded from the driver's seat. "I noticed too. When I saw your hand go for the g*n, I nearly had a heart attack."

Evan looked around at the three of them in silence, then stared out the window. It seemed like he might have been the only one in the room who hadn't picked up on any of it. He decided not to say that out loud.

"Either way," Soren said, "whatever they're here for, it's not us. Leave it alone. Let's get moving — call Mark and tell him to meet us at the entrance."

They left the city behind and drove out through a stretch of rough country road, the asphalt giving way to packed dirt that rattled the chassis until they reached the outer perimeter of an industrial zone. A cluster of low factory buildings sat behind a chain-link fence, weathered and quiet.

"This is the address," Evan said, squinting at his phone, then out the window. "But I don't see any sign."

Before anyone could respond, a burst of gunfire cracked through the air.

The sound hit like a switch being thrown. Howard's foot found the brake on pure reflex, bringing the car to a hard stop. Soren was already moving — dropping low, shouldering the door open, planting himself behind the engine block with the Glock 17 up in a two-handed grip, scanning the treeline. Cody came out the other side in the same motion, dropping into a half-crouch behind the rear quarter panel, eyes sweeping in the opposite direction.

Nothing. No movement. No second shot.

The silence that followed was the kind that asks questions.

Then Howard's phone buzzed.

He glanced at the screen and lowered his voice. "It's Mark."

"Answer it."

Howard picked up. From across the car, Soren could hear Mark's voice coming through clearly enough. "You guys here yet? I can't see you anywhere."

"We're at the outer fence," Howard said quietly. "Someone just fired. Soren and Cody are out of the vehicle."

"Fired? Oh — yeah, don't worry about that. The whole complex has been converted. Every building in there is some kind of range now. Someone's just running drills. Drive straight up the main road... actually, forget it, I'll come out to you."

The line went dead.

Howard relayed the explanation. Soren straightened up, swept the area one more time out of habit, then holstered the Glock and rolled his shoulders.

"Scared the life out of me," Evan muttered, one hand pressed flat against his sternum. "I genuinely thought Mark had sold us out."

A minute later, a small electric scooter appeared at the far end of the road, Mark rolling toward them at a leisurely pace, one hand raised in greeting. "Soren! Over here. Just follow me in."

The facility had once been a steel mill. After it shut down, the property changed hands several times before someone with the right connections and the right clientele saw what it could become. The conversion was thorough. The old factory floor had been gutted and rebuilt from the inside out, and what remained was a fully operational tactical training complex that had spent years serving the local police departments.

Mark walked them through it with the quiet pride of someone presenting a gift he was fairly sure would land well.

He pointed toward the far end of the grounds. "Track over there — four hundred meters, standard oval. There are heavy bags set up along the inside edge for striking work." He turned and gestured toward a partitioned structure running along one side. "That section behind the dividers is a basic indoor CQB training floor. No live rounds in there, though — that rule applies to everything except the main range." He led them further in. "Shooting range is behind the main building. No weapons or ammunition provided, but targets are included and they've got plenty of paper. Gym is indoors — fully equipped." He paused, then pointed toward a large skeletal structure assembled from scaffolding and plywood panels at the edge of the yard. "And that over there is a mock aircraft interior. Configured as a close-quarters target range."

Howard let out a low whistle. "Your friend built all this? He's charging you five hundred a day and you still think it's a deal?"

Mark grinned. "Five hundred was yesterday's price. I spent the evening buying the old man drinks and talking him down. Got it to four hundred. And the first three days are still free."

Howard pointed at him approvingly. "Respect."

Mark turned to Soren. "So? Does it work?"

"It works," Soren said, and meant it. He'd come in expecting a flat patch of ground and maybe some scrap timber to improvise with. This was something else entirely.

Twenty minutes later, they were gathered at the shooting range.

Soren stood facing the group, a handwritten training schedule held out in front of him — a single sheet, dense with notes, drawn up the night before.

"We don't have much time, so I'll keep this straightforward," he said. "Over the next two weeks, here's what we're doing and why."

He let them look at the sheet for a moment before continuing. "We still don't know the final shape of the operation. Half the plan depends on intelligence we haven't collected yet — whether we hit the Crownline Royal Hotel directly or intercept the cash transport on the road. I'll spend time after training wrapping up surveillance and filling in the gaps. That part isn't settled."

He folded the sheet and held it at his side. "What is settled is this: Mark, Cody, and I need to be able to operate as a coordinated unit. That takes repetition. It takes time. Two weeks is what we have, and we're going to use all of it." He looked across the group. "On top of that, everyone — and I mean everyone — runs two hours of physical and reaction training every single day."

No one objected, though Howard looked like he was doing quiet arithmetic in his head.

"Here's what you need to understand about how this ends," Soren said. "When the operation goes, it goes fast. The entire window might be under ten minutes. But those ten minutes will be the most dangerous ten minutes any of you have ever been through. One mistake — one person out of position, one wrong call, one moment of hesitation — and it doesn't just cost that person. It costs everyone." He paused, letting that settle. "So I need all of you fully committed. No exceptions."

Howard started clapping. The others joined in, and for a moment the range echoed with it.

Soren raised a hand and the applause died down. He turned to Evan. "Go grab the bags from the car. We start with weapons familiarization."

"Two-handed grip whenever possible — not too tight, not too loose. Support hand wraps the firing hand. On the trigger pull, press back and slightly downward. Sight alignment — rear notch, front post, target, all in one line..."

The range cracked and echoed through the morning.

"In CQB, the team moves as one organism. Hand signals are your primary language — learn them, use them, trust them. Muzzle discipline is absolute. The barrel never crosses a teammate, not for a single second. Clear every room completely. There is no corner that doesn't need checking..."

By midday they had moved to the CQB floor.

"Close-quarters fighting has one objective: end it immediately. g*n if you can. Blade if you can't. If neither is available, a chunk of concrete beats empty hands. And if the math doesn't work in your favor, you leave. There's no shame in running when running is the right call..."

By afternoon, Soren had moved on to surveillance and counter-surveillance.

"Tracking is about invisibility. Layer your clothing so you can change your profile quickly. A newspaper, a pair of glasses, even a takeout container — anything that gives you a reason to be standing somewhere. Counter-surveillance comes down to pattern recognition: if the same vehicle or the same face appears in your line of sight more than three times, assume you've been made..."

Evening brought communications drills.

"Once the operation starts, the wireless earpiece is your lifeline. Every transmission begins with your identifier — no exceptions. Keep it tight, keep it clear. If you're talking, say who you are first..."

Wake up. Train. Eat. Train. Sleep.

The days compressed into a rhythm, each one folding into the next with the particular momentum that comes when people are working toward something real. Soreness faded into conditioning. Hesitation faded into habit.

Two weeks passed.