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 scenic route,” Jones replied, handing her a pistol. “Can you walk?”
“I can run.”
Here’s a short story inspired by IGI 2: Covert Strike . He’d already disabled two patrols with a tranquilizer
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.
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.
They reached the rendezvous roof just as the alarm finally blared—someone had found the first body. Searchlights cut the rain into white knives. A twin-rotor helicopter was supposed to be waiting, but the pad was empty. Jones didn’t think
Jones’s blood turned cold. Compromised.
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 main gate was suicide. Too many cameras, too many heavy-caliber nests. Instead, Jones went vertical. He scaled the drainage conduit with his fingertips, pulling himself up hand over hand until he reached a ventilation shaft. The metal groaned, but the rain swallowed the noise. The guard crumpled into the mud without a sound
Jones allowed himself the faintest smile. “Still alive. That’s the only score that counts.”
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.
Behind them, the Krasny Prison Facility burned—a single, silent monument to a mission that had gone sideways, but not under.
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.