A lone soldier dropped from the helicopter as it immediately took off, disappearing into the sky. Folley moved to greet him.
"Folley?" the soldier asked, sounding unsure.
"Yeah, and you must be Chris," Folley replied, his tone cool.
The man nodded. "Yes, Christopher Stone."
"Nice to meet you, Folley. You're a legend," Chris said, offering a small grin.
Folley didn't respond, instead pulling out a cigarette. He lit it, taking a slow drag.
Chris glanced around. "What's the situation? I didn’t get much from the briefing, only that it’s a rescue mission."
Folley exhaled smoke and gave him a quick recap. "We need to find the P.O.W. camp. They’re being held in some remote location. Keep your eyes open. The enemy’s out there."
Chris glanced at the distant buildings. "What’s with those buildings?"
Folley didn’t answer right away. He pointed instead to the folder in his hand, which contained the mission objectives. His eyes scanned the area for any signs of the enemy. Finally, he gave a decisive nod.
"Alright, Chris, I don’t know how good you are, but we don’t have time for small talk. All you need to do is point and shoot. Follow my lead, and you’ll be fine."
Chris was a street-hardened soldier, forged in the chaos of previous conflicts. His training had come from the streets, and his weapons expertise was sharp. He wasn't going to let Folley down.
"Let’s move out," Folley ordered.
They circled around the fence and retraced their steps, heading back to the entrance where they'd first arrived. Folley kept his eyes trained on the ground, searching for footprints or tire marks.
Chris raised an eyebrow. "You a tracker too?"
"It comes with the job," Folley replied, his voice calm as he continued scanning their surroundings. "Let’s keep moving. We’ve got a lot of ground to cover."
They moved along the clay-beaten path, following the tire tracks. After a while, they arrived at a small village, mostly made up of simple huts.
Folley turned to Chris. "Do you speak the local language?"
Chris shook his head. "Nope, don’t speak a word."
Folley sighed. They didn’t have time to explain their mission or negotiate with the villagers. Their only option was to steal a vehicle. But as they approached the village, an old man noticed them and called out in a language they didn’t understand.
Folley ignored him, scanning their surroundings. Chris, though, stepped forward, trying to communicate. His attempt to speak in broken English sounded awkward, but he managed, "Do you speak English?"
The man paused, then responded, "What do you want?"
Chris’s face lit up. "Good, you speak English."
The man motioned for them to follow him. "Come inside, quickly," he said. He led them to his house, where his wife soon brought them tea.
After a few minutes of quiet conversation, the man nodded. "I’ll help you. It’s about time someone does something about this situation."
Once their tea was finished, they thanked the man, who handed them the keys to an old, rusty truck. He also marked the location of the P.O.W. camp on their map.
"Good luck," the man said as they left.
Without wasting any time, they drove off. A few miles later, they arrived at their destination.
As they approached the camp, Folley made last-second adjustments. He switched to his SMG, while Chris did the same. They couldn’t afford to waste time. They quickly took out the two guards at the front door and entered the building.
Inside, they dispatched another guard. Hugging the walls, they moved toward the cells.
Bradley’s voice suddenly echoed from the shadows. "Hey, over here!" he called, and when Folley reached him, Bradley asked, "Get the keys?"
Folley nodded. They moved deeper into the building.
To their left, they found Connors being interrogated. He was tied to a chair, bloodied and battered, but he was still defiant, laughing in the face of his captors. The guards, frustrated, muttered something in their language, but even without understanding, it was clear they couldn’t break Connors.
Folley quickly switched to his sniper rifle, taking out one of the guards with a single shot. Connors, still tied to the chair, saw them and, with surprising strength, slammed the chair against the ground, breaking it to pieces.
The other guard froze, paralyzed by fear. Connors broke free, grabbing a nearby SCAR assault rifle that Chris threw to him. Despite the weapon, Connors chose to use his bare hands to punish the guard, beating him relentlessly. Then, he spat on him.
"Fuck you, punk," Connors muttered, his voice cold.
Chris grabbed the keys from the fallen guard and opened the door to the security office, where they found the keys to the cells. They freed Bradley.
Folley checked Bradley’s face. A silent question hung in the air. Bradley finally spoke, his voice grave. "Jones didn’t make it."
Connors just looked away, his expression unreadable.
Bradley nodded. "Let’s get out of here."
They made their way back to the truck, taking a tense ride back to the village. The old couple had set up a place for them to rest and tended to their wounds.
Chris communicated with HQ, explaining the situation. They told him they’d drop a box of fresh gear and supplies at their coordinates, but only if they were willing to continue the mission.
Connors, still grim, agreed. "I’ll take charge from now on."
Bradley didn’t argue. If Connors was ready, then that was what mattered.
HQ confirmed. "Understood. Connors will be in charge from now on."
And now, once again, they were in the waiting game.
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Conflict: Freedom Fighters
ActionYears after the vietnam War, Bradley, Folley, Connors, and Jones get called up again for their skills against enemy forces. A secret anarchy terrorist group planning to cause chaos.