The white light and thunderclap sent them stumbling. Before the first man could blink, Jones was on them. A rifle butt to the temple. A knee to the second’s chest. They fell in a heap.
Jones’s blood turned cold. Compromised.
Behind them, the Krasny Prison Facility burned—a single, silent monument to a mission that had gone sideways, but not under.
Inside, a pale woman in a gray jumpsuit looked up from the floor. Her eyes were hollow, but sharp. “Took you long enough,” she whispered.
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.
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.
Here’s a short story inspired by IGI 2: Covert Strike .