Squad 0070: The Spiked Knights (Part Two)

On the double-decker bus, half of the attackers began to change out their emptied magazines. Although the hail of bullets flying from the bus had lessened, their deadly impact had not diminished in the slightest; if anything, the threat only grew more acute. Two members of Team 4 attempted a counterattack, but as soon as they rose and fired, shattering one of the bus windows, they were each picked off by precise, controlled bursts and toppled to the ground.

Soon enough, the attackers who had reloaded resumed their relentless suppressive fire, providing cover for their comrades who had just finished their own sharpshooting to reload in turn. In this manner—simple yet ruthlessly efficient—the assailants aboard the double-decker maintained their uninterrupted barrage.

A barrage of gunfire battered the rear armored window of the minister’s car, and with a resounding crash, it finally shattered. Seizing this rare opportunity, the chief bodyguard thrust his pistol through the broken glass and fired several shots in rapid succession, shattering a lower window and striking the body of the bus, even managing to hit one of the attackers by chance.

Sensing hope at last, the minister’s security detail found their courage. More than a dozen pistols unleashed a wild fusillade at the hulking double-decker, actually managing for a brief moment to suppress the attackers.

As his magazine ran dry, the chief bodyguard quickly withdrew to reload, shouting to one of his men, “Get the minister out of here—staying here is a death sentence!”

“Understood!” A short, agile bodyguard slid into the front passenger seat, nimbly crawling behind the wheel. While the chief was risking his life, firing at the bus and pushing the terrified, cowering minister into the car, his eyes caught a scene of utter despair: fifty-six round grenades tumbled from the upper deck of the bus, rolling under several vehicles of the minister’s convoy.

“Damn it!” The chief bodyguard was about to drag the half-seated minister out of the car when one of the grenades clattered directly to his own feet.

With no other choice, the chief let out a fierce cry, gave the minister a final shove into the car, and threw himself resolutely atop the grenade.

A muffled blast rocked the scene. The minister’s armored car was lifted half a foot by the shockwave, nearly flipping over, while the chief bodyguard’s massive frame was blown apart at the waist, great gouts of blood and flesh splattering across the minister’s vehicle. Two other bodyguards sheltering behind the car were hurled violently aside by the explosion, slamming to the ground—whether alive or dead, it was impossible to tell.

In the blink of an eye, three or four vehicles in the convoy exploded in succession, killing or maiming over half the security team sheltering behind them.

Cries and screams filled the air—wails from the wounded, desperate shouts for companions, the agonized moans of the dying.

As the smoke and fire from the grenades began to clear, the double-decker bus opened up again, mercilessly mowing down any exposed security personnel. Even those crawling wounded, struggling to move, were cut down without hesitation.

At the entrance of the building, two police officers sheltering behind pillars wanted to help, but they were pinned down by concentrated fire, unable to move or return fire.

“What do we do, Captain?” the officer behind the left pillar shouted helplessly.

“Cover me, I’m going to help!” the captain, behind the right pillar, gritted his teeth and leaned out—only to be instantly shot through the head by a marksman who had been patiently waiting for just such an opening.

“Captain! Captain!” the remaining officer called desperately, but dared not show his face again, his every instinct warning of the sniper’s presence.

The wail of sirens signaled the arrival of two police cars from other intersections. They pulled up, boxing in the bus from two sides, and at a distance of 560 meters, several uniformed officers disembarked and opened fire. Instantly, the bald, burly man at the wheel of the bus adjusted his tactics via radio, directing the upper-deck attackers to shift to the front and rear positions.

A fresh hail of bullets answered the police, ripping through thin doors and tires, striking down the officers one by one. An explosion—whether from a hit to a gas tank or for some other reason—blew the hood off one of the police cars blocking the bus, sending a sheet of metal marked “POLICE” spinning forty-five meters into a shop window. An officer crouched beside the engine was left rolling, his face burned, screaming in agony.

Witnessing this carnage, the surviving members of the minister’s security team were plunged into despair. Outgunned and outnumbered, it seemed they had no hope of survival.

At that critical moment, the screech of tires heralded the arrival of the Flying Tigers, Hong Kong’s elite tactical unit, in a black van. As panic-stricken bystanders scattered, the doors flew open and a dozen heavily armed commandos fanned out, encircling the side of the bus facing away from the Justice Ministry building.

Yet, as the Flying Tigers’ commander surveyed the situation through his scope, he hesitated, issuing no order to attack.

“Are you paralyzed with fear? Attack, damn it! My brothers are still trapped!” a uniformed officer, his shoulder drenched in blood, rushed over and seized the commander by the collar, yelling in anguish.

“The entire lower deck facing us is packed with hostages. There isn’t a single opening for a sniper. I can’t give the order to attack under these circumstances,” the Flying Tigers’ commander replied, his eyes filled with frustration.

“If you don’t, my men—my brothers—will all die!” the officer raged on.

“Calm down! We’re police officers!” the commander shouted back. His team restrained the distraught officer, and then the commander spoke urgently into his radio: “Headquarters, this is Flying Tigers. The suspects attacking the Saudi minister appear to be professional mercenaries. We need aerial support and more manpower.”

“Roger. Helicopter is en route, ETA fifteen minutes by road for backup teams. Reinforcements are mobilizing,” came the immediate reply.

“We also need hostage negotiation support. There are at least twenty hostages in their control.”

“Understood. Negotiators will arrive with the reinforcing teams.”

Setting down the radio, the commander could only watch as the double-decker bus continued its devastation of the minister’s convoy. By the look of things, the current forces would never hold out until reinforcements arrived.

At that moment of helplessness, the short bodyguard—stunned by the explosion—gradually regained consciousness. Taking in the scene with a quick glance, he realized they couldn’t stay another second.

“Minister, keep your head down—don’t look up. I’m getting you out!” he called, stealing a glance into the back seat. The minister, blood seeping from his ears and the corners of his eyes, barely managed to open his eyes before lapsing back into near-unconsciousness.

Regardless of the minister’s fate, the bodyguard’s duty was to get his charge out of danger. He started the car and floored the accelerator, sending the heavy armored vehicle lurching forward.

“Damn, a car’s making a break for it! Nine o’clock!” The bald driver of the bus spotted the escape and shouted, starting the bus and swinging it toward the minister’s car, hoping to pin it against the Justice Ministry entrance. The attackers at every window turned their guns on the fleeing vehicle, unleashing a torrent of bullets.

But Saudi Arabia, one of the world’s wealthiest nations, had procured only the best for its officials. The armored car withstood the hail of bullets, and even the earlier grenade blasts had done little real damage.

“Die!” the short bodyguard screamed, yanking the wheel and ramming the bus’s right front tire with a crash.

This collision brought them dangerously close to the double-decker, and bullets rained down even more thickly from both decks. If not for the proximity—making hand grenade use risky for the attackers themselves—another volley might have been thrown.

The drumbeat of impacts on the car’s roof blended into a single, drawn-out roar, bullets sparking off in showers, but not a single shot penetrated to harm the two inside. The bodyguard twisted the wheel again, scraping alongside the bus and surging desperately ahead.

The bald driver tried to pursue, slamming the accelerator, but at that crucial moment the bus stalled, the engine sputtering and failing to start. And thus, miraculously, the doomed minister escaped.