Chapter 177

The heavy scent of blood mixed with soil, sweat, and smoke, clinging to the air and filling their lungs with every inhalation. But his boss was injured. Multiple bullets had grazed his skin, tearing through muscle and cloth, and blood was slowly oozing out of the wounds, dripping onto the earth, soaking the ground in dark patches. Yet he was unstoppable.

“Yes, sir,” Abdullah rushed toward him, moving with careful, measured urgency, scanning every corner and shadow as if the night itself held traps. His grip tightened around his weapon, knuckles white, every muscle tensed in anticipation. His breathing was uneven, not from fear alone but from the immense weight of responsibility pressing down on him, each step a reminder of how much depended on their survival.

“How many men do we have?” Moosa asked, voice low and urgent.

“Only six, sir. Ten have been killed. Out of those six, one is there to keep watch on Ms. Roshanay,” Abdullah replied quickly, his tone sharp, prec