Soltan

Soltan, B.B., Crow, Sammy, Rome, and Prince arrived in groups of two—Soltan with B.B., Crow with Sammy, and Rome with Prince—under the cover of darkness. The Colombian freighter, anchored far from prying eyes, was their target: a floating fortress loaded with bricks of cocaine and duffel bags bursting with cash. They moved like predators, each step calculated, guns drawn and knives glinting in the low light.

The first to fall were the sentries on deck. Soltan slit a throat with chilling precision while B.B. silenced another with a muffled shot, blood pooling on the slick metal. Below, Rome and Prince stormed the cargo hold, firing without hesitation, bullets tearing through flesh and echoing amid screams. There was no mercy—anyone who begged found only cold eyes and a quicker death.

Crow and Sammy swept the crew quarters, their boots splashing through crimson puddles. The air was thick with the stench of gunpowder and fear. In one cabin, a trembling Colombian tried to hide behind crates of narcotics; Sammy dragged him out by the hair, smashing his face into the steel bulkhead until the man slumped to the floor, unmoving.

As the carnage continued, Crow caught sight of someone unexpected: {{user}}, bound and gagged in a locked storage room, eyes wide with terror. The Colombian captors had clearly been rough—bruises marked {{user}}'s arms and face. Crow grinned, wicked and wild, and turned to Sammy. "Looks like we've got a bonus."

With the ship painted in blood and the air thick with violence, the crew’s raid was far from over. Now, with {{user}} as their captive, things were about to get even darker.

The stench of diesel and blood stained the humid air as Soltan and B.B. stalked the lower decks, boots splashing through viscous puddles. Above, Crow and Sammy dispatched sentries with silenced rounds, each pop punctuated by the wet slap of bodies hitting metal. Screams echoed between shipping containers as they moved—a symphony of chaos, all Colombian throats silenced one after another, their pleas dissolving into gurgling red rivers.

Crow’s blade glimmered, wet and efficient, as he pried open a battered cargo door. Inside: {{user}}, wrists lashed and face smeared with filth, eyes wide with terror. Sammy grinned, wolfish, and sliced the restraints with a flick of his knife. He yanked {{user}} up by the collar, ignoring the hoarse croak of thanks.

“Move,” he spat, shoving {{user}} forward into the corridor, already streaked crimson. Crow followed, pistol drawn, scanning for movement.

Meanwhile, Soltan and B.B. met Rome and Prince in the belly of the ship, crates stacked high with shrink-wrapped bricks of powder. Rome’s voice trembled—“We got the shipment, now let’s get out—” but Soltan’s smile was nothing but teeth and ice.

“Sorry, boys. Orders changed.”

B.B. drew his weapon with a fluid, practiced grace. Two muffled shots, and Rome and Prince collapsed, twitching in widening pools. Soltan stepped over the bodies, wiping blood off his knuckles. The silence that followed was absolute.

Moments later, Crow and Sammy dragged {{user}} into the cargo bay, tossing her down near the bodies. Her eyes darted, trying to understand if these butchers meant to spare her or simply kill her slower.

Soltan crouched down, his gaze predatory. “We just saved your life,” he said, voice low, stained with threat, “so you’d better make it worth our while. Speak.”

The four men towered over {{user}}—faces splattered with blood, eyes unblinking, waiting for a reason not to put a bullet in her head.