Darkness. Completely fucking black. He yearns to flick his torch on; illuminate the dark like water gushing into a sinking ship, but he's terrified. Something pulls and twists at his guts; a tense feeling that someone's watching him, or at least, watching the darkness - poised to shoot at the slightest hint of movement. So instead, he creeps blindly- squinting through steamy goggles.
Stretching an arm out, he feels boxes; cardboard, stacked together messily. His eyes are adjusting, but there's very little to see. Either he's in a tight corridor, or there are some big-ass crates to his right. Looking up, he sees nothing; just a void that makes his feet sink and his head dizzy. Eyes strain and a hint of metal can be seen. Feet kick against discarded packaging, like wading through a swamp of cardboard and Clingfilm.
A corner. Back straightened, against the wall, M4 pointing at the ground, head sideways. Get ready… breathe. Very. Slowly.
Peek.
One eye slips around- a single glass monocle. Can't. See. Shit. He brings his head back; like resurfacing from water, taking a deep breath. Feeling behind; yes, he brought them, the nighvision goggles in his back pouch. Raising both arms, he feels the gasmask straps on the back of his head; undoes one, it snaps free, the mask jerking forwards. Next one comes loose, his other hand lowering the mask from his face.
He exhales pleasurably; now he can breathe on his own again. Dropping the mask to the ground (that was stupid; luckily didn't make much noise), he brings both hands up to feel his face. Cold gloves touch warm, sticky, sweaty skin. Freedom, though not for long. The goggles are pulled up, the familiar feel of a rubber strap against hair, the elasticised snap he's used to when the goggles rush to meet your eyes. Everything is green. Same man, different mask.
He tries again, this time feeling cold air against his cheeks as he darts round. He sees more crates, wrapped in Clingfilm, a strange green highlight through the goggle's filters. There's a walkway that circles the warehouse walls; a few men lining it. Quick button press, and he's zoomed in on one. They're armed- AK47 rifles, few grenades, too. All wearing balaclavas. Must be five, maybe six, scattered around. Seems like there's an office on one of the walkways, overlooking the rest of the site.
The hostages must be there.
A sudden crackle; it's the radio coming to life. He instantly falls back, crouches down; hands covering the device, muffling the sound. There's fucking terrorists here- why didn't he turn his radio off?
Com—n, Tna, what----situation----oming in! –ver
He squeezes the damn thing, leaning over to it, hissing through gritted teeth to stay the fuck out. But it's too late. He looks back- through the green haze of nightvision he sees a strip of light appear, and a green silhouette of an SAS member rushing forward, through the doorway. Cursing, he puts out one hand, signalling to stay the fuck away, but it's too late.
They've heard.