Inside the warehouse, gunfire is deafening. Hundreds of high pitched bangs so fast they overlap, a war zone of noise that scars your ears- leaving them ringing. He's pressed against something sturdy, breathing hard, chest pushing out against tight straps when he pants. It's stopped. The silence is almost as bad as the gunfire to his defeated ears. At least they're safe. The warehouse wall is opposite; now with some thin beams of light leaking through the new bullet holes. Looks otherworldly, like some strange alien dream, through the green filter of the nightvision goggles. Looking behind; a huge, corrugated storage crate. The other four of his squad leaning against it too; crouching, tense.
This isn't going so well.
He hears shouting. They need to act, and fast. Casually flashing a hand signal to his squad, he slides a flashbang from his pouch, pulls the pin, lobs it round the corner. Closes his eyes. Waits.
As he hears the thunderous bang, he's already on his feet. He dashes into the open, into the firing range, while the wailing of a thousand cats rips through his head. Legs beat against the hard ground, straining to run as fast as possible. Where to? Forward. Don't stop. Don't think. Don't you dare look around. The M4 rifle rubs his arms, it's heavy and awkward, but he pushes on. Stairs. Head for the stairs. The stabbing pain in your muscles will disappear if you can just make it that little bit more…
Throwing himself to the ground, he can hear again, and there's more gunfire. Whether it's just started, or he was running through it and didn't notice, he doesn't know. Looking back into the warehouse, he sees a canvas of smeared green, in different shades and contrasts. He rips off the nightvision goggles, throwing them to the ground and looks again. His squad have engaged, the stupid bastards. Over the faint rustling of the radio, he hears their taunts, orders, screams; watches through stinging eyes as they die. Two down. Three down. Gunfire shreds through boxes, sending scraps of card into the air like confetti. Blood. All gone.
Shit. He can't move, frozen in fear. They're dead; all of them. He can see the bodies strewn across the floor, lying in their own blood, sharing the space with the storage boxes. Did he do that? Was his recklessness somewhat inspirational to them? He knows what he's been told to think; work as a team, be like one, move together. So probably yes. And now he's alone.
Calling for help crossed his mind. Screaming into that little black box, pleading for backup, for his mummy. But he's had a far more illogical revelation. They think he's dead. In the confusion that followed after he threw the flashbang and blinded any fools who were looking, he ran onwards, unnoticed, before those bastards slaughtered his team. That must be the case; or they'd be looking for him.
Four hostages, somewhere in this huge building. Six or more heavily armed terrorists. Himself, with the advantage. Impossible, crazy, Daunting. He could fail. Worse, he could die. He doesn't want to die.
Shaking his head, he pushes it away. He pushes it all away. Represses everything. Stops thinking, except of the moment. This moment. His moment. Staggering to his feet at the foot of the stairs, he grasps his M4, swallows, and begins to climb. No need for the goggles. He'll merge with the darkness, use it as a weapon, as an ally. He's a member of the SAS now, and forever. Nothing else matters.