The helicopter touched down half an hour after it left.
Rorke jumped down, Alvarez and Gil flanking him.
"Looks like somebody's been here before us..." mused Rorke, as he inspected the massacred guards surrounding the dull concrete rectangle that composed the launch facility; most of it was under ground. The vast expanse of desert stretched far into the distance.
A guard leaving a trail of blood behind him edged himself along the ground. Rorke grasped him by his collar, and hefted him up.
"You better start talking, son. The hell happened here?"
"Ghosts. Betrayed us. We got, like, two of 'em, but they fucking decimated us."
"Ghosts, eh?" said Rorke, nonchalantly placing a bullet into his cranium. "Let's take this place and bomb America to bits."
Vargas stopped. "What? We're gonna kill them?"
"Yeah, we're gonna kill 'em. Wipe the bastards down to nothing," said Rorke, and only after he said it did he realize the true connotations of Vargas's words. "You got a problem with that?"
"Yeah, actually, I do."
Rorke strode forward and jammed his pistol into his chin.
"Listen to me, Vargas. We're gonna wipe these bastards out, once and for all. You got a problem with that?"
"Hey, hey, hey, stop!" shouted Alvarez, Mendoza echoing his cries.
Gil, Ruzmen, Olivares, Blanco and Munoz raised their weapons. "Get away from him!" screamed Munoz.
Alvarez, Benitez, Mendoza and Torres raised their own weapons. "You fucking Nazis!" shouted Mendoza as she knelt beneath a concrete barrier.
Rorke said, "Look, y'all are gonna want to put those down or Vargas here will be lacking his brainpan."
Vargas kneed Rorke in the balls, Rorke fired, and everything went to hell.
Rorke was quick, much quicker than Alvarez thought possible. Before Vargas's lifeless body hit the sand, he sprinted for the facility's main entrance; he grabbed Munoz and Gil as he did so, and three of them were gone.
More bullets whizzed as Torres stuck his head out of cover and jammed the trigger down on his LMG; he nicked Olivares in the stomach and he convulsed backwards, clutching his belly. A second shot tore off Guzman's arm before a stray bullet from Blanco hit him directly in the heart. He was killed instantly, but his hand still rested on the trigger, and let of several stray bullets before he finally keeled over and his head collapsed into the sand.
Guzman was dead and Olivares was screaming and Blanco was more scared than he had ever been in his entire life.
"Please don't fucking shoot! John! Emma! Stop!" he screamed. Tears rolled down his cheeks.
"Hands in the air!" demanded Alvarez. Still sniffling, Blanco rose, his gun leaving a crater in the sand.
Olivares' screams was replaced with whimpering as Benitez ran to him. It was silent by the time he took out his medkit.
Alvarez grabbed Blanco by the collar and threw him to Torres's corpse.
"You caused that, you little shit!"
"Leave him alone, John!" screamed Mendoza. "Leave him alone."
Benitez shouted, "Shouldn't we be going after Rorke? He's gonna fucking bomb us!"
The whirring of a helicopter caused them all to look up.