Crybaby - Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-One of the blockbuster new novel, Crybaby by best selling, multi-award-winning author Mark Watson...
This week’s chapter is sponsored by the Writers of the Future Bundle by Galaxy Press…
Special offer - 70% discount!
The Writers of the Future judges and winners have bundled 14 amazing novels and short stories into a limited-time eBook bundle.
Prepare to escape with some of your favorite authors!
Grab YOUR BUNDLE HERE: www.arcmanorbooks.com/bundle
CRYBABY
©Copyright 2024 by Mark Watson
CHAPTER 21
PEST CONTROL
The bandits were a pitiful sight as they trudged toward their fort hideout, their numbers whittled down to a mere ten. Their retreat was chaotic; weapons had been discarded haphazardly along the road in their panicked flight, leaving them practically defenseless. Those still able to walk bore the weight of their wounded comrades, staggering up the concealed forest path with labored breaths. The humid air clung to their skin, and sweat dripped down their faces, mingling with the grime of battle.
“Rahul killed Rajan,” they murmured in hushed, shaken voices. “I saw it myself. He stepped out of the forest like a ghost and shot him in the head—just as Rajan was about to take out the ranger.”
The words passed among them like a curse, each whisper tinged with disbelief and fear. It wasn’t just the loss of Rajan, that unnerved them, but the precision and cold finality of his death and their betrayal by their leader, Rahul.
“Quiet!” barked Kanan, his voice cutting through their anxious chatter. He had taken charge by default, his unscathed body and steadfast grip on his weapon setting him apart from the others, who were either bleeding or too shaken to function. His sharp tone silenced the group, though their haunted expressions remained.
By the time they stumbled back to the fort, the last light of day had faded, casting the crumbling stronghold into deep shadows. The group, reduced to six after losing four gravely injured comrades along the arduous trek, entered in a disorganized clatter of exhausted bodies and hollow footsteps. Their dead had been left behind on the jungle trail—there had been no other choice.
Inside the main chamber, a damp, musty space illuminated only by a faint flicker from a dying lantern, the injured were carefully lowered onto the cold, uneven floor. Their groans echoed in the oppressive silence, each sound a testament to the pain and despair gripping the battered remnants of the gang.
The surviving bandits collapsed against the fortress’s stone walls, the chill of the moss-covered surface seeping into their sweat-soaked clothes. No one spoke. They sat in the dark, their breaths ragged and uneven, staring at nothing as the weight of their losses pressed down on them like the suffocating jungle canopy they had just escaped.
A sudden, chilling premonition gripped Kanan. His breath caught, and his heart hammered in his chest as an unshakable sense of doom washed over him. Without a word, he sprang to his feet and strode quickly to the fort's entrance, his pulse thundering in his ears.
Peering out into the dim, encroaching night, his eyes scanned the winding path leading up through the dense forest below. At first, the undergrowth seemed still, but then he saw them—dark shapes shifting among the shadows. His blood ran cold as he discerned the unmistakable glint of weapons in the faint moonlight. Armed men were advancing, their movements deliberate and silent, blending with the shadowed foliage as they crept closer to the stronghold. These weren’t the local police—Kanan knew that immediately. The distinct uniforms and reinforced body armor marked them as the dreaded Special Task Force, a force known for their precision and ruthlessness.
“Shit,” Kanan hissed under his breath, the word laced with panic. He spun around and sprinted into the main chamber, his voice rising above the groans of the injured and the anxious murmurs of the remaining bandits. “It’s the STF! Get up—we have to fight!”
Without waiting for a response, he grabbed his AK-47, checking the magazine with practiced hands before rushing back to the doorway. Bracing himself against the crumbling stone frame, he leaned out and unleashed a furious spray of bullets into the darkened forest below. The muzzle flashes lit up the night, briefly illuminating the trees and shadows.
The STF operatives responded immediately. Shouts and barked commands echoed up the hill as the armed men abandoned stealth and surged forward, their boots crunching against the forest floor. The once-silent approach erupted into a cacophony of disciplined chaos as they advanced, their movements swift and calculated.
Behind Kanan, the remaining bandits scrambled to prepare, clutching their weapons with trembling hands. They huddled together, their arsenal pitiful in comparison—rusty pistols, a scattering of knives, and little else. Their eyes darted nervously to Kanan, hoping for leadership, but their fear was palpable. The odds had turned, and they all knew it.
The STF advanced with a relentless efficiency, their movements methodical and precise. Kanan fired another burst from his AK-47, aiming blindly into the shadows where he’d last seen movement. His gunfire was met with a sharp return of suppressed rounds, each shot deliberate, tearing into the stone walls and ricocheting into the dimly lit chamber behind him.
“Hold them off!” Kanan shouted over his shoulder, but the desperation in his voice betrayed his own lack of confidence.
The remaining bandits hesitated, their trembling hands clutching pistols that seemed pitiful against the STF’s assault rifles. One of them fired sporadically, the shots ringing out like hollow defiance. Moments later, a volley of return fire from the STF silenced him, his body collapsing in a heap by the chamber wall.
Another bandit tried to make a break for the forest, darting through the doorway in a frantic bid for freedom. He didn’t make it more than a few steps before a sniper’s bullet dropped him where he stood. The rest froze, paralyzed by fear as the STF drew closer.
Kanan cursed under his breath, sweat pouring down his face as the gravity of the situation settled over him. “Fall back!” he barked, retreating into the depths of the fort. The remaining few followed, their morale shattered, but the STF was relentless.
One by one, the bandits were picked off in the cramped hallways of the fort. Gunshots echoed through the stone corridors, mingling with the shouts of the STF operatives and the dying cries of Kanan’s men. Blood pooled on the cold floor as the last of them fell, their resistance crushed like brittle leaves underfoot.
Kanan ran deeper into the fort, the AK-47 clutched tightly in his hands. He reached the innermost chamber, his chest heaving as he slammed the heavy wooden door shut and bolted it. The room was dimly lit by the flickering flame of a single lantern, casting long shadows on the walls. He looked around frantically, searching for an escape, but there was none.
The STF reached the door moments later. Kanan could hear their boots stomping against the stone floor and the metallic clang of breaching tools being prepared. He backed away, his hands trembling, his mind racing.
The door splintered under the force of a battering ram, and the STF operatives poured in, their weapons trained on him. Kanan dropped his rifle immediately, raising his hands in surrender. “Wait! Wait!” he stammered, his voice cracking. “I give up! Don’t shoot!”
The operatives parted, and their leader stepped forward. His face was obscured by a tactical helmet, but his presence exuded authority and cold determination. He regarded Kanan with contempt, his rifle lowered but ready.
“I surrender,” Kanan repeated, his voice shaking. “You don’t have to do this. I’m unarmed.”
The STF leader didn’t speak. He raised his rifle slowly, the barrel leveling with Kanan’s chest.
“Please—” Kanan began, but the word was cut off by a single, deafening shot.
Kanan staggered, his eyes wide with shock as blood blossomed on his shirt. He crumpled to the ground, his body hitting the cold stone floor with a hollow thud. The STF leader stood over him for a moment, ensuring there was no life left in him, before lowering his weapon and signaling to his team.
“Clear the fort,” the leader ordered, his voice calm and devoid of emotion. The operatives moved swiftly, leaving Kanan’s lifeless body in the dark chamber as they began their sweep of the ruins.
The fort was silent now, save for the distant rustle of leaves outside. The once-feared bandit stronghold had been reduced to a blood-soaked graveyard, its occupants wiped out with ruthless precision. The STF left as efficiently as they had arrived, their mission complete, leaving only death and silence in their wake.
The STF leader surveyed the blood-streaked chambers of the fort, his sharp eyes taking in the ruined hideout. Smoke from spent gunpowder lingered in the air, mingling with the metallic tang of blood. The job was done—thoroughly, efficiently, and without hesitation. His men moved with practiced precision, confirming there were no survivors among the bandits, while others gathered any items of interest left in the stronghold.
He allowed himself a rare, satisfied smile, though it was hidden beneath the shadow of his helmet. No one escaped the STF’s net, and no one outmaneuvered him. Kanan’s demise was inevitable from the moment the team was deployed.
As the team secured their gear and prepared to depart, the leader’s thoughts drifted to the reward waiting for him. It was more than just a sense of duty that had driven him to execute this operation with such ruthless precision. Safely locked away in the vault back at his home were the spoils of this particular deal: two gleaming gold bars, payment from Rahul.
Rahul had been specific—eliminate the bandits, ensure Kanan never saw another dawn, and make it look like justice had been served. The gold bars had exchanged hands before the STF had even left their base, slipping into the leader’s possession with the understanding that discretion would be maintained. It wasn’t the first time the leader had dealt with such arrangements, and it wouldn’t be the last.
The thought of the gold brought a faint warmth to his otherwise icy demeanor. The weight of it, the feel of its cold metal in his hands, was a stark reminder that loyalty was a commodity, and in his line of work, everything had a price.
He strode toward the ruined entrance of the fort, his boots crunching over shards of wood and broken stone. Behind him, his team fell into formation, their presence as silent and disciplined as shadows. Outside, the night had deepened, the jungle now a tapestry of darkness and faint starlight.
“Mission complete,” he said into his radio, his tone clipped. “Extract in fifteen minutes.”
“Send word to the cleanup team,” he ordered, his tone firm. “I want the bodies removed and the place stripped before sunrise. Burn anything that’s left—nothing traceable.”
The officer nodded, pulling out a secure satellite phone from his pack. “Understood, sir. I’ll coordinate with them now. Should take them an hour to mobilize.”
As they moved down the hill, the STF leader cast a final glance over his shoulder at the fort, now an empty shell of its former self. A once-feared haven for criminals was now a tomb, its occupants erased with ruthless precision. The jungle would reclaim it soon enough, vines creeping over the bloodstained stone, erasing any trace of the night's events.
He allowed himself one last fleeting smile, hidden behind his impassive mask. A job well done, a lucrative deal secured, and no witnesses to complicate matters. By the time the first light of dawn touched the jungle canopy, this place would be a ghost story—a warning whispered in hushed tones.
As the team melted into the dense foliage, the STF leader’s thoughts returned to the gold bars, waiting for him back at his safe. Two solid promises of wealth, security, and perhaps, one day, the freedom to leave this bloody life behind.
The forest swallowed them whole, their figures vanishing into the night. The fort was left in silence, its last chapter written in blood and shadow.
Back at The Onion House, Rahul sat alone at a corner table. His fingers tapped restlessly on the edge of his mug, the sound echoing in the otherwise silent room. Then, his phone buzzed, breaking the stillness. Rahul’s eyes narrowed as he saw the encrypted message pop up on the screen.
He unlocked it with a swift swipe, his eyes scanning the text with practiced precision. The message was brief, the words a coded sequence he’d long grown accustomed to:
"Insect control. All roaches are eradicated. Nest empty."
It was the signal. The job was done.
Rahul exhaled slowly, his shoulders relaxing as he sank back into his chair. His bandits were no more. Their hideout destroyed. Their bodies already gone, erased from the world like footprints in the sand.
He tapped out a quick reply, confirming receipt of the message, before slipping the phone back into his pocket.
With a slow smile, Rahul leaned back in his chair, content.
The job was done and the rest of the gold was now his, all of it.
END OF CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Please help!
Consider supporting me by making a small donation at “Buy me a coffee”, your support helps me write more books for you.
There are no differences between paid and free subscriptions on my Substack, except that warm fuzzy feeling, knowing that you are supporting an independent Author, and my gratitude 🤩
I pour my heart into writing, editing, and perfecting Crybaby each week to ensure you enjoy every chapter!
If the story is bringing you joy, show your support here…
Thank you for reading.
Your time and curiosity are truly appreciated. Stay tuned for more exciting content and stories.
Until next time!
All the best, Mark 🤩
P.S. Tell your friends…
Share 🎪 The Travelling Circus 🎪
Join us on future adventures! Subscribe for the latest projects, creative insights, and exclusive content…
Be the first to dive into upcoming releases, get behind-the-scenes access, and enjoy special treats.
Don't miss out—sign up now! Unlock a world of imagination, inspiration, and storytelling joy with every newsletter.
Thanks for being part of our journey—subscribe and let the enchantment continue!
EXCLUSIVE: Subscribe and enjoy the hilarious science fiction novel The First Mann On Mars…
