The massive black armored bus lumbered heavily onto an auxiliary road, leaving the smooth pavement of the highway behind. The area immediately became desolate—nothing but scrub brush, dry dirt, and low, rolling hills stretching toward a hazy horizon. The eight armored escort vehicles that had surrounded them like a protective shield kicked up plumes of red dust.

Inside the bus, the atmosphere was tight, but controlled. The 25 men sat silently, their hands subtly manipulating the unsecured handcuffs, a pretense they maintained even though no one official was watching. The five guards, now allies, were tense, gripping their weapons.

"We should be arriving at the State Road junction soon," said Officer Davis, the lead guard, his voice barely audible over the rumble of the engine. He sounded uneasy.

A tense minute passed. Then, the convoy betrayed them.

With synchronized speed and cold precision, the eight escort vehicles—four in front and four behind—peeled off the auxiliary road. They didn't slow down or signal; they simply veered sharply back onto the highway access points and sped away, their disappearance marked only by the rapidly dissipating dust clouds.

Jason, staring out the small, reinforced window, watched the last vehicle vanish. He knew the signal. He slapped the metal wall of the bus, the sound sharp and jarring.

"We're screwed! Officer!" Jason roared, spinning around. "The Boss said to open the gifts! Where are they?!"

Officer Davis's face was grim. He didn't hesitate. "He knew, didn't he? That bastard knew they'd ditch us out here." Davis moved quickly to the rear of the bus, where a small service panel was disguised beneath the seat cushions. He wrenched it open, revealing a hidden compartment lined with black foam.

"Here are the gifts, men," Davis said, the metal scraping as he pulled out the first weapon. "I really hoped we wouldn't have to come to this. Get ready."

The five guards and the 25 men began distributing the arsenal in a frantic, silent ballet. They pulled out an array of military-grade equipment: several FN SCAR-L assault rifles, Glock 19s for close quarters, and several vests laden with extra magazines. The contrast between the men in orange jumpsuits and the high-powered weaponry was stark and terrifying.

"José, Antonio! Rifles to the back windows! Take command of the fire arc!" Jason ordered, sliding a full magazine into his own rifle.

Before they could fully arm themselves, the world outside exploded.

The sound was deafening—a thunderous WHUMP followed by the rattle of heavy caliber bullets impacting the armored sides of the bus. The metal groaned and shrieked, the thick composite glass spiderwebbing instantly as the first wave of enemy fire hit.

"Ambush! They're coming from the flanks!" screamed one of the inmates near the front, clutching his ears.

From behind and ahead, a swarm of dark, unmarked SUVs and utility vans—at least five in total—blasted onto the road, their occupants already leaning out of the windows, firing ruthlessly.

Antonio was the first to return fire. He knelt by a side window port, sighting down the barrel of the SCAR. "They won't stop the bus! Driver, keep moving! Get us to Oakwood!"

The driver, a guard named Miller who was sweating profusely but holding steady, yelled back: "I won't stop! We hit the main road in ten minutes!"

The interior of the bus was a cacophony of muzzle flashes, metallic impacts, and the desperate shouts of orders. The enemy shooters—easily twenty masked men—were relentless, aiming to neutralize the tires or penetrate the reinforced engine block.

"Jason, focus on the tires of the rear trucks! Take them out!" José yelled, his voice carrying over the din. He was expertly managing his recoil, his shots focused and deadly. "Don't waste ammo! We have to reach Oakwood!"

"I need cover, José! They're flanking the left!" shouted Manuel, one of the 25, his hand bleeding where shrapnel from a near-penetration had caught him.

"Cover him!" ordered Davis. He was firing his Glock through a forward port, hitting the windshield of an attacking van. "We have to suppress them! If they board, we lose the folios and we lose the chance at freedom!"

Jason braced against a seat back and targeted the leading SUV. RAT-TAT-TAT-TAT! He concentrated his burst fire on the engine block. Smoke billowed immediately from the SUV, which swerved violently off the road, overturning in a cloud of dust and screeching metal.

"One down!" Jason shouted, adrenaline masking the ache in his muscles.

But the enemy was organized. A utility truck pulled alongside the bus, and masked figures began attempting to attach breaching charges to the door.

"Grenades! They have breaching charges!" Antonio roared. He fired a quick burst, hitting the arm of a man securing a charge, causing the man to scream and drop the explosive prematurely. It detonated harmlessly in the dirt several feet away, throwing up debris.

The battle raged for what felt like an eternity. The bus, despite its armor, was starting to look like a metallic pincushion. The air inside was thick with gunpowder smoke, dust, and the coppery smell of blood.

"Need a medic back here!" cried a guard named Frank. He had taken a shot to the leg, trying to protect the window ports. "I'm hit! Damn it, I'm hit!"

"Keep firing, Frank! We can't stop!" yelled Davis, reloading his Glock with shaking hands. "We lose momentum, we lose everything! Think of Ethan—he put his neck out for this!"

The sheer desperation spurred the 25 on. They weren't just fighting for their lives; they were fighting for the legal loophole that Ethan had sacrificed himself to create.

"José, flank right, they're reforming!" Antonio shouted, his breath ragged. He glanced at his men. Two of the 25 were down, not moving. Three more were badly wounded but still managed to hold their rifles.

"I see them!" José responded. He fired a controlled three-round burst, hitting a shooter in the open back of a van. "Tell Miller to steer into the next curve! We need to break their line of sight!"

The bus swerved violently, throwing the armed men against the walls. The motion briefly disrupted the enemy's aim.

"Miller! Report!" Jason yelled.

"Engine's failing, but we're still moving! Five minutes to the main road, but we'll be exposed!" the driver screamed back.

"Keep going! We're not stopping for anything!"

The battle was a close-quarters massacre. Every inch of forward movement cost blood and ammunition.

"They're coming fast!" Antonio cried, firing repeatedly at a van that was dangerously close. "Hold the line! Protect the folios! We get to Oakwood or we burn here!"

The metallic clang of repeated bullet impacts was their only soundtrack. The 25 men and the five guards were now a single, battered unit, their only goal the distant promise of a legal loophole, a promise paid for by Ethan's isolation.

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