The armored bus, driven by the resolute guard Miller, continued its desperate dash towards the main highway, three minutes away. Inside, the battle had turned critical. Ammunition was running low, and the enemy realized they were losing the element of surprise and time.

"They're closing in! Prepare for impact!" yelled Officer Davis, spitting blood from a grazed cheek.

Two enemy vans, now riddled with bullet holes, swerved simultaneously, attempting a coordinated ramming maneuver. One truck slammed into the left side of the bus, and the other hit the rear axle.

The impact was catastrophic. The armored bus shrieked as the metal buckled, and it lurched violently onto two wheels, sliding across the dirt road. Men inside were thrown against the walls and seats, the unsecured weapons clattering.

"Hold on! We're going over!" Miller screamed, wrestling with the steering wheel, his knuckles white.

"Damn it!" Antonio hit the wall hard, his rifle flying. He quickly scrambled to recover it, his ears ringing. "They're trying to breach the door! Focus fire on the cab!"

Jason, clutching a bleeding side, fired a controlled burst that shattered the windscreen of the rear-attacking van, momentarily silencing its shooters. "We're losing men! We need to break contact!"

José was shouting orders, but his voice was strained. "Two down! Three wounded! Keep firing, you bastards! For the papers! For Oakwood!"

The sheer, brutal momentum of the heavy bus saved them. It slammed back onto all four wheels, kicking up a blinding cloud of dust that momentarily obscured the enemy.

The respite was brief. As the dust settled, the remaining enemy vehicles—three vans and an SUV—regrouped and charged, converging on the crippled bus like hungry wolves. They focused their fire relentlessly on the reinforced door and the windows where the men returned fire.

"No more ammo! I'm dry!" yelled Manuel, dropping his empty weapon.

"Only two magazines left!" cried Frank, the wounded guard, still holding his position despite the throbbing pain in his leg.

Jason checked his own rifle. Just a few rounds remaining. They were completely surrounded, their defense buckling under the sheer volume of enemy fire. The enemy shooters, emboldened, began climbing onto the hoods of their vehicles, preparing to leap onto the bus roof to deploy explosives.

"This is it," Officer Davis muttered, chambering his last round. "If they breach the door, we protect the folios—burn them if you have to, Jason!"

Just as two masked figures reached the bus door, ready to cut through the hinges, a sound ripped through the air—a sound that was alien to the desert cacophony of small arms fire.

It was a deep, guttural thrumming, growing rapidly louder.

"What is that?" shouted a man from the back.

The enemy paused, momentarily distracted by the new noise. High above the dust and the chaos, a sleek, military-grade Black Hawk helicopter materialized from the haze. It was painted in matte black, unmarked, and impossibly fast.

It wasn't a warning; it was a judgment.

Slung low beneath the helicopter's nose was a massive, high-caliber GAU-19/A rotary machine gun, the kind used to shred armored vehicles. This was Old Falcon's intervention, a response so overwhelming that it defied any conventional military engagement.

The helicopter hovered for a split second, its spotlight briefly illuminating the road and the enemy vans. Then, the GAU-19/A opened fire.

The sound was not a rattle or a burst; it was a solid, continuous RIPPPPPPPPPPPPPPP—a chain of explosive fire so fast and intense that the air vibrated.

The effect was instantaneous and absolute.

The lead enemy van, already damaged, was vaporized in a storm of massive-caliber rounds. Metal disintegrated, bodies were thrown like rag dolls, and tires exploded. The next two vehicles fared no better, transforming into flaming wrecks in mere seconds. The ground where they stood was ripped apart, leaving deep, smoking craters. The masked shooters who had been preparing to board the bus simply ceased to exist.

The Black Hawk swept low, executing a flawless, low-altitude pass. The high-caliber fire was directed only at the enemy vehicles and personnel, leaving the armored bus miraculously untouched.

In less than ten seconds, the ambush site was silenced, replaced only by the roar of the helicopter blades and the crackle of burning wreckage.

Inside the bus, the surviving men were deafened, stunned, and covered in dust, shrapnel, and the blood of their enemies.

Jason stared out the window, his mouth open, watching the black helicopter circle once, a silent, deadly guardian, before climbing rapidly and disappearing back into the sky.

"They're gone," whispered José, his face streaked with sweat and grime. "Every single one of them. The Master... he sent an army."

"Miller!" Jason yelled. "Drive! We have to move now! Before anyone else gets here!"

Miller, shaking uncontrollably but alive, slammed the accelerator. The bus, despite its wounds, lurched forward. The main road was just ahead.

The battered bus finally reached the gates of the Oakwood State Penitentiary thirty minutes later. They were met not by an ambush, but by the confused, shocked faces of state prison guards who were staring at the shell-shocked men emerging from the bullet-scarred hulk.

Jason, battered and smeared with blood, shouted toward the front. "Hands up! Everyone out! We need medics!"

The 25 men, along with the surviving guards, stumbled out of the wreckage, their hands raised high. Their clothing was ripped, their faces were blackened by gunpowder, and many were nursing severe wounds. Officer Davis was leaning heavily on Antonio, while Frank was bleeding profusely from his leg. The scene was one of total disaster for both the transferred inmates and the escort officers.

The Oakwood guards, seeing the severity of the casualties, immediately lowered their rifles, their suspicion replaced by shock.

"Code Red! We need reinforcements and medical teams at the front gate! Now!" yelled the ranking Oakwood officer into his radio.

Officer Miller, the driver, emerged from the driver's seat, covered in sweat and grime, holding the crucial transfer folios tightly in one hand. He approached the local guards.

"I'm Officer Miller from Lexington Federal," he announced, his voice hoarse. "We were ambushed. We need emergency medical attention for everyone. And I need an urgent phone. My cell phone was destroyed. I need to report this ambush immediately."

He was quickly handed a phone. Miller stepped away from the crowd, turning his back to the chaos of the wounded being tended to. He dialed a number from memory.

A moment later, a sleek, sexy female voice answered on the other end.

"We made it," Miller said, his voice flat and professional, despite the surrounding carnage. "They ambushed us like expected. Start the next phase of the plan. Make sure the sons of bitches who fled are arrested."

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