Having given his order, Pete charged forward first. His three-edged dagger gleamed as he faced the Special Operations Unit agents head-on. He quickly and skillfully locked in a fierce battle. The clash of offense and defense was chaotic, but Pete, standing out sharply amidst the flurry of movement, held his own.
Seeing Pete fighting so ferociously, risking everything with no regard for his own safety, the robed man's earlier frustration began to fade. Although Pete had botched their plans repeatedly, costing them dearly, at least he wasn't abandoning ship. Even in this life-and-death situation, Pete stayed to fight instead of running.
The robed man shook off his doubts and launched himself at the agents advancing toward them. Thuds, accompanied by grunts of pain and occasional sprays of blood, filled the air. The sound of clashing weapons echoed, sparks flying as blades collided. Punches landed, blades grazed flesh.
Meanwhile, the remaining five agents confronted the driver. Knowing he was outnumbered, the driver roared and charged forward, teeth gritted in defiance.
Pete wasn't faring well. Blood seeped from a deep gash on his arm, dripping onto his elbow, making his already dirty hair cling messily to his forehead. His clothes were smeared with blood and dirt.
The driver, distracted by Pete's struggles, shouted, "Mr. Carrell!" Sweat trickled down his face. His once-pristine white shirt was now stained crimson. That moment of distraction was all it took. One of the Special Operations Unit agents exploited the opening, driving a slender blade into his abdomen.
The driver felt a cold sensation, saw the blood pooling, and the reality hit him only after the initial shock subsided. He tried to fight back, but his speed and strength were fading rapidly. He was already at a disadvantage; now, he was helpless. Another blow followed swiftly, sealing his fate. He collapsed with a heavy thud, his eyes fixed on Pete with worry and urgency, even in death.
With the driver down, the five agents split up, coordinating to encircle Pete and the robed man. Michael watched from a distance; his involvement was unnecessary. Neither the robed man nor Pete would be escaping this time.
The robed man found himself under immense pressure. Even his best efforts were barely enough to hold his ground against eight trained agents. He was constantly on the defensive, fighting off attacks with no time to catch his breath. If things continued, he would be worn down.
However, only three minutes of the ten Pete had promised had passed. Seven long minutes remained until the rescue helicopter arrived. They had no choice but to persevere. The robed man, throwing off an agent who had locked his arm around his neck, slashed two others with his dagger, forcing them to retreat. But before he could fully recover, Pete let out a pained grunt. Following a hard kick from one of the agents, Pete's body flew several feet before crashing to the ground.
"Pete! Are you alright?" the robed man shouted, moving toward Pete's position defensively, keeping a close eye on the surrounding agents.
Pete groaned several times and spat out a mouthful of blood. His face was pale, and he was too weak to get back on his feet.
The robed man was about to speak when he felt something pressed into his palm.