Supervillain Idol System: My Sidekick Is A Yandere

Chapter 667 667: Alpha-Squad Seven (Part 7)

The footsteps stopped directly outside the office door.Don's fingers tightened around the knife handle until the muscles in his forearm protested.

Blood still coated the blade in a dark sheen, slowly dripping from the tip onto the dusty concrete below.

His pulse pounded against the cut in his palm and echoed behind his eyes, each heartbeat sending another throb through the shallow wound near his cheekbone.

He drew a slow breath through his nose.

Then another.

The rifle hung uselessly against his hip, supported by its sling.

His injured hand couldn't manage it properly anymore. The knife felt different. Simpler. Its weight sat comfortably in his grip, familiar despite having only held it for minutes.

The door began to move.

At first it opened only a few inches.

Then wider.

A figure filled the doorway.

Don attacked immediately.

His wounded arm came up first, creating the impression that he intended to swing the rifle stock.

The motion was clear enough to draw attention. Then his body shifted underneath it. His rear foot planted hard against the floor, and he drove forward with the knife aimed directly for the figure's throat.

The response came faster than he expected.

A hand intercepted his wrist mid-strike.

The knife stopped inches short of flesh.

At the same time, cold metal pressed against his temple.

A pistol.

Already drawn.

Already aimed.

Both men froze.

For a fraction of a second neither moved.

Then recognition caught up.

Don's eyes widened.

Webb's expression changed too. The hard focus behind his eyes faded slightly, replaced by something that looked suspiciously close to relief beneath the exhaustion written across his face.

Webb lowered the pistol first.

"At ease."

The words broke the moment.

Air rushed out of Don's lungs in a long, ragged breath. His shoulders sagged slightly as the adrenaline draining from his system left behind a tremor running through his arm. The knife lowered several inches.

He leaned against the doorframe and shut his eyes briefly.

Half a second.

Maybe less.

Then Webb's pistol snapped back up.

CRACK~

Don's eyes flew open.

The bullet passed so close to his head that he felt the displaced air brush across his ear.

Behind him, another figure staggered.

An operative dressed in the same black tactical gear had been creeping from the far corner of the office, partially concealed behind an overturned filing cabinet. A neat hole appeared in the center of his chest plate.

The man collapsed immediately.

THUD~

Don spun around with the knife raised again, but the operative was already finished. He lay sprawled across the floor without movement.

Webb stepped past him without a word, boots crunching across shattered ceiling tiles and dried blood while his pistol swept methodically through the room. His gaze moved from corner to corner before finally settling on the fresh corpse.

Only then did he lower the weapon.

"You alright?"

Don looked down.

Now that somebody had asked, the damage became harder to ignore.

Blood had soaked through the sleeve of the borrowed uniform where the knife had cut into his forearm. The wound across his ribs burned beneath the armor every time he moved. The cut on his cheek felt sticky against his skin.

But the palm bothered him most.

The blade had gone straight through.

When he flexed his fingers, he could actually see moonlight through the puncture.

"I'll manage."

Webb looked unconvinced.

He crossed the room in a few quick steps and grabbed Don's injured hand before Don could object.

The sergeant turned it beneath the lighting, studying both sides of the wound carefully.

His eyes tracked the blood loss.

Finger movement.

Tendon response.

Everything.

"This is going to need real attention," Webb muttered.

Then he released the hand and reached toward his utility belt.

A sealed pouch came free.

He tore it open with his teeth and pulled out a slim injector filled with pale blue fluid.

"Painkiller. Clotting agent. Booster cocktail."

Before Don could comment, Webb pressed the injector against the side of his neck.

"Standard field issue. Don't get used to it."

CLICK~

The needle punched in.

A brief sting followed.

Then cold.

The sensation spread rapidly beneath his skin and radiated outward through his body. The burning in his palm began fading almost immediately.

The ache in his forearm retreated. Even the exhaustion pressing against the back of his skull loosened slightly.

Don blinked twice.

Flexed his hand.

The wound still hurt.

Just less.

The bleeding had already slowed.

"Thanks."

Webb gave a short nod.

"No problem."

He moved toward the window while pressing two fingers against his comm unit.

"Command, this is Seven-Alpha Actual. Come in."

Static crackled back.

Several long seconds passed.

Then a voice answered.

"Seven-Alpha, this is Command. You're coming through weak. Report your status."

Webb stared out toward the ruined street below.

"We've been engaged by unknown hostile forces. Multiple operatives. Ex-military training. Unmarked gear. Four confirmed hostile KIA. Two friendlies down. Kowalski and one additional casualty. Vance is MIA heading east from the church position. Requesting immediate extraction and medical support."

The reply didn't come immediately.

Webb's jaw shifted slightly.

His eyes drifted toward Don.

Then the radio crackled again.

"Copy, Seven-Alpha. Extraction en route. ETA eight minutes. Hold position and await further instructions."

"Copy. Holding."

The comm clicked off.

Webb turned away from the window.

"Chopper's coming. Eight minutes."

Don let out a slow breath.

Eight minutes.

Compared to the rest of the night, that sounded almost reasonable.

"Let's clear the building first," Webb said. "I'm done getting surprised."

They moved together through the second floor.

Webb took point.

His rifle stayed raised while he cleared each doorway with the same methodical rhythm Don had watched all night. Every room received the same treatment. Quick entry. Corner check. Window check. Exit.

Storage closets packed with forgotten office supplies.

A break room containing a mold-covered couch and an empty vending machine.

More offices.

More dust.

Nothing alive.

Nothing moving.

Only corpses.

Webb checked every body they encountered.

The operative Don had killed.

The one Webb had shot.

The sniper from the apartment building.

Each examination looked almost clinical. He rolled sleeves upward. Checked wrists. Studied equipment tags. Inspected helmet interiors. Examined ammunition types and weapon modifications.

Don watched carefully.

Learning.

The details seemed random at first.

Then patterns emerged.

Webb wasn't looking for one clue.

He was looking for dozens.

Tiny things that formed a picture.

Eventually he stood and shook his head.

"Ex-military."

Don glanced toward the nearest corpse.

"How can you tell?"

Webb nudged the tactical vest with one boot.

"The gear."

He crouched again and tapped several components.

"Commercial purchase. Expensive stuff. Good stuff. But clean. No markings. No identifiers. Somebody removed everything."

"Like mercenaries?"

"Probably."

Webb straightened.

"Or contractors."

His gaze shifted toward the city beyond the window.

Fires still burned across parts of the skyline.

Smoke drifted between distant buildings.

"Either way, they weren't infected."

Don frowned.

"They were waiting for us."

"Yeah."

"What for?"

Webb didn't answer immediately.

His jaw worked slowly from side to side.

When he finally spoke, his voice came out quieter.

"I don't know."

His eyes stayed on the city.

"But it doesn't look good."

Don couldn't disagree.

Soldiers ambushed by professional operatives inside a containment zone wasn't normal.

Nothing about this felt normal anymore.

Not the infected.

Not the city.

And definitely not the people trying to kill UPSDF squads in the middle of a crisis.

Eventually Webb moved.

"Come on."

The courtyard greeted them again.

Smoke still drifted lazily around the broken fountain.

Kowalski remained where Don had left him.

Webb walked over without speaking and crouched beside the body.

One hand settled on the dead soldier's shoulder.

He stayed there for several seconds.

Not praying.

Not talking.

Just acknowledging.

Then he stood.

"Help me with him."

Don nodded.

Together they carried Kowalski toward a recessed loading dock attached to the commercial building. Webb took the shoulders. Don grabbed the legs.

The dead weight felt heavier than expected.

They repeated the process with the UPSDF casualty near the fountain afterward.

Then the operatives.

Not out of respect.

Simply practicality.

Bodies left in the open created problems.

Webb wanted clean sightlines before extraction arrived.

Don noticed the expression on the sergeant's face each time they handled one of the soldiers.

Nothing dramatic.

No tears.

No speeches.

Just a heaviness sitting behind his eyes.

Kowalski had been part of his squad.

His responsibility.

There wasn't much to say to that.

So Don stayed quiet.

A few minutes later they settled beneath the loading dock overhang.

The concrete structure blocked observation from most surrounding rooftops and windows. Webb had chosen the position carefully.

Don sat against one wall.

The knife remained in his good hand.

His injured palm rested across his lap.

The booster continued doing its job, though fatigue still waited somewhere beneath it.

Across from him, Webb stood near the edge of the overhang with his rifle raised toward the sky.

Watching.

Listening.

Waiting.

Neither man felt particularly talkative.

Don's thoughts wandered instead.

Ash.

Pyro.

The church.

The apartment complex.

Kowalski.

The knife through his hand.

Webb's pistol against his temple.

It all felt disconnected somehow.

Like events spread across several days instead of a single night.

Then he heard it.

Rotor noise.

Faint at first.

Growing steadily louder.

Webb heard it too.

The sergeant immediately produced a small penlight and flashed it toward the sky.

Three short bursts.

One long.

Several seconds later the helicopter adjusted course.

Straight toward them.

"There we go," Webb muttered.

The aircraft descended into the street outside.

Rotor wash blasted loose paper, dust, and debris through the intersection while the side door slid open.

CLANK~

A soldier leaned from the opening with his rifle scanning rooftops.

Webb moved first.

Don followed.

His legs felt heavier than they should have.

The wounds weren't helping.

Neither was the exhaustion.

Several hands reached out as they approached.

Strong grips caught their arms and pulled them aboard.

The cabin smelled exactly like every military vehicle Don had encountered tonight.

Fuel.

Sweat.

Gun oil.

The soldier nearest the door slapped Webb's shoulder once.

Relief flashed briefly across his face.

"Good to see you, Sergeant."

"You too."

Don collapsed onto an empty bench seat along the cabin wall.

Only then did he realize he was still holding the knife.

Webb noticed too.

The sergeant reached over and gently pried it from his hand.

"You can let that go now."

Don blinked.

Looked down.

Then opened his fingers.

The helicopter lifted off moments later.

The city began shrinking beneath them.

Burning streets.

Collapsed buildings.

Emergency lights.

Searchlights.

Smoke.

The whole disaster stretched outward in every direction.

Don watched through the window until something occurred to him.

The aircraft wasn't heading toward SHQ.

"Where are we going?"

Webb didn't turn.

His gaze remained fixed outside.

"Camp Shepherd."

Don frowned.

"What's that?"

"Santos City Hero University."