This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/hfy by /u/duddlered on 2026-02-20 13:54:51+00:00.

Two extraordinarily loud CRACKS cut through even the roar of the storm.

A millisecond later, the van's engine died violently.

There was no backfire. It wasn’t a stall. The engine block simply ruptured.

Had to stub chapters 1-31 because of Amazon, but my first Volume has finally released for kindle and Audible!

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Deep within the Little River Canyon National Preserve was an illegal cultivation site carved out in the middle of the forest about forty miles northeast of Fort Payne, Alabama. The entire clearing was a man-made scar and was a hive of activity in what was otherwise protected federal wilderness.

From the elevated hide site two hundred meters to the northwest, the recon team had a commanding view of the entire operation, and it looked exactly like what intelligence had predicted: a full-scale cartel growing facility that had somehow been operating unnoticed for probably longer than marijuana had been accepted in mainstream society.

The main clearing covered a few acres, with hacked-out stumps of old-growth pines still visible where trees had been felled and dragged away. But the entire area hadn’t been densely deforested — they had been smart about it. Or at least smart enough not to clear-cut the whole area and create an obvious void in the canopy that would show up on satellite images. Instead, they selectively removed trees, creating enough space for their operation while maintaining a broken canopy overhead that would make aerial surveillance difficult.

Toward the center of the clearing sat two actual greenhouses—proper structures with aluminum frames and translucent plastic sheeting, probably ordered from Amazon or stolen from some agricultural supply company. But what made the scene really suspicious was the fact that the crop was outside, arranged in terraced rows that followed the natural slope of the land. Marijuana plants, hundreds of them, maybe thousands, arranged in neat lines where even in the rain and darkness, you could see the disciplined organization of it all.

It made one wonder just what the hell was growing in the greenhouses.

The entire compound was going to be an absolute bitch to handle. It was surrounded by earthen berms about six feet high, bulldozed into place, forming a perimeter that served both as concealment and as a defensive feature. Along the top of these berms ran elevated walkways of rough-cut lumber platforms, connected by makeshift stairs, giving whoever was on guard duty a decent view of the approaches.

And there were guards. Small mercies were granted because, thankfully, these lazy bums would have been fired at the mall with how badly they patrolled the place. Only three of them were visible right now, roaming the walkways with the kind of bored patrol pattern that indicated weeks or months of absolutely nothing happening. There were a lot more inside, sleeping or lazing away during this stormy night.

Amateurs. Or at least, not prepared for what was about to hit them.

One guy was leaning against a post, probably smoking. Another was walking his section, but checking his phone every few steps. The third had just dipped under a building to escape the rain, probably to take a piss or something.

Other than the greenhouses, buildings were scattered around the compound as if someone had just dropped them wherever there was flat ground. There were five structures in total, all haphazardly put together from prefabricated metal panels, sheet metal roofing, and lumber from trees they had cut down. Nothing matched, and nothing was level. The whole place looked as if it had been built by people who barely knew how a building fits together, not by professionals. But they didn't need something professional or permanent. They just needed something that would work in the moment.

It was clear that little thought had been given to the inhabitants' comfort, as rain poured down in sheets, pounding the metal roofs like jackhammers. The poor sons of bitches inside must have gone deaf by now from the noise, since sheet metal did little to insulate against it.

Not only that, visibility was absolute shit. You could maybe see a little more than a hundred feet out in the open. This was the kind of weather that made sensible people stay indoors, and those unfortunate enough to be outside were absolutely miserable. However, this was ideal weather for the kind of tactical operations about to descend upon this place.

No one could hear a damn thing beyond their immediate vicinity.

From the hide site, a sniper pair lay prone behind a Barrett MRAD in .338 Norma Magnum. The rifle's bipod dug into the muddy forest floor, and a ghillie drape over their hide broke up their silhouette against the vegetation and protected them from the rain. They were about 217 meters away, observing the compound from a slightly elevated position, when the spotter pressed his push-to-talk.

"Target One is static, northwest platform," he murmured into his boom mic, voice barely above a whisper. "Target Two is mobile, southeast walkway. Target Three is inside Building Four."

Beside him, the person behind the trigger scanned through a high-powered optic, tracked one guy maneuvering along the wall, barely protected in a poncho. It was a less-than-ideal piece of rainwear if someone wanted to get into a gunfight, because getting your rifle up and out of that thing and aimed at a target was an incredibly tall order.

"Copy," came the quiet response in their earpieces. "Hold for now. Teams are moving into position."

The spotter shifted his thermal optic and panned along the makeshift wall, and through the rain and darkness, he caught glimpses of them.

Four to six human-shaped figures, creeping through the treeline using the storm's noise and the degraded visibility to close in on the wall. Several other teams were doing the exact same out there, with an identical sniper team providing overwatch. However, the team these particular pairs of snipers watched were bounding up to their pre-assault positions.

Each assault team had its own objectives to attack, and each sniper pair had its designated area of responsibility, with overlapping fields of fire. This was a textbook austere-environment raid, but the only difference was the lack of fires or any other support. The only asset they had was an ISR platform loitering overhead, monitoring everything.

The spotter kept scanning, inspecting the compound once more. The guard on the phone hadn't moved; the one smoking was still sitting under a makeshift guard tower, and the last guard they were responsible for finally returned, adjusting his trousers. No one seemed aware of what was happening. No one had noticed that they were surrounded by operators skilled at killing silently.

With the sniper’s crosshairs settling back on the smoker, he allowed himself the smallest hint of satisfaction. Everything was in place. Every team was ready. All they needed now was for the call from command to set everything in motion.

Just as he thought that, the radio crackled to life. "All assault elements are in position. We're good to go on your mark.” The assaulter's field commander’s voice came through in a quiet, hushed tone over the net.

The sniper behind the MRAD shifted slightly and keyed his mic. "Copy that, we’re good as well. Just waitin’ on the cavalry."

Acknowledgments from the other sniper teams soon filtered through over the next few seconds, with each pair confirming they had their targets lined up and were ready to take their shots. Three guards. Three sniper teams. Three precision rifles zeroed in on the beating hearts of the poor sons of bitches.

"Voodoo, Wraith One. Conditions set. We're green for X." With everyone finally settled into their positions, hunkering down in the mud and rain, the call was made that the spring was coiled.

Silence stretched across the net. Ten seconds, then fifteen. It was the kind of pause that made you wonder if someone's radio had died or if the whole operation was being scrubbed at the last second. None of the teams moved, nor did they breathe any harder than they had to. They regulated themselves to just being patient while command did their thing.

A few seconds later, their patience paid off, as their radio crackled to life as the mission controllers gave everyone what they were looking for. "Solid copy, conditions set. Dancers have passed checkpoint Cajun and are cleared for HLZs. They're two minutes out."

Both the sniper's and spotter’s ears perked up as they glanced at each other and shared a small and malicious smirk. “Showtime." The spooter said as the sniper's eye returned to his scope.

There was almost a universal shift as every member of the recce team switched on now that there was wet work to do. Morbid excitement seemed to electrify the air. Thumbs hovered over safety switches, and fingers quietly tapped at the trigger guards of their rifles.

Through the lens of his high-powered optic, the sniper hovered the reticle over the heart of his target—the smoker—just itching to pull the trigger as the doomed soul let out a huge yawn and flicked his cigarette over the side of the berm. As if following the discarded tobacco, the guard kept walking toward the edge, stretching his arms and letting out...

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