Building a Conglomerate in Another World-Chapter 201: Extraction

North of Hanzhou – Amerathian Strike Team Prepares for the Assault

The night was thick with the scent of pine and damp earth as Captain Daniel Foster crouched behind a rock formation overlooking the Boxer encampment. The flickering glow of torches illuminated the perimeter, revealing crude wooden barricades and patrols moving in tight formations.

Through his spyglass, Foster counted at least thirty visible guards, but he knew there were more inside. The rebels weren’t amateurs; they had reinforced their defenses, expecting retaliation.

Behind him, his ten-man team lay in wait—clad in dark, padded gear designed for silent movement. They carried Amerathian-made assault rifles, each fitted with suppressors, along with sidearms and combat knives.

He tapped his earpiece, whispering, "Status check."

"Alpha in position." Lieutenant Marcus Hale, the team’s sharpshooter, responded. He was perched on a slope, his silenced rifle trained on the encampment’s watchtower.

"Bravo in position." Sergeant Elias Boone, the demolitions expert, replied. He had already set two small explosives on a stack of wooden crates near the east entrance—a distraction, if needed.

"Charlie in position." Corporal Luis Vega, the team’s close-quarters specialist, whispered. He was nearest to the prisoner tent, waiting for the go-ahead.

Foster exhaled slowly. They had one shot at this. A failed extraction would mean immediate execution for the hostages.

He checked his pocket watch—0100 hours. Right on schedule.

"We move."

The first phase was eliminating the outer patrols.

Hale lined up his shot from the ridge, adjusting his aim against the wind. The guard in the watchtower leaned on his rifle, yawning. Hale squeezed the trigger.

Phfft!

The silenced round struck the rebel’s temple, and he slumped forward. His body fell over the ledge, landing in a heap without a sound.

"Tower down."

Foster signaled forward. Two guards patrolled the main entrance, their attention focused on the forest edge. Bad mistake.

Hale adjusted his rifle.

Phfft!

The first rebel collapsed.

Before the second could react, Luis Vega lunged from the shadows, wrapping an arm around the man’s neck and driving a dagger under his ribs. The rebel’s body jerked before going limp.

"Entrance clear."

Foster gestured for his men to advance. They slipped through the wooden barricades, keeping to the shadows.

Amber sat upright as she heard something unusual—silence.

Moments ago, she could hear the Boxer guards exchanging whispers, their boots crunching against the dirt. Now? Nothing.

Her pulse quickened.

She turned to the other hostages—European diplomats, Chinese officials, merchants—all watching with fearful anticipation.

Then—

A gloved hand slipped through the tent’s opening. A blade flashed in the dim light.

The first Boxer guard collapsed before he could react, a silenced round lodged in his skull.

Two figures emerged from the darkness, rifles raised.

Amber’s breath caught.

Amerathian soldiers.

One of them—Luis Vega—pressed a finger to his lips. "Stay quiet. We’re getting you out."

Amber nodded, whispering, "The others?"

"We’re getting them all. Stay low."

The hostages crawled forward, their movements hurried but controlled.

**A second Boxer guard appeared—**rifle raised in alarm.

Vega spun, his silencer spitting two rounds.

Phfft! Phfft!

The guard collapsed onto a pile of crates.

The hostages gasped, but Vega didn’t break stride.

"Move. Now."

Foster had expected to stay in the shadows, but an alert Boxer rebel had spotted one of his men dragging a body into the darkness.

"Intruders!"

The camp erupted into shouts.

"Boone—light it up."

A moment later—

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The east entrance erupted into flames, sending wooden shrapnel flying. The explosion was small, but it threw the Boxers into disarray.

Foster shouldered his rifle, squeezing the trigger in controlled bursts. Silent, precise. Rebels dropped before they could rally.

Amber felt Luis Vega’s grip tighten on her arm as they rushed toward the treeline. Behind them, the rebels scrambled to organize a defense.

More explosions rang out, controlled detonations meant to disrupt the enemy.

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A group of hostages stumbled, and Vega turned back, firing two rounds into an approaching Boxer.

"Keep moving!"

Amber’s lungs burned as they sprinted toward the rendezvous point. She glanced back.

Foster and his men covered the retreat, firing into the encampment with ruthless precision.

But then—

A Boxer war horn sounded from the distance.

Amber’s stomach clenched.

Reinforcements.

Foster’s radio crackled.

"Command, we have hostages clear, but we have incoming."

A voice responded, calm but firm.

"Extraction in two minutes. Hold the line."

Two minutes.

A Boxer officer charged forward, sword raised—

Foster leveled his pistol. Phfft! The officer crumpled.

Another Boxer fired a musket—the shot went wide, but Vega stumbled as a splintered bullet grazed his arm.

Amber grabbed Vega’s rifle, stabilizing it.

"Don’t stop now!"

The strike team dug in, holding position as the remaining hostages boarded extraction wagons.

The Boxers regrouped, rallying near the burning supply depot. More war cries echoed.

"Time’s up! Go!" Foster shouted.

The team fell back toward the extraction zone, firing in quick bursts to suppress pursuit.

As they reached the designated clearing—

The low hum of approaching engines.

A British armored vehicle tore through the underbrush, mounted machine guns roaring.

Foster exhaled. Reinforcements. Right on time.

He grabbed Amber’s wrist. "Get in. Now."

She climbed aboard as the strike team piled in behind her.

The vehicle lurched forward, kicking up dirt as they sped away from the battlefield.

Behind them—

The Boxer camp burned, its forces shattered.

Hours later, Amber sat inside the British military outpost, wrapped in a heavy blanket. Exhausted, but alive.

Foster stood nearby, speaking into a radio.

"Hostages secured. Mission complete."

The line crackled. Then—

Matthew Hesh’s voice, tight with emotion.

"Thank you. Bring her home."

Amber closed her eyes, finally allowing herself to breathe.

She was safe. But—.

"You came only for me?"

"That was the scope of the mission, to rescue you, Your Grace."

"But there are still hostages. What do you think will happen if one of them were extracted by an unknown force? Their lives will be in danger."

"You are the only one that matters, Your Grace."

Amber’s jaw tightened as she threw off the blanket and stood, her exhaustion momentarily forgotten. "That’s unacceptable," she snapped, her voice cutting through the tense air. "You rescued me, but you left the others to die."

Foster exhaled sharply, rubbing his temples. "Ma’am, we didn’t have a choice. If we stayed any longer, we’d all be dead—including you."

Amber’s fists clenched. "And now you expect me to sit here while they execute the rest?"

Vega, still tending to his wound, looked up. "It’s not that simple, Your Grace. A second extraction isn’t in the orders. The risk is too high."

Amber turned to Foster. "Then I’m giving you new orders. We’re going back."

Foster’s expression hardened. "With all due respect, ma’am, you don’t have the authority to make that call."

Amber’s glare was icy. "Then who does?"

A tense silence filled the room.

Finally, Foster sighed. "The President."

Amber’s heart pounded. She knew what she had to do. "Then get me a damn radio."