de_cache

In Their Own Story

The dust hadn't settled from the last round when Malik pressed his back against the corrugated wall of the A-site container and exhaled slowly. His scope was still warm. Through the narrow gap between two stacked crates he could see the far end of the catwalk, empty, the sun turning the metal grating to white fire. Somewhere below, in the tunnel that snaked under the B-site ramp, he heard the soft scrape of boots on gravel. One. Maybe two. He tapped the comms. "Mid's clear. Catwalk's clear. B tunnel—watch it." A pause. Then the dry click of a magazine being seated. He dropped to one knee, angled his AWP toward the tunnel mouth, and waited for the desert to give up its secrets. The wind moaned through the open bay doors. The cache held its breath.