The mortar around the screws had crumbled over the decades.

I placed the flat of my hands against the iron bars.

I pushed with all my strength.

The mortar gave way with a soft, sandy crunch.

I caught the grate before it could fall forward into the room.

I set it down quietly inside the tunnel.

The mercenaries did not hear me over the sound of the dripping water and their own shouting.

I slid through the opening, my boots making no sound on the dry dirt floor.

I kept low, hiding behind a row of rusted iron pipes.

The air in the room was thick with the smell of copper and sweat.

I raised my pistol and aimed at the back of the first mercenary’s head.

He was standing five feet away from me.

I took a deep breath and squeezed the trigger.

The suppressed gunshot was nothing more than a sharp hiss.

The first mercenary collapsed instantly, his body hitting the floor with a heavy thud.

The second mercenary turned, his hand reaching for his sidearm.

Before he could draw, I fired two more rounds into his chest.