Igi 2 (VALIDATED WALKTHROUGH)
Inside, a pale woman in a gray jumpsuit looked up from the floor. Her eyes were hollow, but sharp. “Took you long enough,” she whispered.
Nightshade looked at him. “You lost the stealth bonus.”
“The scenic route,” Jones replied, handing her a pistol. “Can you walk?”
He’d already disabled two patrols with a tranquilizer dart to the neck and a chokehold that left no marks. The third guard, however, was different. He’d turned a second too early, his flashlight beam slicing through the mist like a scalpel. Jones didn’t think. His hand moved—a clean, suppressed burst. Three rounds. The guard crumpled into the mud without a sound. Inside, a pale woman in a gray jumpsuit
Thump—CRACK.
The rain over Siberia was a liar. It fell soft as a whisper, promising peace, while below, the Krasny Prison Facility hummed with enough firepower to level a small army. David Jones adjusted the strap of his suppressed MP5 and pressed closer to the icy rock.
He grabbed a grenade from his belt, pulled the pin, and lobbed it toward the main generator. The explosion turned the night orange. In the chaos, they sprinted across the tarmac. Bullets cracked past. Nightshade fired twice, and a sniper tumbled from a water tower. Nightshade looked at him
Jones’s blood turned cold. Compromised.
Jones allowed himself the faintest smile. “Still alive. That’s the only score that counts.”
They commandeered the truck. Jones hotwired it as shrapnel pinged off the armor. The gate splintered under the vehicle’s weight, and they roared into the forest, the prison lights shrinking behind them like dying stars. The third guard, however, was different
“I can run.”
The main gate was suicide. Too many cameras, too many heavy-caliber nests. Instead, Jones went vertical. He scaled the drainage conduit with his fingertips, pulling himself up hand over hand until he reached a ventilation shaft. The metal groaned, but the rain swallowed the noise.
Inside, the prison smelled of rust, sweat, and burnt coffee. He moved through the corridors like a ghost, pausing at every corner to peek with his tiny fiber-optic camera. Two guards at the end of the hall, one smoking, one complaining about the cold. Jones pulled a flashbang from his vest.
The white light and thunderclap sent them stumbling. Before the first man could blink, Jones was on them. A rifle butt to the temple. A knee to the second’s chest. They fell in a heap.
“Change of plans,” he said, pointing to a fuel truck parked near the south wall. “We’re leaving loud.”
