For years, America had been bleeding. Not from wars overseas, but from inside. In the cities that had once been so proud, but now were torn apart by street wars fought in every alley, every broken suburb, every crumbling high-rise.
In this time, three great powers had risen from the ashes of old crime syndicates, gangs once scattered, broken, weak, but no longer.
They had evolved, they had united, and they had become monsters.
One of these was the Black Brotherhood. A titanic force born from the streets of Detroit, Harlem, Southside Chicago, and the Bronx.
And it was not just a gang, but a nation of the streets. Blood-sworn brothers from every black-majority neighborhood, soldiers of a code that combined ancient tribal loyalty with modern firepower.
They dressed in midnight armor. Moved like ghost platoons. Their leaders read from books thicker than any bible, the scriptures of rage, revolution, and war. And their creed was simple.
"This land was built on our backs. Now we take it back by blood."
And to do this they trafficked guns, ran protection rackets, extorted cities, controlled the underground music scene, and had enough firepower to make SWAT raids look like schoolyard fights.
Then there was the Musicians, but of course not any normal musicians at all. No, these were violence set in rhythm.
They were a mega-cartel forged between the worst cartel lords of Mexico and the most violent Latino gangs of Los Angeles, Miami, El Paso, and New Mexico.
They wore gold chains, Santa Muerte tattoos, and drove bulletproof lowriders bristling with hidden compartments for weapons, bodies, and cash.
Their name came from their leaders' favorite saying.
"Every bullet sings a note. And our symphony is death."
They flooded cities with fentanyl, meth, and human trafficking rings so brutal even the cartels whispered about them in fear.
And lastly there was the British Mob, also called the, Crown Boys on the streets. It was an unlikely alliance of British exiles, former SAS operatives turned mercenaries, and hardcore American redneck survivalists who had one thing in common.
They hated the government, they hated America as it was, and they wanted to remake it into something new and more, pure, and more like the Empires of old.
It was an underground army, blending the discipline of British paramilitary groups with the unfiltered hatred of backwoods militias.
They wore tactical gear patched with Union Jacks and Confederate flags. They moved through the woods like specters, planting bombs under city halls, kidnapping judges, burning churches that didn't fly their flag.
And in public, they said their goal was to make America Great Again, Under New Management. Not through soft politics, but through conquest and power of arms.
For years, these three giants waged war against each other, and war against the law. Cities burned, neighborhoods became battlefields, and entire police departments were gutted, replaced by gangs disguised as "protection forces."
And in Americas most desperate hour, and at the heart of their last defense, Two men emerged, simply known as The Army of Two, but in private just Frank and Bruce.
And these two weren't just ex-Navy SEALs, or just decorated cops, they were something else. They were two wolves that never left the hunt.
And they were backed in secret by President Trump's administration, given black cards, no oversight, and silent blessings to do what the law could not.
And so with lot's of funding, and the best armour and weapons money could bye, plus permission to kill and do whatever, the two tore through gang strongholds like war gods, one dead drug lord at a time.
And soon their masked faces became legends. Their tactics became gangsters nightmares, and they became whispers in the dark to all criminals.
"If you see the wolf mask… you're already dead."
This they said and much more.
But it wasn't all good for them, for they were not made of stone. After years upon years of fighting Bruce and Frank had watched too many friends die. They had watched the good men of the FBI, DEA, local PD get chewed up and left in parking lots with their badges shoved down their throats.
And they were sick of it. They were sick of burying brothers and sisters because politicians wouldn't take the gloves off. They were sick of seeing the flag drip in its own blood.
So when the word came down that the Black Brotherhood, Musicians, and Crown Boys were all meeting, all in one place, one mansion, one night, they didn't hesitate.
They didn't wait for backup, they didn't plan for negotiations. They simply loaded their guns, put on their gear, strapped on their masks, slammed the Tesla's trunk shut, and drove into the night knowing full well what waited.
Three armies, one mansion, against two men. They went in anyway, not because they thought they would win, not because they thought they'd survive, but because they refused to let another badge die for their country.
If someone had to walk into hell with no way back, it would be them, and this would be their final act of defiance, their last symphony.
And if God was merciful, the last thing the Brotherhood, the Musicians, and the Crown Boys would ever hear, would be the laughter of two madmen lighting the world on fire.
***
The Tesla sat silent at the edge of the treeline, a black specter crouched in the tall grass. No lights. No engine. Just the faint heat shimmer bleeding off the hood, into the dead of a typical state of Vermont summer night.
The air buzzed with insects and the heavy smell of pine sap and distant campfire smoke. Crickets sang lazy symphonies across the clearing, oblivious to the slaughter about to come.
Inside the car, two men waited. Frank with the body of captain America sat behind the wheel, still as a stone, chewing on a toothpick with the slow, deliberate focus of a man preparing to die or kill, and unsure which would come first. His gear was simple. Tactical. Precise. Clean black plates and a blank matte mask resting against his thigh.
Beside him the larger man with a body like Hulk, named fittingly Bruce couldn't sit still. He drummed gloved fingers against the dead touchscreen. Tapped his knee. Shifted his boot heel against the floorboard with little scrapes that scratched the silence inside the car.
He hated waiting, and thinking too much, he always had.
> "Tesla's offline," Bruce muttered, more to himself than Frank.
Frank didn't look over. He didn't need to. His eyes instead stayed locked on the mansion across the clearing, it was their target, their coming battlefield, and their tomb if tonight went wrong.
> "Good," he said simply.
In return Bruce snorted, adjusting the shoulder strap of his body armor. Then he came up with a funny idea and asked.
> "You ever think maybe we should've brought something with an engine that makes noise? You know, something old, something truly American?"
Frank blinked once. The kind of blink that meant you're an idiot, but you're my idiot.
> "You mean something that lets the bastards know we're coming before we're ready?"
Bruce scratched the inside of his elbow absently, his skin itching under the tight weave of Kevlar.
> "Noise is power," he grumbled.
In return Frank smirked slightly and said.
> "Yeah, and you have the brain of a gym bag, Bruce."
Bruce just chuckled in response, and a grin cracked across his not so handsome face. And then he countered Frank's words by flexing and saying.
> "Yeah, and I have the arms of a god."
Frank allowed himself the ghost of an amused laugh, and nothing more. His attention instead shifted back to the target.
The mansion sat at the end of the dirt road like a bunker built by angry children with too many bricks and too little common sense. Three stories tall, no windows on the sides, fresh paint trying and failing to hide bullet holes and old bloodstains. Along with this floodlights covered the property, buzzing with swarms of flies.
And all around the house, it seemed like chaos. Dozens, maybe hundreds of blacked-out cars scattered across the lawn like bones at a feast. Engines still warm. Plates stripped. Tinted windows blacker than sin.
It was a fortress, but not for defense, only containment. A real nest of vipers too busy plotting to notice the wolves at their door.
Frank zoomed in with his binoculars and there he saw them.
Gangsters were slouched on the porch, Black Brotherhood soldiers in thick black coats and iron chains. Musicians, tattooed, laughing and clutching gold-plated pistols. While the Crown Boys were stomping around, beer bottles and machetes in hand, Confederate flags stitched onto their makeshift armor like patches of rotten pride.
Seeing it all Bruce leaned forward, voice low as he said. "Can you believe this shit, they're all here. Mexicans, the British and the Brotherhood. All of them in one place?"
Frank just grunted in distain saying.
> "Can't believe they haven't killed each other yet."
Then Bruce's eyes narrowed, scanning left, and that's when he saw it. A fuel tank, big and ugly. Rust was bleeding down the side like it was already crying for what was about to happen.
Bruce sat back slowly, one gloved hand tapping against his thigh.
"You see it, right?"
Frank didn't answer. He saw it. He knew what it meant.
Bruce turned toward him, grin growing wider beneath the rising adrenaline.
> "You know what I'm thinking?"
Frank sighed, deep and tired.
> "That you're hungry and about to say something profoundly stupid."
Bruce's voice dropped low. A different tone now. Not joking. Not nervous. He was serious this time as he said.
> "Could be, or then maybe not. I'm thinking that's a god damn gift man."
Frank finally looked at him.
> "A gift?"
Bruce nodded toward the tank.
> "No wait. Actually I would say it's more like a sign."
Frank snorted. "From who? The propane fairy?"
Bruce shrugged like it was obvious.
> "From God, man. You don't put a fucking fuel tank against a house full of America's worst unless Someone Upstairs wants it burned to the ground."
Frank stared at him a moment longer than he should have. Because deep down, he agreed.
Inside the mansion, music thudded against the glass. Laughter floated out into the warm night air. Lights flickered from half-open windows. Drunken shadows danced against the walls.
A true last party before hell. Although they didn't know it yet, but soon they would.
Frank adjusted his gloves, checked his sidearm, loaded a new mag into the grenade launcher with a practiced, automatic click.
Bruce unlatched the trunk, two black ballistic cases opened like tombs. Inside it was their armor, their weapons, their warpaint.
And there Bruce's trusted SAW gleamed dully in the dark, the barrel etched in silver letters.
"GOD'S LEFT HAND"
His mask was custom made, hand-painted with a wide grin that was always grinning up at him as he picked it up. Blood-red teeth. Wolf eyes. A face no man ever forgot.
Frank's armor was blank. No marks. No colors. Just black plates and a black mask. A blank face of death.
They geared up without words, straps tightened, velcro hissed, ammo clipped into belts. Magazines were loaded and strapped to their armour until they were heavy enough to drag down a lesser man.
Bruce snapped his mask into place and rolled his shoulders with a groan of satisfaction. Then he looked to Frank and said.
> "Remember man, Army of Two forever."
Frank finished adjusting the launcher's sling, and grunted as he said.
> "More like the Army of Regret."
Bruce chuckled low in his throat.
> "Haha man, if we make it through this, I'm so putting that on a T-shirt. Man your wife and kids are so gonna love it, hahaha."
Frank snapped the mask down over his face. Both mask were bullet proof, and now his voice was more distorted and metallic behind it, Its blank paint shining in the moonlight as he growled.
> "Sure man, make that T-shirt. But remember you'll never live to wear it if your dumb ass lights that tank too early, so be careful. After all you don't wanna die a virgin right?"
Bruce slapped the SAW affectionately.
> "Whatever man, let's just do what we always do. You cover the front, I'll circle left. Then when their eyes are on your handsome face, I'll bring down the fire. Will make this as easy as doing a superset at the gym, right?"
Frank just glanced once more at the chaos across the clearing, at the hundreds of men who didn't know their death warrants had already been signed.
Then he nodded once, and said.
> "Yeah, let's wake the fucking dead."
At the same time the gangsters at the mansion were totally oblivious to what was coming. On the far end of the lawn, someone was doing donuts in a lowrider painted chrome green, sparks flying from the rims as cartel boys hung out the windows with gold pistols and forty-ounce bottles, screaming lyrics about death and God in the same breath.
Two Crown Boys were pissing into the bushes near a burnt-out pickup, one wearing a Stars and Bars bandana, the other a cowboy hat stitched with a British flag.
And in the middle of it all, lounging on the porch in a throne made from a stolen police barricade, a Black Brotherhood shot-caller leaned back and took a drag from a cigar the size of a baseball bat, gold AK resting across his lap like a pet snake.
It was a warlord summit.
A declaration of arrogance.
A crime wedding with no priest.
Bruce seeing it all just cocked his SAW and said.
> "I think it's time we said grace."
And then they moved, Frank went silently forward, cutting a path between parked vehicles like a phantom with a vendetta.
Bruce peeled off left, low and fast, moving like a storm cloud waiting to thunder.
For Bruce every step he took felt like history. It was like every footfall was bringing him closer to the moment when America would either burn a little cleaner, or die choking on its own poison.
For Frank only tactics and survival were on his mind, and soon enough he found a position behind a black Mercedes. It has some bullet holes in the windshield and a crown spray-painted on the hood, but it would do.
There he crouched low, and inhaled once slowly. He knew this was the moment of truth, and then he stood.
Immediately the launcher came up in one clean motion and he fired it with a clean, Thunk sound, followed by the immediate, BOOM.
The grenade tore through the second floor like a divine punch, blowing out the windows in a scream of glass and flame. Bodies flailed through the air. A couch flipped backward into the night like it had been launched from a catapult. The lowrider doing donuts jerked sideways, crashing into a support beam and lighting up with sparks.
Then the party stopped, and the mad screaming started.
The porch was already alive with motion—guns raised, men yelling, alarms tripping in a flood of sirens and old-school rap that blasted out of nowhere.
Bruce saw it all from the flank, and he grinned.
He was already crouching next to the fuel tank. And with all the yelling and noise as his cover, he simply turned the rusty squeaking valve until it sang, and he whispered.
> "God's left hand, let's fucking go."
Behind him gasoline was now flooding the lawn, dark and glistening like spilled blood.
And in the distance Frank was already firing again, another grenade smashing into the entryway, just as Bruce made it to the corner of the building and opened fire as well.
And with a mighty raw the M249 SAW screamed to life. His belt of fury and thunder, sending bullets into the air in a stream of fire.
The gangsters on the lawn dropped like flies under his bullets, blood splashing onto concrete and SUV doors.
And the mansion in response howled to life. Screams came first, and then the gunfire and bullets. But there hardly was any aim to them, it was just blind firing of guns into the darkness before the mansion.
Then more screams came, first were raws, ever rising from every window like smoke. Then came the doors. They didn't open. They exploded.
Gangsters poured out in droves. Dozens. Then more.
From the back. From side hallways. From cellar doors and broken staircases.
Every exit became a floodgate.
Black Brotherhood shock troops surged first, heavy armor and thicker egos, moving like riot cops with tribal markings carved into their chest plates. A few had face paint, war drums tattooed on their forearms, and shotguns in both hands.
The Musicians were louder. Flashier. Wearing torn silk shirts and gold chains, some dragging belt-fed SAWs of their own on makeshift mounts. One fired an Uzi while laughing, half-naked, high as sin.
The Crown Boys charged like a militia—Confederate rags over their heads, makeshift body armor made from car doors and football pads, dragging bolt-actions and belt-fed monstrosities last seen in an NRA wet dream.
And all of them were running at Bruce, but he was already waiting. Instantly at the sight of them the SAW roared to life in his grip, bellowing pure hate.
Shells rained around his boots like brass snow. The sound was unreal, a god-level thunder, sustained and grinding, a storm made of war.
The first line of gangsters disintegrated.
The second stumbled.
The third fired.
But Bruce didn't fall.
His armor lit up with impacts—rounds pinging, shattering, skidding off ceramic plates. Sparks danced across his shoulders. A bullet caught him in the ribs and made him grunt. But he didn't stop.
He walked forward like a juggernaut, with ragged breath and finger locked on the trigger bringing down the wolves.
Soon the porch became mulch again, as Frank held the front.
He was calm, too calm, and each of his grenades launched seemingly with the thud of divine judgment.
Then a back porch collapsed, and on the east side of the mansion an SUV lifted into the air like it was weightless and came down in four flaming pieces.
Frank didn't stop to look, he merely fired, moved, and fired again. There was no wasted motion.
He just dropped bodies between breaths.
Bruce shouted through the comms.
> "They're splitting me! Need a flank pulled—fuckers are crawling over the back yard!"
Frank didn't reply.
He just threw a flashbang over the archway and drew his Glock.
Three Brotherhood heavies came around the corner with machine pistols. Frank snapped all three into silence in under two seconds.
At the same time back behind the mansion, the Musicians started chanting, real chanting, the kind cartel brujas taught them in burning alleys south of the border.
They were summoning adrenaline, rage, maybe something worse. And then from the mansion came the RPGs.
The first rocket missed Frank, just barely. It flew overhead, cracked open a line of cars, and turned a Chrysler into flaming scrap.
The second slammed into the yard near Bruce's right side.
Dirt and fire swallowed him whole.
He rolled, and came up coughing. His mask was cracked, and his shoulder was screaming in pain.
The SAW was almost dry.
He flipped open the pouch for a reload, and found nothing left.
> "Shit!"
Another rocket landed ten meters away.
He grabbed a smoke grenade and popped it as cover, sprinting back toward the Tesla, firing short bursts to keep them low.
Behind him, gangsters screamed. Frank kept lobbing grenades into their faces to keep them off Bruce's trail.
And then Bruce reached the Tesla.
Kicked open the trunk and there it was, his Minigun with a bunny face painted onto the side, and a text saying. "The Hopping fury."
Other than that it was black, sleek and had Rotating barrels of pure sin. A real monster that made him grin.
> "Hahaa, let's do this my hopping friend."
Then he lifted it free from its cage, slammed the feed belt in. Turned back towards the battle and walked with a smile hidden under his mask.
And then the barrels began to spin with a high-pitched whine. The sound alone made gangsters flinch.
Bruce stepped out from behind the Tesla like a god carved from war.
His armor was scorched. His boots left blood in the grass. His mask grinned red as always.
The minigun purred in his grip, and then it screamed, and hell opened.
The first five men disappeared.
They didn't fall, they didn't bleed, they simply disappeared.
Torsos shredded. Legs turned to vapor. Guns snapped in half under the impact. A lowrider behind them took five hundred rounds in five seconds and collapsed like a wet paper bag.
Gangsters screamed in three languages, English, Spanish, and pure fear.
Some fired back, most ran, but It didn't matter.
Bruce kept walking, and the minigun kept roaring like a chainsaw possessed by God.
Blood sprayed. Smoke thickened. Shells hopped around on the ground, and piled around his boots like gold coins.
Frank also was moving again, his keen eyes had caught the glimpse of something beautiful to his eyes. There in one of the burnt-out cars he found a black long case. And inside he found it, a 4 bore elephant gun. Custom made, with a barrel that had the width of a man's thumb. Engraved with two words.
> NO MERCY.
Without hesitation he took it, loaded it, took aim, and then he fired once.
A Crown Boy flew ten feet backward, landing in pieces.
He fired again.
A pair of Musicians tried to duck behind an SUV. The slug went through the door, through the first man, and halfway through the second.
Then Frank slung it to his back, and from the back of another car he pulled out a one-shot light anti-tank weapon, the M72 LAW rocket launcher.
Quickly he aimed and fired, and the rocket whooshed out like a spear of vengeance.
It smashed through a second-floor window and turned a Brotherhood room full of weed into a fireball.
Bruce and Frank moved together now.
Two black figures in the night. One a storm, one a blade.
Still the gangsters kept coming, but slowly they were breaking.
Some dropped their guns and ran. Some begged. Some just screamed prayers in the middle of the chaos, hoping a god they didn't believe in would save them.
But no one was coming for them except bullets and fire.
And for a while it lasted, but soon the gunfire faltered and the screaming slowed.
Frank wiped the blood off his visor with the back of his glove. Bruce's minigun finally hissed silent, its barrel red-hot and steaming in the grass. His breath came in gasps, chest heaving. Ammo was gone. Lawn was soaked in blood. The mansion was burning at the sides, the porch caved in, half the enemy force either dead, crawling, or begging in six different dialects.
And for a moment it seemed that they had won. But that's when the ground began to shake.
At first it was a soft rumble. A tremor, like an aftershock.
Then trees began to sway. Lights from behind the mansion pulsed through the fog and smoke.
Bruce raised his head slowly, eyes narrowing through the haze.
> "You feel that?"
Frank didn't answer. He was already turning, with a new launcher at the ready.
A moment later, the earth screamed.
From the logging road behind the mansion, a roar of steel and thunder came ever closer, And then it appeared, a new modern, seemingly straight out of the factory, a freaking Russian T-90 Tank. A real third-generation warhorse. Steel hull, explosive reactive armor, 125mm smoothbore main gun, sloped like a predator. It rolled into view like a goddamn monster, chewing up the road like it owed it money.
And it wasn't alone.
Another followed behind it, a second T-90 Tank, both of them painted in gang colors, draped in bandanas, graffiti, and half-burned flags. One had a cartoon skull spray-painted over the reactive plating. The other dragged a torn-up banner that used to be a DEA checkpoint flag.
Inside the first tank, the crew clearly had no idea what they were doing.
The machine swerved, and wobbled. Then it lurched forward, directly into the fuel-soaked side of the mansion.
Bruce's eyes widened.
> "No fucking way, are they really gonna?"
And yes they were, the tank drove clean through the puddle of gasoline. Then it happened, a single spark came, probably from the heated undercarriage or a ricocheted bullet, and it ignited the whole line with an instant.
"Boom!"
The fuel tank exploded in a chain reaction. The entire left side of the mansion vanished in fire and thunder.
The T-90 launched into the air like a metal whale breaching from hell, its treads flinging chunks of grass, earth, and flaming bodies before it crashed deep into the treeline and detonated a second time.
A ripple of force flattened everything nearby.
Gangsters were blown off their feet. Doors flew off hinges. Cars lifted, flipped, and caught fire.
Frank ducked behind a cratered slab of cement, dragging Bruce down with him.
They panted. Hearts racing. Smoke curling off their armor.
Before they had done anything one tank was already down, but there still was a second one, and it kept coming.
It rumbled forward, slower now, the crew clearly panicked, probably high, definitely not sober. The gun barrel jerked sideways, then too far upward, then down. The cannon fired once, blind, the shell ripping through trees about 40 meters off-target.
Nowhere near them.
Frank turned his head slowly towards Bruce and said.
> "That's a fucking T-90 Tank."
Bruce nodded. "Manned by idiots by the looks of it."
> "Yeah, but it still has shells and it's a fucking tank."
Then the tank fired again, and missed again. This time it took out a row of burned-out SUVs and dropped a flaming chunk of metal on one of the last wounded Musicians still screaming for his mother.
Silence fell after that, there was no more movement, no more backup for the gangsters it seemed, just the tank and them.
Frank quickly peaked out of cover to see the tank, but instantly dropped back into cover beside Bruce, chest heaving. His armor was slightly scorched, and cracked at the shoulders from the earlier battle. He pressed his back to the car that used to be so clean, but now it was burned and twisted.
Bruce dropped beside him as he coughed into his glove. His minigun was dry now. The belt-fed monster had stopped spinning three seconds before the first tank exploded, and now it hung useless at his side like a dead limb.
All around them, the battlefield was quiet. The mansion was still burning, its roof sagging inward, the once-proud porch now just ash and rubble. Bodies smoldered in the grass. Screams had stopped. Only the crackle of flames and the low whine of the second tank's engine filled the air.
> "You saw that right?" Bruce muttered, voice hoarse. "T-90s? RPGs? That ain't gangland tech. That's military surplus, Russian."
Frank was already thinking it.
> "We've fought these assholes for years," Frank said. "Black market guns, sure. But tanks? Two of them?"
Bruce reached up and tore the cracked half of his wolf mask away, revealing a bruised face and a blood-crusted lip.
> "Something's off man. This ain't cartel-level. This is, deeper."
Then the tank rumbled again. Its turret shifted, sweeping lazily across the lawn like a drunk predator. The muzzle passed within twenty meters of them but kept going, aimed too high. The gunner inside either didn't know what he was doing, or didn't care.
Frank peeked around the ruined car.
> "That's Russian gear. Direct from the source."
Bruce scratched his face in thought and asked.
> "Think it's a gift from the Russians or something?"
Frank didn't answer, but he didn't say no.
Then as if remembering something Bruce spat blood into the dirt, and then quietly said.
> "You remember the chatter last year? Trump meeting with Russian backchannel reps. That plan to let them take Ukraine in exchange for, silence or something like that?"
Frank nodded and added by saying.
> "Yeah, and greenlighting Mexico for occupation, and opening the border to burn the cartels out."
Bruce nodded slowly and then looked at the battlefield and suggested.
> "Yeah, but what if this here was always the setup for that?"
Frank's jaw tightened, he seemed to be in thought and then he said.
> "You know, it just might be that. First they start a real gang war. Scare the public. And then start justifying the arms build up, and the military on the streets. Then the tanks come to fight the gangs. And then the executive orders come, and they unite the nation through fire."
As Frank finished, they looked at each other, no words were needed.
They'd seen it before. In other countries. Other dirty wars. But not here.
Not in Vermont.
Not on American soil.
Then the tank belched black smoke as it twisted its heavy hull toward the ruined mansion. As Its massive 125mm smoothbore cannon began to sweep slowly, imprecisely, back toward them.
Bruce leaned around the edge of the car, watching the gun wobble.
> "That turret's not tracking right," he muttered. "They've got no idea what they're doing."
Frank checked his launcher. One shot left. No margin for error.
> "Still a T-90. Still a monster," Frank replied.
He was studying it closely now, like he'd trained for this moment. And he had. Long nights, no sleep, watching real footage out of Ukraine, pouring over every article and battlefield breakdown he could get his hands on.
Frank didn't just carry weapons, he studied them. Respected them, and he knew how to destroy tanks.
> "ERA on the front and turret's thick as hell," he muttered, mostly to himself. "Shtora jammers still active. Back plate's weak. Vents too."
He scanned the angle. Their position was garbage. No clean shot.
But if he could hit it from behind—right at the engine deck—it would cook off.
> "We need an opening," he said aloud.
> "Then let's make one," Bruce replied, without hesitation.
Frank turned his head sharply.
> "Wait, no Bruce."
But Bruce was already moving.
He tossed aside the empty minigun and sprinted across the lawn, zigzagging between flaming cars and moaning bodies.
> "HEY! OVER HERE, METAL DICK!"
Instantly the tank twitched, and the turret corrected. And Bruce ran as fast as his massive body would let him. Deep inside he couldn't help but curse his luck for being born with such a body, if only he was smaller and more agile. Kind of like those talented little Gymnastic girls on TV, then maybe he could just roll past the tanks shells or something.
Frank on the other hand stepped out of cover and lined up his launcher, and waited.
But then the T-90 fired towards Bruce. The shell screamed through the night and hit right next to him with a boom.
The impact was cataclysmic.
It didn't just knock him down, It launched him—thirty feet through the air.
He hit the ground hard like a ragdoll. The armour did what it could but the cracks were heard and bones had broken, and flesh had been torn.
Still Frank didn't move, not yet, not until he had his shot.
The tank was shifting now, beginning a turn. Seemingly trying to follow Bruce's flying form, trying to reacquire.
Seeing it Frank dropped to one knee, and focused. He ignored the blood trickling down his arm, the smoke, the static in his headset.
He just aimed low, at the rear quarter, right at the cooling vent above the treads.
And then he fired.
The M72 LAW kicked back with an instant sharp thud, and the rocket screamed downrange.
With precision, it slammed into the back of the tank, just above the engine compartment.
Then there was a moment, just a breath of stillness.
Then it came, BOOM.
The tank's rear exploded upward like a volcano, plates blown clean off, turret jolting sideways as smoke poured from every seam. Secondary detonations followed, internal fire cooking off ammo or fuel.
Then the hatch popped open, and a body flailed out, burning and screaming in agony. Until it went silent and collapsed twitching into the dirt.
The tank had stopped moving now, and Frank finally exhaled. He dropped the launcher and ran.
Bruce was lying near the foot of a shattered oak tree. His armor was torn. One leg twisted wrong. Blood leaking from beneath the plates in slow, sticky rivers.
But he was alive, although barely.
Frank skidded to his side.
> "Don't you fucking die."
Bruce opened one eye. Barely.
His voice came out dry and broken.
> "That, sucked."
Frank chuckled. Choked.
> "You should've waited."
> "No time."
> "There's always time."
> "Not for us."
Frank looked back toward the burning tank.
> "You bought me the shot."
> "You take it?"
> "Like a pro."
Bruce grinned through the pain.
> "Told you I was good for something."
Frank gripped his shoulder.
> "You're not dying."
> "Come on, man…"
> "You're not. We're gonna make it. I'll carry you, the cars still good I think."
But Bruce just shook his head and said weakly.
> "No Frank, it's over for me."
> "Shut up Bruce. We said England next summer, remember? All those places you wouldn't shut up about—sausage rolls, curry, Yorkshire pudding? And that fish and chips cart remember. Yeah that's right, that one. We're doing it and a lot more, just you and me. And yes, this time I won't bring my wife and kids along, no matter how much they beg and want to travel with uncle Bruce."
In response Bruce blinked slowly. Blood was now trickling down his mouth, yet he managed to weakly speak again.
> "You don't have to do that Frank. I like your family. We just need to make sure those chips have ketchup, ok?"
Frank's throat tightened.
> "Just hold on Bruce ok, remember we made a vow."
Bruce didn't answer.
> "You don't leave me. I don't leave you. Brothers to the last fucking breath."
Hearing the words, Bruce showed a slight smile as he whispered
> "Till the end,"
Then the ground suddenly shifted and both men froze.
A rumble, low and deep, rattled through the stone beneath them.
Frank turned towards the mansion and there he saw it. Smoke was pouring out of the mansion's basement vents.
Unknown to them, the munitions stockpile in the basement had caught fire.
But Frank was quick to guess what was about to happen, and instantly his heart dropped.
The munitions, the goddamn basement, he thought and then said.
> "Oh fuck."
He didn't think, didn't even breathe, he just threw his body over Bruce's without hesitation, shielding him with his own armor, pressing him into the dirt. And he wrapped his arms tight around his brother in arms, head tucked in, like he could will the coming fire away through sheer loyalty.
Bruce tried to protest, to move.
> "Frank, no, you idiot."
But Frank just gritted his teeth and growled.
> "Shut up Bruce, I'm not leaving you alone. Wherever you go, then I go as well."
And then in a heartbeat, a hiss came, then a flash, and then the mansion detonated.
But it wasn't just an explosion, it was total annihilation.
The munitions stockpile, the ammo crates, the tank shells, the stored fuel drums, it all ignited at once, sending a shockwave of superheated force that tore outward in a dome of white fire.
The earth convulsed, metal liquefied, trees around the mansion didn't simply burn, they were vaporized.
And the light swallowed the night whole, and the last thing Bruce ever saw was the black silhouette of Frank's arms locked around him, shielding him even in death.
Frank's body took the brunt of it, his armor buckled, flesh beneath turned to ash, the force lifted both of them off the ground like paper dolls, ripped their gear to shreds, and shattered bones into dust.
But even still Frank never let go.
And he died first, just a split-second before Bruce, in one last brotherly embrace. His one final act of defiance against a world that deserved neither of them,and Bruce followed him into the light.
But it wasn't Frank's end, it was his new begining. Frank's own new journey into what at first seemed like darkness. Not cold, but not warm either. It was just a deep, humming silence.
For a time Frank floated, or maybe he fell, he wasn't sure.
Memories flared around him, flashes of battles, of laughter, of promises made over whiskey and gunfire.
And then something pulled him, soft and sure. It was warm, a tether.