The hangar was cold.
Not the kind of cold that touched your skin — the kind that crawled into your bones and stayed there.
Steel walls stretched high overhead, stained with oil and old blood.Pallets of ammunition sat stacked like tombstones along the edges.Helicopters idled outside, blades slicing the night with rhythmic mechanical hunger.
Frank Armstrong stood at the edge of the gathered operators, arms folded, his face a wall of stone.
Beside him, Bruce Redford shifted, tightening the heavy exoskeleton straps across his chest — the magnetic-fed minigun mounted against him like a second spine.His breath misted in the air. His knuckles flexed.
The Specters, the Ghosts, the Grey Wardens, the Black Hand, Foxhound, and Task Force 141 — the best of the best — formed a loose semi-circle around the battered holographic table in the center of the hangar.
Waiting.
Silent.
Expectant.
Heavy boots clanged against metal as General Walter "Bulldog" Redford strode into the room.No ceremony.No introduction.
He slammed a gloved hand down on the table, lighting up the hologram — a rotating wireframe of a crumbling old fortress buried in the Vermont mountains.
Fort Blackridge.
The "target."
The room bathed in a faint blue light as the General growled, voice like gravel dragged across concrete.
"Listen up. This is a simple job. The gangs are meeting tonight at Blackridge. Black Brotherhood, Musicians, Crown Boys. If they form an alliance? America's cities fall within the year."
"You're here to stop that. Hard and fast."
Frank's jaw tightened.
Bruce exhaled slowly, feeling the weight of it settle.
The General flicked his finger across the table — images of Crown Boys waving Confederate flags, Musicians singing over dead bodies, Black Brotherhood soldiers saluting with bloodied hands.
"Intel says light arms only. AKs, RPGs at worst. No heavy armor. No tanks. No air defenses."
"Weapons free. Full presidential authorization."
The words slammed into the operators like rounds from a shotgun.No civilians.No limitations.No mercy.
Frank caught Bruce's glance.
Something felt wrong.
Too easy.
Too perfect.
But Frank said nothing.He was a soldier. Orders were orders.
The General kept speaking.
"Specters will insert northwest. Sabotage their communications. Ghosts — south side sweep. Grey Wardens — frontal assault. Task Force 141 and Black Hand — breach support."
"Army of Two…"His eyes locked on Frank and Bruce.
"You two? You're the hammer. Crash the courtyard. Breach deep. Find the leadership. End it."
A low, humorless chuckle escaped Bruce.
Frank simply nodded.
"Any questions?"
Silence.
Nobody dared.
The mission was too big.The stakes too real.The lies too invisible.
The General clicked the hologram off with a swipe of his wrist.
"Good."
"Mount up. Wheels up in twenty."
"Tonight... you make history."
He turned and walked away, heavy footsteps fading into the howling wind outside.
The hangar fell into a flurry of grim, practiced motion.
Frank pulled on his helmet, the HUD flashing to life.
Bruce racked the charging handle on his minigun, the machine purring like a dragon in a cage.
The Specters checked suppressors and knives.The Ghosts tightened armor straps.The Grey Wardens hefted their shields and LMGs.The Black Hand packed charges into satchels.Foxhound calibrated sniper scopes.
Outside, the helicopters roared louder, engines eager for blood.
Frank placed a hand on Bruce's shoulder — firm, solid.
"We go together."
Bruce grinned fiercely.
"Army of Two, brother."
They boarded.
The night swallowed them.
And the slaughter began.
The helicopters roared low over the Vermont treetops, their black hulls slicing through the mist like phantoms.
Inside the lead bird, Frank sat strapped into the troop bay, rifle resting across his lap.Bruce sat beside him, checking the magnetic feeds on his minigun one last time, fingers moving with mechanical calm.
Specters, Ghosts, Black Hand, Grey Wardens, Task Force 141 — packed tight in their own birds, flying in a staggered V formation.
The radio crackled softly, a rhythmic hum of heartbeats, breathing, gear checks.
"Approaching Fort Blackridge. ETA two minutes."
Frank's HUD lit up with a blinking red marker — the fortress emerging in the darkness ahead.
But it wasn't what he expected.
Not ruins.
Not a crumbling shell.
What rose out of the mist was a mountain stronghold.Concrete walls three stories high.Watchtowers repaired and manned.Floodlights slicing across the snowy valley.
"That ain't no prison," Bruce muttered under his breath.
Frank's gut twisted.
Before he could key his mic, the world exploded.
Missiles launched from the treeline.
MANPADS. RPGs. Dozens.
Trails of fire streaked upward like the fists of the damned.
"MISSILE LOCK! MISSILE LOCK!" a pilot screamed.
The Specters' chopper took the first hit — a bloom of fire and smoke as it spun sideways, black shapes falling from it like broken dolls.
Then a second bird — one carrying Black Hand — erupted midair, the shockwave rattling Frank's teeth even through the armor.
"Specter One is down!""Black Hand Two is burning!""We're hit! Mayday, mayday!"
Radio channels exploded with chaos.
Frank slammed his fist against the side door, yelling over comms:
"Command, we're under heavy fire! It's a damn killzone! Request immediate reinforcements! Immediate evac!"
Static crackled.
Then General Redford's voice, cold as a grave:
"Negative. Stay on mission. Complete the objective. Godspeed."
Bruce's head snapped toward Frank, eyes wide under his helmet.
Betrayal hit like a second missile, silent and gut-deep.
There would be no reinforcements.
There would be no extraction.
They had been sent to die.
The Ghosts' helicopter spiraled next, tracer fire raking its side as it tumbled down toward the frozen ground.
Frank gritted his teeth, grabbing Bruce by the shoulder.
"Brace!"
Another impact — their own helicopter jerked hard, spiraling downward.
The cockpit glass shattered under a burst of heavy machine gun fire.The pilots screamed, fighting for control.
Frank slammed his boots into the floor, locking down.Bruce wrapped an arm around a strut, hauling a bleeding crew chief into cover.
Outside the porthole, Fort Blackridge loomed closer — a black fortress rising from the snow, bristling with fire and death.
"Hold on!" Frank roared.
The helicopter slammed into the courtyard like a meteor, skidding across frozen concrete.Steel screamed. Sparks flew. The world spun sideways.
When they stopped moving, the world was fire.
Gunfire tore through the wreck.Explosions rattled the bones of the mountain.
Frank ripped free of his harness, dragging one of the unconscious pilots across twisted wreckage.
Bruce lifted his minigun, purring to life like an angry god.
Above them, the remaining helicopters tried to limp toward backup landing zones — but more missiles chased them down.
Frank slapped his helmet, switching comms.
"Command, we're down! We're surrounded! Request immediate evac! Repeat, immediate evac!"
Only static.
Only silence.
Until — a second voice broke through.
A voice Frank recognized.
A voice filled with reckless, cocky amusement.
"Relax, princesses. Reinforcements are en route."
"The Punisher is here."
Frank looked up just in time to see a small civilian plane dive straight down toward the fortress, engines shrieking.
A giant hole ripped open across the courtyard as the plane smashed into the outer wall.
And from the smoke and fire, a figure descended —— a black-clad titan, parachuting through the chaos with a grenade launcher barking fire into the enemy below.
Chad von Richter.
The Punisher.
"Hope you assholes saved me a piece!" Chad roared over comms, landing hard behind a burning humvee and popping off another grenade shot.
Frank couldn't help the grin that split his bloodied mouth.
Bruce barked a laugh — deep, rough, wild.
Maybe they were betrayed.
Maybe they were surrounded.
Maybe they were already dead.
But now —now they had a fighting chance.
The Army of Two wasn't alone anymore.
And the fortress had no idea what kind of hell had just dropped onto it.
The world was fire and screaming steel.
Frank yanked the bleeding pilot under the wreckage as another RPG shrieked overhead, detonating against the twisted remains of a second downed Blackhawk.
Bruce unleashed the minigun.
The barrels spun up with a roar, coughing streams of molten lead into the mist.Bodies dropped like ragdolls, ripped apart mid-sprint.
Behind them, Chad moved like a black storm — grenade launcher thudding, sidearm snapping, laughter crackling over the radio.
"Eat shit and die, you gangbanging cockroaches!"
Frank slapped a fresh mag into his rifle and kicked open a twisted doorframe, dragging the last surviving crewman through.
No time to think.
No time to breathe.
The courtyard around them was a slaughterhouse.
Specters scrambled across the north wall, their camo suits flickering in and out like broken ghosts.Grey Wardens, shields raised, pushed across the centerline under a hailstorm of bullets.Ghosts and Foxhound fired from the flanks, trying to break through.
And everywhere —The enemy surged.
Hundreds of them.
Crown Boys screaming nationalist slogans, firing antique rifles and new Russian AKs from behind barricades.
Musicians singing as they threw Molotovs and grenades, the night alive with mad laughter.
Black Brotherhood soldiers roaring battle cries, charging like berserkers with heavy machine guns.
From the courtyard towers, spotlights swung wildly — illuminating rows of technicals with mounted guns, tanks rumbling out from hidden garages, engines belching smoke.
Frank's blood froze.
"Tanks... they have f—"
BOOM.
A shell vaporized a section of the courtyard wall twenty meters away.
Concrete chunks rained down like meteors.
Bruce swung the minigun up, laying down suppressive fire across the barricades, sweeping left to right, cutting down Musicians mid-sprint.
Frank moved with him, covering his side, drilling two Crown Boys through the head before they could toss pipe bombs.
Behind them, Chad vaulted a wrecked humvee, grenading a technical out of existence.
"You boys are lucky I like you!" Chad whooped over the radio."Otherwise I'd let you drown in this shithole!"
Frank didn't bother replying — he was too busy keeping them alive.
He keyed the radio.
"Specters, Ghosts, Grey Wardens — status!"
Specter Lead's voice crackled through gunfire.
"Half strength! Heavy armor everywhere! RPG nests on towers!"
Grey Warden Captain:
"We're pinned! Shields are holding — barely!"
Ghost Leader:
"Lost two already! South tower is a goddamn machine gun nest!"
Frank glanced at Bruce.
The big man's armor was already scorched and pitted.Blood leaked from a gash on his forehead.But his eyes burned like wildfire.
Frank switched to the command channel.
"Command, we need immediate armor support! Heavy enemy presence — tanks, AA guns, fortified bunkers! We are taking heavy casualties!"
Silence.
Then General Redford's voice, cold, uncaring:
"Negative. Prioritize target elimination. Leadership is the objective. Push forward. Reinforcements en route. Godspeed."
Frank's stomach twisted into knots.
He looked around.
Helicopters burning.
Friends dying.
No cavalry.
No extraction.
Only death ahead.
"They're abandoning us," Bruce growled through clenched teeth.
Frank nodded grimly.
"Then we finish the job anyway."
Chad laughed over the comms.
"You boys finally getting it? Nobody's coming. Just us, the worms, and a mountain full of corpses waiting to be made."
Frank checked his mag.Bruce racked his minigun.Chad snapped a new grenade into place.
The courtyard was a killzone — no cover, only fire and ruin.But somewhere beyond it, inside those thick concrete walls, the leadership waited.
If they were going to die, they were going to take as many of the bastards with them as possible.
Frank raised his rifle.
"On me."
Bruce spun the minigun barrels, heat distortion rippling around him.
Chad cracked his neck.
They charged.
Straight into the teeth of the fortress.
Bullets shredded the air around them.
Tracer rounds carved red-hot trails through the smoke.Every step forward was a fight against death itself.
Frank dropped to one knee behind a broken barrier, squeezing off three precise shots.One Black Brotherhood soldier jerked back, spinning in a spray of blood.
"Bruce, left flank — now!"
Bruce roared like a beast, stepping into the open, minigun spinning to full shriek.
BRRRRRRRRT.
The Crown Boys' position evaporated in a hurricane of lead.Limbs and weapons scattered across the courtyard like broken toys.
Chad vaulted the twisted remains of a tank, grenades flying from his belt.
"Say hello to my little friends!" he barked over the comms, a manic grin in his voice.
BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.
Explosions tore craters into the enemy lines.
For a moment — just a heartbeat — the advance staggered.
Frank didn't waste it.
He sprinted forward, leading Bruce and Chad through the chaos, weaving between burning trucks and smoking wreckage.
Behind them, the survivors of Specters, Ghosts, and Grey Wardens formed a ragged wedge, pressing forward under brutal covering fire.
The base walls loomed just ahead —— reinforced concrete stained with gang graffiti and old blood.The fortress wasn't just defended.It was armed like a goddamn fortress from another war.
Mounted .50 cals hammered from slit windows.RPG teams scrambled into second-floor balconies, firing recklessly into the advancing operators.
"Covering fire! Suppress those balconies!" Frank barked.
Ghosts and Specters obeyed instantly, bursts of precise fire shredding the gunners.
A Warden with a riot shield took a rocket dead center — thrown backward like a rag doll.
Frank grimaced but didn't stop.
He knew now — they couldn't save everyone.
The only path was forward.
They reached the main blast doors — three meters of solid steel, chained with jury-rigged scrap and crude gang welding.
Chad slammed a breaching charge onto the seams without hesitation.
"Fire in the hole, sweethearts!" he yelled, vaulting back behind a burnt-out APC.
Frank tackled Bruce behind a truck frame just as the wall exploded inward with a deafening roar.
Smoke and shrapnel clouded the air — and from within the base, fresh howls erupted.
Dozens — maybe hundreds — of gangsters surged forward inside the halls, firing blindly through the smoke.
Frank didn't hesitate.
He rose into a crouch and charged.
"PUSH! INTO THE BREACH!"
Bruce moved beside him, unleashing bursts from his spinning minigun, mowing down the first wave.
Chad was a blur, shotgun booming, grenades flashing.
Behind them, the surviving operators plunged into the base like wolves into a slaughterhouse.
Inside Fort Blackridge:
The hallways were narrow, lined with rusted steel and concrete barriers.
Old prison walkways sagged under the weight of too many bodies.
Gunfire echoed endlessly through the corridors.The lights flickered under emergency power, casting everything in stuttering red and gold flashes.
Frank ducked a shotgun blast, returning fire with a quick triple-tap to center mass.
Bruce crushed two Musicians who rushed him, fists hammering like sledgehammers when the minigun jammed.
Chad slammed a Crown Boy into a concrete wall with enough force to leave a bloody smear, then laughed over open comms:
"Hope you fuckers brought more friends!"
They fought room to room.
Blood sprayed the walls.
Boots crunched over spent shells, shattered teeth, and broken glass.
There was no time to check the bodies.No time to count the dead.
Only forward.
Always forward.
Frank slammed his shoulder against a steel security door, pushing deeper into the fortress.
His HUD flickered with frantic team status updates:
Grey Wardens: 40% casualties.
Specters: 50% casualties.
Ghosts: scattered and pinned.
Foxhound: no response.
It was a massacre.
But they were still alive.
Still moving.
And somewhere deeper inside this hellhole, the leadership of three mega-gangs was hiding like rats behind concrete and steel.
Waiting.
Frank wiped blood from his visor.
"We push straight to the heart," he growled."Kill the leaders. End this."
Bruce reloaded the minigun drum, steel fingers clicking tight.
Chad wiped a bloody smear from his armor, flashing a wicked grin.
"About goddamn time."
Together —they charged deeper into the belly of the beast.
The steel corridors narrowed.
The deeper they pushed, the older everything became.Concrete walls cracked and sweating moisture.Rusted bulkhead doors creaking under their own weight.The fortress stank of oil, blood, and something worse — old death.
Frank led the way, rifle tight against his shoulder, sweeping every corner.
Bruce lumbered beside him, minigun loaded and humming like an angry storm.
Chad covered the rear, grenades clinking against his vest, casually humming an old country war song under his breath.
Behind them, the remnants of the other teams struggled to keep pace — a ragged handful of Ghosts, one or two surviving Wardens, a bleeding Specter limping but refusing to fall.
The air grew thicker.
Heavy.
Wrong.
They reached the first security checkpoint.
The gate had been blown inward from the inside — not out.
Frank paused, scanning the blackened blast marks.
"This wasn't breached during our assault," he muttered.
Bruce frowned.
Chad stepped past them, kicking over a scorched helmet —a Russian helmet.
Cyrillic letters, faded but clear, scrawled across the inside rim.
"The hell is this?" Bruce growled.
Frank moved to the next doorway — a reinforced vault door ripped open by sheer explosive force.
He shined his tactical light inside.
And what he saw made his stomach sink.
Rows upon rows of missile racks.
Storm Shadow cruise missiles.
Kh-59 air-to-surface missiles.
Leaking, cracked fuel tanks.
Chemical drums labeled with radiation symbols.
Russian crates — AKs, RPGs, Igla MANPADS, mortars.
Dozens of tanks lined in storage cradles, half covered with rotting tarps.
And down the center of it all, massive fuel pipes snaked like veins through the concrete —pipes dripping, leaking into growing pools across the cracked floor.
Frank's heart pounded harder than it ever had in all his years of combat.
"This isn't a gang hideout," he breathed.
"This... is a Cold War bunker."
Bruce swung his light to the walls — old peeling murals in faded Soviet red and black.
Training slogans.
Battle doctrines.
Instructions for mass mobilization.
It wasn't just a fortress.
It was a goddamn relic — a weapon stockpile waiting to ignite.
Chad whistled low, adjusting his grip on the grenade launcher.
"So… we got missiles, fuel, tanks, and more explosives than a Fourth of July parade."
"Anyone else feeling like we walked into a goddamn funeral?"
Frank's comms buzzed with distorted static.
A command ping from General Redford forced its way through:
"Target leadership located. Deep underground. Push now. Reinforcements inbound. Hold strong."
A lie.
A goddamn lie.
Frank clenched his fists so hard the gloves creaked.
"He knew," Frank whispered."He knew all along."
"We were never meant to come back."
Bruce's face darkened, eyes narrowing beneath the shadow of his cracked helmet.
Chad just grinned wider, baring his teeth like a wolf.
"Figures," he muttered."That's alright. Never planned on dying in bed anyway."
Another tremor shook the ground.
Far behind them — muffled explosions.Gunfire.Gang reinforcements pouring in from the surface.
They were trapped between a fortress stuffed with missiles and an army of enemies hunting them down like rats.
"We keep pushing," Frank said.
"We finish it."
Bruce slammed a fresh drum onto his minigun, locking it into place.
Chad cocked his launcher with a sharp click.
No more illusions.
No more backup.
No more survival.
Only one way forward —and fire waiting at the end.
They descended into the deeper sublevels —past the missile hangars, past the chemical labs, into the old experimental nuclear bunker.
Red emergency lights stuttered overhead.
The air reeked of burnt ozone and rotting metal.
Somewhere below them...the clock was ticking.
And death was coming to meet them.
The stairwells spiraled downward like the throat of a monster.
Frank led the way, boots hammering against rusted steel steps slick with frost and grime.Bruce followed — a lumbering engine of destruction, minigun humming low and dangerous.Chad brought up the rear, shotgun loose in his hands, moving with the lazy, lethal grace of a wolf on the hunt.
The deeper they went, the worse the air got.Thick. Metallic. Tainted with something like old blood and leaking jet fuel.
The radio crackled sporadically — distant gunfire, distorted screams, half-broken transmissions from dying squads above.
Behind them, explosions shook the earth as enemy reinforcements crashed through the outer defenses, swarming the fortress like maggots.
They had no more time.
No backup.
No exit.
Only the mission.
At the bottom of the stairwell, they hit a sealed service tunnel — heavy blast doors cracked open just enough for a man to slip through.
And someone had.
Fresh boot prints in the grime.
Frank raised his fist — silent signal.
Bruce and Chad fanned out, weapons up.
They moved forward — slow, steady, hearts hammering.
A figure stumbled into view.
Not a gangster.Not a soldier.
A man in civilian gear — battered body armor hanging loose over a greasy jumpsuit, a backpack bulging awkwardly at his side.
He was limping, looking over his shoulder in panic, clutching a small, blinking device tight to his chest.
Frank lunged without hesitation.
"HANDS IN THE AIR!"
The man yelped, turned to run — too slow.
Bruce caught him like a hawk catching a rabbit, slamming him face-first into the concrete.The device clattered out of his hands, bouncing across the floor.
Chad picked it up, turning it over in his hands.
A portable detonator.
Live.
Armed.
Ticking.
Frank slammed the man against the wall harder, pulling a knife and pressing it just under his eye.
"Talk.""Right. Now."
The man whimpered, blood dribbling from his mouth.
"I—I was sent by command!" he stammered."I'm one of you! They paid me to come in, arm the charges—""Set the mountain to blow once you were deep inside—"
Frank tightened his grip.
"And now?"
The man shook like a leaf.
"Now—now I'm trapped too! They lied to me! They didn't tell me when the op would start! I was supposed to be gone by now!"
Bruce leaned in, voice low and deadly.
"How long?"
The man swallowed hard.
"Fifteen minutes. Maybe less. I—I don't know how to shut it down. It's buried under the missile racks. If we move it wrong..."
He didn't finish.
He didn't have to.
Frank's mind raced.
The detonator in Chad's hand blinked steadily —a countdown to apocalypse.
Above them, they could already hear it — the reinforcements.Hundreds more gangsters.Tanks rolling into the upper levels.The heavy boots of thousands of killers descending toward them.
They were trapped.
Between the bomb and the enemy.
Between betrayal and death.
Chad dropped the detonator into Frank's hand, smiling that cocky, reckless grin.
"Looks like we're gonna be famous after all."
Bruce cracked his knuckles, the sound like gunshots in the dark.
"What's the play?"
Frank stared at the blinking detonator.
At the cowering, useless inside man.
At the tunnels stretching ahead — missiles stacked like dominoes, fuel dripping from broken pipes, death waiting in every shadow.
He exhaled slowly.
"We go deeper."
"We find that bomb."
"We stop it — or die trying."
No hesitation.
No second thoughts.
The Army of Two didn't run.
And with Chad at their back, they would carve a path through hell itself if they had to.
Frank dragged the traitor to his feet and shoved him forward.
"You're coming with us, asshole."
Chad chuckled as he loaded another round into his launcher.
"Hope you packed a helmet, buddy. You're about to see what real war looks like."
They moved — fast, brutal, unstoppable —deeper into the fortress.
Toward the missile storage.
Toward the bomb.
Toward the end.
The tunnels trembled with distant thunder.
Above them, the fortress groaned under the weight of chaos —machine gun fire, explosions, the scream of tanks grinding against the stone floors.
The traitor stumbled ahead under Bruce's iron grip, sobbing, babbling half-sentences of regret.No one listened.
Frank marched with grim purpose, scanning corners, weapon ready.Chad brought up the rear, grenade launcher slung casually, humming low like he had all the time in the world.
But time was the one thing they didn't have.
The detonator blinked faster.
Fifteen minutes.
Maybe less.
The tunnel widened.
And what waited ahead stopped them cold.
An underground city of death.
The bunker's lowest level — a massive loading dock stretching out into shadow.
Missile crates stacked like apartment blocks.
Fuel trucks leaking oily puddles across cracked concrete.
T-72 tanks, freshly repainted with gang colors, warming their engines.
Armored technicals loaded with .50 cals and recoilless rifles.
Hundreds — no, thousands — of gangsters moving like ants through the depot, arming, shouting, preparing.
Black Brotherhood shock troops — armored in stolen military gear, chanting and slamming rifle butts into the ground.
Musician cartel soldiers — singing madly, waving machetes and AKs.
Crown Boys — rigging tanks with Confederate flags and rocket pods, screaming about glory and blood.
A full goddamn army.
Frank swore under his breath.
Chad just smiled wider.
"Now that... is a party."
Frank keyed his mic.
"Command, this is Titan-1. We have heavy armor. Full battalion strength. Requesting immediate support! Repeat, immediate—"
Silence.
Then the General's voice, clipped, cold.
"Negative. Proceed with mission. Reinforcements en route. Hold your position."
The lie was so blatant, so empty, that Frank almost laughed.
Bruce growled low — an animal sound deep in his chest.
Chad just laughed for real.
"Figures. Looks like it's just us girls for the dance."
Frank checked his mag.
Bruce spun the minigun barrels with a low mechanical whine.
Chad loaded a fresh drum into his launcher, slapping it home.
"What's the plan, boss?" Chad asked, grinning like the devil himself.
Frank stared at the blinking detonator in his hand.
Then at the endless sea of enemies between them and the heart of the missile depot.
"Same as always."
"Punch a hole. Keep punching until it stops moving."
Bruce cracked his neck.
Chad blew a kiss toward the enemy ranks.
"Let's make it biblical."
They charged.
Frank led the assault, rifle snapping precise death into the first wave of gangsters.
Bruce followed, minigun roaring thunder — whole groups shredded in seconds, limbs flying, blood misting the air.
Chad danced through the chaos, grenade launcher barking explosions into tanks and trucks.
Boom.
A Crown Boys' technical flipped end over end, landing in a fireball.
BRRRRRRT.
Black Brotherhood soldiers crumpled like broken toys under Bruce's fire.
Frank ducked and rolled under a tank's turret swing, planting thermite charges against the treads.
"Light 'em up!"
Chad fired a grenade into a parked fuel truck —BOOOOM.The shockwave flattened a squad of Musicians trying to flank.
Gangsters scattered, screaming, regrouping.
A tank belched smoke and rumbled forward, cannon swiveling toward Frank's squad.
Bruce didn't flinch.
He charged straight into the open.
"Cover me!" Frank barked.
Bruce planted his boots wide, braced the minigun, and unleashed hell.
The .50 cal shells ripped into the tank's optics, chewing through armor seams.
Chad circled left, pulling two grenades, cooking them for half a second, and hurling them under the tank's chassis.
BOOM. BOOM.
The tank shuddered, collapsed sideways — its undercarriage ripped open.
The gangsters roared in rage and fear.
"They're calling more reinforcements!" Bruce shouted.
"We gotta move now!"
Frank scanned the field.
There —beyond the ocean of fire and bodies —a reinforced elevator shaft leading straight down into the missile silos.
Where the bomb control hub would be.
Their only shot.
Their only hope.
Frank barked into comms:
"All remaining units, on me! Final push! FINAL PUSH!"
Maybe ten operators answered.
Maybe less.
But it didn't matter.
They were wolves now.
Fighting not for orders.
Not for survival.
But for each other.
Together, Frank, Bruce, Chad, and the last of the SpecOps survivors carved a path through hell.
Bullets sang past their ears.
Missiles detonated overhead.
Tanks ground steel under their treads.
The bunker shook, crumbling, groaning — the mountain itself screaming as it bled.
And somewhere beneath it all,the bomb's clock kept ticking.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
They reached the elevator shaft.
Or what was left of it.
Steel doors hung twisted and broken, the interior blackened with soot.The platform had been blown halfway down — jammed and burning.
No time for second guesses.
Frank snapped a grappling line to the shaft wall, fired, and clipped it to his belt.
Bruce grabbed a thick steel cable with one hand, minigun strapped to his back like a sleeping dragon.
Chad cracked his neck, tied off a rope line with lazy precision, and winked.
"Race you to hell."
They descended into darkness.
Smoke and fire chased them down the shaft like hungry ghosts.
Below —deeper than any prison, any fortress —the final chamber waited.
A hollowed-out cavern larger than anything built by sane men.Flooded with leaking rocket fuel.Missile racks, broken and smoking.Tanks overturned and burning.
And in the center —a massive, jury-rigged warhead cluster.
Three Storm Shadow missiles fused together into a makeshift nuclear-level explosive.
The detonator blinked furiously now.
Less than three minutes left.
Frank hit the ground first, rolling into cover behind a smashed fuel truck.
Bruce landed hard beside him, boots cracking concrete.
Chad touched down last, grenading a squad of Black Brotherhood fighters trying to sprint across the open hangar.
"We're outta time!" Bruce barked.
Frank nodded grimly.
He spotted the bomb controls — halfway across the open bay, behind a makeshift barricade of missile crates and broken tanks.
A kill zone.
Gangsters swarmed between them and the bomb —dozens, maybe hundreds, clawing toward their position, firing wildly.
Behind them, more enemy reinforcements flooded in from the upper tunnels —an endless tide of shouting, gun-waving maniacs.
They were boxed in.
No way back.
No way out.
Only forward.
Frank keyed his mic — what was left of the team, what was left of hope.
"Final push. Objective is the bomb. No second chances."
Bruce slammed a fresh drum onto the minigun.
Chad racked his launcher, voice dark and gleeful.
"Let's go make some noise."
They charged.
A final charge.
The Army of Two and the Punisher leading a dead man's sprint into the teeth of hell.
Frank fired precise, clinical shots — head, heart, head, heart — clearing a narrow path.
Bruce unleashed the full screaming fury of the minigun, mowing down enemies like wheat before a scythe.
Chad vaulted wreckage, planting grenades and hurling them like gifts of death, laughing like a man already halfway into the afterlife.
BOOM.
A technical exploded.
BRRRRRRT.
A Black Brotherhood assault squad disintegrated under Bruce's fire.
CRACK-CRACK-BOOM.
Frank put down three Musicians with perfect shots through the eye.
But for every one they killed, three more surged forward.
Bullets tore through the air.
Shells detonated against the walls.
Fuel fires raced across the ground, reaching for the leaking missile crates.
Frank reached the barricade first, ducking under a hail of wild gunfire.
Bruce followed, dragging the unconscious inside man behind him like a broken doll.
Chad covered their rear — blood streaking his armor, eyes blazing.
Frank vaulted over the wreckage and skidded toward the bomb control panel.
Too late.
The detonator locked into final sequence.
Sixty seconds.
Frank's heart slammed against his ribs.
No override.
No shutdown.
Only detonation.
They had been dead the moment they touched ground.
"We can't stop it," Frank rasped.
Bruce's jaw clenched, eyes burning.
Chad just laughed — broken, savage, defiant.
"Then let's make sure they never forget us."
The enemy swarmed closer, wild and frenzied.
Frank looked at Bruce.
Bruce looked at Frank.
Chad reloaded one last shell, teeth bared in a bloody grin.
Silent.
Certain.
Brotherhood written into their bones.
Frank moved first —stepping between Bruce and the bomb as the first wave of gangsters reached firing range.
Bruce tried to shove him aside.
"No, dammit! We stand together!"
But Frank smiled under the broken helmet.
The same crooked grin he'd worn the day they met as kids.
"Army of Two, Bruce."
"Until the last breath."
The bomb went off.
Light swallowed the world.
Sound tore the mountain apart.
Stone melted.Steel vaporized.Bodies and blood became nothing.
The explosion ripped upward, punching a mushroom cloud through the Vermont sky.The shockwave flattened forests for miles.
Fort Blackridge —the gangs —the tanks —the missiles —everything—
Gone.
Only ash on the winter wind.
In the heart of the inferno, for just a moment —three silhouettes stood together.
Defiant.
Unbroken.
The world was gone.
Fort Blackridge — the fortress of death — was no more.
Where once concrete towers clawed at the sky, now there was only a smoking crater.Melted stone. Twisted steel.Ash falling like black snow across the mountains.
The fires burned without mercy, roaring up into the starless sky.Their light could be seen for miles — a beacon of annihilation.
There were no screams.No gunfire.No sounds of life.
Only the wind, whispering across the ruined earth.
Only silence.
Far above, orbiting drones captured the devastation.
Satellites broadcast broken images across secure government channels.
And in bunkers buried deep under Washington D.C., men in suits nodded solemnly at the screens.
General Redford stood before a war table, arms crossed, face carved from cold iron.
Behind him, aides whispered urgently.
Reports flowed in —
Total enemy annihilation.
Target location neutralized.
No surviving operators.
Operation Final Stand: Successful.
No emotion crossed the General's face.
Not pride.
Not guilt.
Only grim acceptance.
He keyed the secure line, speaking into the heart of America's bleeding future.
"The martyrs are dead."
"Prepare the speech."
"By dawn, the country will mourn them."
"And beg us to build a new America in their name."
In the coming days, their faces would appear on every screen.
Frank Armstrong.
Bruce Redford.
Chad von Richter — "The Punisher."
Heroes, they would call them.
Saints of the battlefield.
Proof that America needed stronger men, harder laws, bigger guns.
Proof that only iron could save a dying nation.
But for now —in the burned heart of the Vermont mountains —there were no parades.
No medals.
No music.
Only the crater.
Only the ash.
Only the broken silence of three men who had given everything, not for glory,but for each other.
And somewhere —beyond the ruins, beyond death —something ancient stirred.
Waiting.
Watching.
Preparing to call them home.