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And behind them, the ruins of the Old North Church stood silent that holding its secrets close, waiting for whatever came next.
The Humvees didn't get far before Robert lifted his hand again.
The convoy slowed almost immediately, engines dropping back down into a muted rumble as the vehicles rolled to a controlled stop along a broken stretch of road half-swallowed by weeds and old rubble. The Old North Church was still visible behind them, its ruined steeple cutting a crooked line against the night sky.
MacCready glanced over, brow creasing. "What's up?"
Robert didn't answer right away. He stared ahead through the windshield, then checked the side mirror, then the rearview. Habit. Pattern recognition. He'd learned long ago that danger wasn't always something you saw—sometimes it was what didn't move when it should.
Finally, he exhaled slowly.
"We're not leaving," he said.
MacCready blinked once. "That so?"
Robert nodded. "Not yet."
He keyed the internal comms, his voice low but carrying clearly through the lead vehicle and into the others. "All units, hold position. We're setting up temporary camp."
There was a brief pause on the channel. No objections. Just acknowledgments.
MacCready leaned back in his seat, studying Robert now. "You thinking what I'm thinking?"
"That they knew we'd come," Robert said. "And they melted away the moment they sensed us moving in."
MacCready's mouth tightened. "Railroad remnants aren't dumb. Paranoid, sure. But not dumb."
"Exactly," Robert replied. "If there are survivors and I'm convinced there are, they wouldn't just abandon a symbolic site like that forever. They'd wait."
MacCready tilted his head. "Wait for us to leave."
Robert finally looked at him. "Which means we don't."
Silence stretched between them, not uncomfortable. Just heavy with understanding.
MacCready huffed quietly. "Two or three days?"
"Minimum," Robert said. "We pull back a hundred meters. Out of sight. Minimal footprint. No lights at night. No obvious patrol patterns."
MacCready nodded slowly. "Let them think the patrol came, checked, and moved on."
"And when they come back," Robert finished, "we see who they are."
MacCready grinned faintly, but there was no humor in his eyes this time. "Hide the knife in plain sight."
Robert allowed himself the ghost of a smile. "You said it."
The camp went up quickly and quietly.
They chose a depression in the terrain, partially shielded by collapsed brick walls and overgrown trees that had clawed their way back into dominance after centuries of neglect. From there, the Old North Church was barely visible through gaps in the foliage as a broken silhouette framed by branches and shadow.
Commandos moved with disciplined efficiency.
No raised voices. No unnecessary movement.
Humvees were parked beneath tree cover, camouflage netting drawn over them until they blended into the dark like sleeping beasts. Gear was stowed with care. Perimeter sensors were placed by hand, old-school and reliable, tuned low enough to catch movement without lighting up the night like a beacon.
MacCready supervised one flank personally, crouching beside a pair of Commandos as they set a motion trip.
"Sensitive, but not twitchy," he murmured. "If a radroach sets this thing off, I'm blaming you."
One of the Commandos smirked faintly. "I'll take the blame if it means we get company."
MacCready snorted. "Careful what you wish for."
By the time they finished, the camp barely existed unless you knew where to look.
Robert walked the perimeter himself, checking lines of sight, listening to the subtle language of the night. Wind through leaves. Distant creaks of old metal. The low, constant hum of the city's bones shifting in their sleep.
Nothing out of place.
Yet.
He returned to the center of the camp where MacCready sat on a crate, rifle across his knees, cleaning cloth moving in slow, thoughtful strokes.
"You think they're watching us right now?" MacCready asked without looking up.
"Wouldn't surprise me," Robert said.
MacCready glanced toward the church. "Hard to imagine anyone still believing in that cause after what happened."
Robert leaned against a broken wall, folding his arms. "People don't fight for causes. They fight for meaning. For each other. You destroy the structure, the symbol, the headquarters as it doesn't erase the reason they picked up a gun in the first place."
MacCready considered that. "So you're saying if there's even a handful left…"
"They'll circle back," Robert said. "Maybe not tonight. Maybe not tomorrow. But they will."
MacCready smiled thinly. "Guess we're patient now."
Robert met his gaze. "We have to be."
The first night passed without incident.
No movement. No signals tripped. No shapes in the shadows.
The Commandos rotated watches in near silence, bodies settling into the long, quiet discipline of waiting. Some leaned against trees. Others sat cross-legged on cold ground, eyes half-lidded but sharp beneath the surface. Breath misted faintly in the cool air.
MacCready took the late watch with Robert.
They didn't talk much at first.
Eventually, MacCready broke the silence. "You ever notice how waiting's worse than fighting?"
Robert nodded. "Because fighting gives you answers."
"Yeah," MacCready said. "Waiting just gives you time to imagine what you missed."
They fell quiet again.
Dawn came pale and hesitant, light filtering through clouds and branches, painting the ruins in muted gray. The Old North Church looked even more wounded in daylight, its scars laid bare without the mercy of darkness.
Still nothing moved.
Day one bled into day two.
They kept their presence deliberately dull. No obvious patrols. No visible activity near the church. Anyone watching from afar would see a convoy arrive, linger briefly, and then vanish.
Which was exactly the point.
MacCready spent part of the second day lying prone with binoculars, watching the church through a narrow sightline.
"You know," he muttered, "if this works, I'm never letting you forget it."
Robert didn't look away from his own scope. "And if it doesn't?"
MacCready shrugged. "Then we wasted a few days camping near a haunted church. I've done worse."
Robert almost smiled.
Night fell again.
That was when the sensors whispered.
Not an alarm. Not a scream.
Just a soft vibration through Robert's wrist unit with a low-priority movement alert from the eastern perimeter.
He froze.
MacCready felt it too. He looked over immediately, eyes sharpening. "You got that?"
Robert nodded once. He raised two fingers, then pointed, signaling silently to nearby Commandos.
Movement rippled outward, controlled and precise.
They didn't rush.
They waited.
Another vibration. Then another.
MacCready slowly raised his binoculars, angling them toward the church grounds.
"There," he breathed.
Robert followed his gaze.
At first, it was nothing. Just shadow and broken stone.
Then the shadow shifted.
A figure slipped between ruined pews visible through the shattered doorway. Then another. Then a third.
Careful. Cautious.
Like people who knew exactly how dangerous this place was.
MacCready's jaw tightened. "Son of a bitch."
Robert felt a cold, calm certainty settle into his chest. "They came back."
The figures moved slowly, weapons low but ready, scanning their surroundings with the wariness of those who had learned the cost of mistakes. One paused near the entrance, crouching to examine the ground.
"Checking for tracks," MacCready whispered. "Smart."
Robert keyed his comms, voice barely above a breath. "All units, eyes on church. Do not engage. Repeat, do not engage."
MacCready glanced at him. "You sure?"
"We want to see how many," Robert said. "And where they go."
The figures slipped inside the church.
Minutes dragged by.
More shapes appeared which maybe four, five, or six in total are approaching from different directions, converging with careful timing. No lights. No chatter.
MacCready counted under his breath. "At least seven. Maybe eight."
Robert nodded. "More than I hoped. Less than I feared."
They watched as the group disappeared underground, slipping into the catacombs like ghosts reclaiming old ground.
MacCready lowered his binoculars slowly. "Well," he said quietly, "guess you were right."
Robert didn't respond. His focus was already shifting, planning three moves ahead.
"They waited until we 'left,'" MacCready continued. "Which means they were watching."
"Yes," Robert said. "And now they think it's safe."
MacCready's lips curved into a grim smile. "That's usually when things get interesting."
Robert turned to him. "We don't hit them yet."
MacCready frowned slightly. "Even now?"
"Especially now," Robert replied. "We confirm patterns. Numbers. See if this is all of them or just a recon element."
MacCready studied him for a moment, then nodded. "You're the boss."
Robert keyed the comms again. "All units, remain concealed. We observe only."
The night stretched on.
The Railroad remnants stayed underground for nearly two hours. No lights visible. No sound carried far enough to reach the camp.
When they finally emerged, it was with more confidence than before. Less hesitation. One of them even paused to lean against a broken column, helmet off, breathing in the night air like someone revisiting an old home.
MacCready's voice dropped. "That one's relaxed."
"Which means they don't think we're close," Robert said.
The figures spoke quietly among themselves that too far to hear words, but body language told its own story. Agreement. Planning. A sense of relief.
Then, one by one, they disappeared again as this time not into the church, but slipping away into the city, vanishing down alleys and collapsed streets.
MacCready exhaled slowly. "They're spreading out."
"Or heading back to wherever they're actually based," Robert said.
MacCready looked at him. "So what now?"
Robert's gaze remained fixed on the empty church. "Now we follow. Carefully."
A pause.
"And we tell Sico everything."
MacCready nodded. "He's not gonna like this."
"No," Robert agreed. "But he needs to know."
They stayed in place until dawn, documenting everything from movement times, numbers, directions, behavior. When the sun finally crept over the horizon, the Old North Church stood empty again, silent as a grave.
But no longer abandoned.
As the camp quietly packed up later that morning, MacCready glanced back one last time.
"Guess the ghosts are real after all."
Robert tightened the strap of his pack. "Ghosts don't leave footprints."
Then MacCready broke the silence first.
They were crouched near the edge of the camp, the sky just beginning to pale with early morning light, the kind that didn't quite feel like day yet. The Old North Church sat behind them again, quiet and hollow, as if nothing had happened there at all.
MacCready adjusted the strap of his rifle and glanced toward Robert. "So," he said quietly, keeping his voice low out of habit even now, "we heading back to Sanctuary and telling Sico what we found?"
Robert didn't answer immediately.
He was kneeling by a small patch of disturbed earth, studying it like it might speak if he stared long enough. Boot prints. Careful ones. Not rushed, not sloppy. Whoever had made them knew how to move without advertising it, but even the best left something behind.
After a long moment, Robert shook his head.
"No," he said.
MacCready blinked. "No?"
Robert straightened slowly, rolling his shoulders once as if settling the weight of the decision into place. "Not yet."
MacCready studied his face, searching for the angle. "You thinking we tail them."
"Yes."
MacCready let out a slow breath through his nose. "Thought so."
Robert met his eyes. "We go back now, all we tell Sico is that Railroad remnants still exist and they're cautious. Useful, but incomplete."
"And you want the whole picture," MacCready said.
"I want their nest," Robert replied. "Their real hideout. Somewhere they feel safe enough to sleep. To plan. To gather."
MacCready tilted his head slightly. "So when Sico decides to end it—"
"We don't chase shadows," Robert finished. "We hit something solid."
MacCready's mouth curled into a thin, approving grin. "Or we wait until they all crawl back into the same hole."
"And then we close it," Robert said calmly.
The words hung between them, heavy but precise. Not cruel. Just inevitable.
MacCready glanced back toward the church one last time. "You know this means we're committing to this. If they spook again, we could lose them."
Robert nodded. "That's why we do it slow."
He keyed the comms, his voice barely more than a whisper. "All units, new directive. We shadow. No engagement unless compromised. Maintain distance. Rotate eyes."
Acknowledgments filtered back in soft clicks and murmurs.
MacCready exhaled. "Guess we're not camping anymore."
"We're hunting," Robert said. "Quietly."
They moved out in staggered elements, leaving no obvious trail behind. The Humvees stayed concealed where they were, camo netting pulled tight, engines cold. Too loud. Too visible. From here on out, it was boots, patience, and restraint.
The Commandos split into smaller teams, each assigned to track one direction the Railroad remnants had taken when they dispersed. MacCready and Robert took the western route, slipping through narrow streets and collapsed alleys where the city felt like it was pressing in from all sides.
Boston at this hour was a graveyard of old intentions.
Buildings leaned against one another like exhausted drunks. Rusted cars sat half-sunk into asphalt that had cracked and heaved over decades. Somewhere far off, a feral ghoul howled, the sound echoing through empty streets before fading again into nothing.
MacCready moved easily, rifle low but ready, eyes flicking constantly. He'd done this kind of tracking more times than he could count. People thought following someone was about staying close.
It wasn't.
It was about knowing when to stop.
"There," he murmured, crouching near a broken fire escape.
Robert followed his gaze.
A faint movement ahead. Not a person, not yet but a shift in the pattern of debris. A loose piece of paper fluttering where there was no wind. Something brushed past recently.
"They're good," MacCready said quietly. "But not perfect."
"They don't expect to be followed," Robert replied. "They think they shook us."
That confidence was a weakness.
They moved for hours like that, leapfrogging from cover to cover, rotating Commandos in and out so no single person stayed too close for too long. When one team risked losing visual, another picked it up from a different angle.
It was slow. Painfully slow.
But it worked.
By midday, patterns began to emerge.
The Railroad remnants weren't scattering randomly. Their paths curved, doubled back, intersected in subtle ways that avoided obvious routes. They avoided open spaces. Avoided known scav hotspots. Avoided anything that smelled like Brotherhood or Freemasons territory.
"They're funneling," MacCready whispered as they paused behind the shell of an old café.
Robert nodded. "Toward something."
It became clearer by the second day.
They weren't heading deep into the city center, where ruins piled on top of ruins and danger waited in every shadow. And they weren't fleeing outward toward the wastes either.
They were circling.
Staying within a certain radius.
Like wolves moving around a den.
The Commandos rotated again that night, maintaining eyes without letting fatigue dull their edges. They slept in short bursts when they could, backs against walls, weapons within reach. No fires. No talking above a murmur.
MacCready took a late watch with Robert again, perched on the roof of a half-collapsed office building that gave them a wide view of several streets.
"You know," MacCready said quietly, binoculars pressed to his eyes, "I used to think wiping out the Railroad was clean. Necessary, sure, but clean."
Robert didn't look away from his scope. "And now?"
MacCready lowered the binoculars slowly. "Now it feels like stepping on a spider and realizing the nest's still under the floorboards."
Robert said nothing.
Because MacCready was right.
By the third day, they found it.
Not the hideout itself not yet but the boundary.
A line the remnants didn't cross casually. A place where movement changed. Where they slowed, checked corners more carefully, used hand signals instead of whispers.
Robert watched through his scope as two figures approached a nondescript building at the edge of what used to be a residential block. It looked unremarkable: three stories, brick façade blackened by age and fire, windows boarded or shattered. The kind of place no one noticed twice.
The kind of place you chose if you didn't want to be found.
One of the figures knocked. Not randomly. A precise rhythm.
Nothing happened.
Then the door opened just enough to swallow them both, closing again immediately.
MacCready sucked in a quiet breath. "There."
Robert didn't respond, but his eyes burned with focus.
They didn't rush it.
They watched.
Over the next several hours, more figures arrived. Always alone or in pairs. Always cautious. Always after checking the street for too long to be casual.
By nightfall, Robert counted at least fourteen.
"More than at the church," MacCready murmured.
"Which means the church group was only a fraction," Robert said.
"And this is home base," MacCready finished.
Robert keyed his comms, voice controlled. "All units, confirm visual on target building. Maintain concealment. Do not approach."
Acknowledgments rolled in.
MacCready leaned back against the concrete lip of the roof, letting out a slow breath. "So now what?"
Robert finally allowed himself to sit. "Now we learn."
They stayed another day.
And another.
They mapped routines. Entry times. Exit times. Who left alone. Who left armed heavier than others. They identified sentries from subtle ones, positioned far enough away to blend in, pretending to scavenge or rest while watching the streets.
"These people adapted," MacCready said quietly one evening. "They learned from getting burned."
"Yes," Robert replied. "Which makes them dangerous."
"And predictable," MacCready added.
Robert glanced at him. "Explain."
"They're paranoid," MacCready said. "They won't risk large movements. They won't meet anywhere else unless they're forced. Which means…"
"When they gather," Robert said slowly, "they'll gather here."
MacCready nodded. "All of them."
Robert looked back at the building, its dark windows giving nothing away. "Which means if Sico gives the word—"
"We don't chase them through the city," MacCready said. "We end it in one place."
Silence settled again.
Later that night, Robert finally keyed his encrypted channel to Sanctuary.
Sico's voice came through low and steady. "Report."
Robert didn't waste words.
"Railroad remnants confirmed," he said. "They abandoned Old North Church temporarily. Returned once they believed the patrol was gone. We observed and followed. Located primary hideout."
There was a pause on the line. Not surprise. Calculation.
"How many?" Sico asked.
"Minimum twenty," Robert replied. "Possibly more rotating in and out. They're cautious. Disciplined. Still organized."
"And the location?"
Robert gave it.
Another pause. Longer this time.
"Can you strike now?" Sico asked.
Robert glanced at MacCready, who was listening silently beside him.
"Yes," Robert said. "But I recommend waiting."
"Explain," Sico said.
"They don't all stay there at once," Robert replied. "Yet. But patterns suggest they will. If we wait, we can hit the entire network in one operation instead of scattering survivors."
MacCready leaned closer to the comm, voice calm. "We're already ghosts out here. They don't know they've been followed."
Sico exhaled slowly on the other end. "And you're confident?"
"Yes," Robert said without hesitation.
Silence stretched.
Then: "Very well. Maintain observation. Do not engage without my authorization."
"Yes, sir," Robert replied.
The channel closed.
MacCready leaned back, staring up at the broken sky above the city. "Well," he said softly, "guess we're in it now."
Robert allowed himself a thin smile. "We already were."
They stayed.
Watching.
Waiting.
The waiting stretched.
Not the kind of waiting that came with rest or safety, but the kind that pressed down on the back of the skull, the kind that made every sound feel louder and every shadow feel like it might move if you stared too hard. The kind of waiting that demanded discipline more than courage.
Over the next two days, Robert, MacCready, and the twenty Commandos became part of the city's breathing rhythm.
They didn't just observe the Railroad remnants, they learned them.
The hideout building settled into their awareness like a living thing. A three-story brick structure that had once been apartments, then offices, then nothing at all. Its windows were a patchwork of boards, rusted metal sheets, and broken glass that caught the light wrong. From the outside, it screamed abandonment. From the inside as Robert could feel it even without stepping foot inside, it pulsed with quiet intent.
They watched entrances and exits until patterns etched themselves into memory.
The Railroad remnants never moved in groups larger than four. Usually one or two at a time. They rotated sentries constantly, but never in obvious ways. One would linger near a corner pretending to sort scrap. Another might sit on a stoop across the street, head bowed as if asleep, weapon hidden but ready. They communicated with gestures so subtle that most people would miss them entirely: a shift of weight, a hand brushing a sleeve, a pause held a fraction too long.
"These aren't amateurs," MacCready muttered on the first night, binoculars steady against the building's edge. "Someone's been training them."
Robert didn't answer. He didn't need to. He saw it too.
The Commandos rotated in tight cycles, ensuring no one stayed on watch too long. Fatigue was the enemy now, not bullets. They slept in short, controlled bursts with twenty minutes here, thirty there using timers and whispered wake-up calls. No one complained. Everyone understood what was at stake.
On the second day, the numbers began to climb.
Not all at once.
Slowly.
One figure entered at dawn, slipping inside after a careful scan of the street. Another arrived mid-morning, moving through back alleys Robert hadn't even realized connected to the block. By afternoon, pairs started showing up. Then trios.
MacCready kept a running tally scratched into a small notepad he carried folded inside his jacket. He didn't trust memory alone for something this important.
"Twenty-eight," he whispered late that afternoon, crouched beside Robert behind a collapsed wall. "That's confirmed entries since yesterday."
Robert nodded, eyes never leaving the scope. "How many exits?"
"Ten," MacCready replied. "Which means eighteen still inside. Minimum."
Robert exhaled slowly. "They're gathering."
By the third night, the city felt different.
Heavier.
As if the air itself knew something was coming.
More Railroad remnants arrived after sunset. Some looked worn, their armor mismatched and scarred, faces lined with exhaustion and something like stubborn defiance. Others moved with sharper edges, weapons cleaner, posture more disciplined. Leadership types, Robert suspected. Or at least people who'd survived long enough to learn hard lessons.
MacCready watched one woman arrive just before midnight. She paused at the corner, scanned the rooftops, then tapped twice against a pipe embedded in the wall.
The door opened almost instantly.
"She's important," MacCready murmured.
"How can you tell?" Robert asked quietly.
"She didn't knock," MacCready said. "She signaled. And they answered fast."
Robert marked it mentally.
By dawn of the fourth day, the count crossed a threshold neither of them had expected so soon.
"Forty-six," MacCready said softly, eyes dark-rimmed with exhaustion but sharp. "And I'm lowballing."
Robert frowned. "They're pulling in stragglers."
"Or calling in everyone they trust," MacCready replied. "Which tells me something."
Robert glanced at him. "What?"
MacCready lowered the binoculars. "They think they're safe. Or they think something big's coming and they want numbers."
Robert considered that. Both possibilities were dangerous.
They didn't rush to contact Sico yet.
Not until they were sure.
The Commandos shifted positions slightly, tightening their observation net without closing the distance. One team repositioned to a fire escape across the street. Another climbed the shell of a parking structure two blocks away, giving them a top-down view of rooftops and alleys.
The Railroad remnants never noticed.
That, more than anything else, worried Robert.
Because overconfidence always came before bloodshed.
By the end of the fourth day, the number was undeniable.
MacCready stared at his notepad for a long moment, then looked up at Robert. "Sixty."
Robert felt the weight of that number settle in his chest.
"Confirmed?" he asked.
MacCready nodded. "Confirmed entries. No double-counts. No guesswork. Sixty bodies, minimum, rotating through that building."
Robert leaned back against the concrete wall, closed his eyes for half a second, then opened them again.
"Alright," he said quietly. "That's enough."
MacCready watched him closely. "You calling it in."
"Yes."
Robert keyed his encrypted channel again, turning his back slightly to shield the device, voice low and steady.
"Sico," he said.
The reply came almost immediately. "Go ahead."
"We've confirmed numbers," Robert reported. "Railroad remnants have consolidated. Current count sits at approximately sixty members."
Silence stretched on the line.
Sixty wasn't just a number.
It was a statement.
"That's more than expected," Sico said finally.
"Yes, sir," Robert replied. "They've been pulling everyone in. This is likely the bulk of what remains."
"And the location remains the same?"
"Yes," Robert said. "Primary hideout unchanged. High confidence."
Another pause. Robert could picture Sico standing somewhere quiet, weighing options, seeing lines move on maps only he could see.
"Your recommendation?" Sico asked.
Robert didn't hesitate. "We can't handle sixty with twenty without unacceptable losses or letting survivors scatter. I recommend reinforcement."
"How many?" Sico asked.
"Thirty additional Commandos," Robert said. "That gives us fifty total. Enough to surround, isolate, and strike decisively."
MacCready leaned in slightly, adding, "We've mapped routines, entry points, sentries. We can do this clean if we do it now."
The silence that followed was longer.
When Sico spoke again, his voice carried a different weight. Not doubt. Responsibility.
"You're certain this is all of them?"
Robert answered honestly. "As certain as we can be without stepping inside. But patterns suggest they're consolidating. This feels like a gathering point."
Another breath on the line.
"Very well," Sico said. "I'll send thirty Commandos to your location. They'll depart within the hour."
Robert felt tension bleed out of his shoulders just slightly. "Understood."
"And Robert," Sico added.
"Yes, sir?"
"You have authorization to strike once reinforcements arrive," Sico said. "But only when you're confident. I want no survivors slipping away."
"Yes, sir," Robert replied firmly.
The channel closed.
MacCready let out a slow breath he'd clearly been holding. "Well," he said quietly, rubbing a hand over his face, "that's it then."
"Almost," Robert replied.
They gathered the Commandos in small clusters, passing the word quietly, without drama.
Reinforcements incoming. Strike imminent. Stay sharp.
No one cheered. No one cracked jokes.
Faces hardened. Movements became more deliberate.
This was the part where mistakes killed people.
The thirty additional Commandos arrived just before dusk.
They came in the same way Robert and MacCready had originally arrived: five Humvees, standard markings, routine patrol posture. The vehicles rolled in under cover of fading light, parked beneath heavy foliage and collapsed structures that hid them from casual observation.
Robert met the incoming commander briefly, exchanging quick updates and transferring maps, timings, and observed patterns.
"Sixty confirmed," Robert said. "Disciplined, paranoid, but currently complacent. They think they're hidden."
The commander nodded grimly. "We'll prove them wrong."
With fifty Commandos now in place, the atmosphere shifted.
Not louder.
Sharper.
They split into strike elements immediately.
Alpha teams assigned to primary entrances. Bravo teams positioned to cover alleys and potential escape routes. Charlie teams climbed rooftops, setting up overwatch positions with clear lines of sight on windows and doors.
MacCready took charge of a mobile strike unit, his role clear: adapt, respond, cut off anything that slipped through cracks.
Robert moved between teams quietly, checking readiness, answering last-minute questions, adjusting positions by meters and seconds.
Every detail mattered.
They waited for full dark.
The Railroad remnants inside the building showed no sign they suspected anything. Lights flickered occasionally behind boarded windows, carefully shielded. Movement continued inside with shadows passing, doors opening and closing.
At 2300 hours, Robert raised his hand.
Everything froze.
He keyed his comms, voice steady and controlled. "All units, this is Robert. Final confirmation. Targets inside. No civilians detected. Weapons hot on my mark."
MacCready's voice came through the channel. "Mobile team ready."
Alpha lead responded. "Entrances covered."
Bravo confirmed. "Exits sealed."
Charlie chimed in last. "Overwatch ready."
Robert closed his eyes briefly.
Sixty lives inside that building. Sixty choices that had led them here.
Then he opened them again.
"Mark," he said.
The night exploded into controlled violence.
Charges blew inward on the primary entrances, concussive force shattering doors and throwing splinters and dust into the street. Flashbangs followed instantly, light and sound overwhelming confined spaces.
"Go! Go! Go!"
Commandos poured inside in disciplined waves, weapons up, targets identified, shots precise and lethal. There was shouting inside that surprise, panic, orders barked too late.
The Railroad remnants fought back hard.
They were organized. They had fallback positions. Kill zones inside stairwells and hallways that had been prepped long ago. They used cover well, fired in bursts, tried to regroup.
But they were outnumbered now.
And surrounded.
MacCready's team intercepted the first escape attempt barely three minutes in. A side door blew open and four remnants burst out, firing wildly.
MacCready dropped the first with a clean shot to the chest, rolled behind cover as return fire sparked against brick, then popped up again to put down the second and third before they could scatter.
The fourth tried to run.
He didn't make it ten steps.
Inside, the fighting moved floor by floor.
Robert stayed mobile, coordinating, redirecting teams when resistance spiked, sealing off stairwells, ordering breaching charges when doors refused to give.
The inside of the building became a maze of noise, smoke, and collapsing certainty.
Concrete dust hung thick in the air, turning flashlight beams into pale spears that cut through gray fog. Shouts echoed down hallways, overlapping, bouncing off walls until it was impossible to tell which direction they came from. Boots pounded on stairwells. Gunfire cracked sharp and controlled from the Commandos, answered by louder, more desperate bursts from the Railroad remnants.
They had prepared for a fight.
Just not this one.
On the second floor, behind a hastily reinforced barricade made of overturned desks and welded scrap, a man with graying hair and a scar that split his left eyebrow barked orders into the chaos. He wore a long, battered coat reinforced with mismatched armor plates, the faded Railroad insignia half-scraped from the shoulder.
This was their leader.
Or at least one of them.
"Hold the stairwell!" he shouted, waving two fighters into position. "We buy time, then fall back to the third floor! We regroup there!"
His voice carried authority, born not from rank but from survival. He'd seen this kind of moment before. Maybe not against forces this disciplined, but against the Brotherhood, against raiders, against Institute kill teams. Enough times to know that panic killed faster than bullets.
The remnants responded, some of them.
Others were already breaking.
One man fumbled a reload, hands shaking so badly the magazine clattered to the floor. A woman pressed herself flat against the wall, eyes wide, breathing too fast, weapon forgotten in her grip. The leader noticed, grabbed her collar, shook her hard.
"Focus!" he snapped. "You hear me? Focus!"
She nodded too quickly, terror shining through the motion.
They were trying to fight like soldiers.
But they weren't soldiers.
They were survivors pretending they still had a cause solid enough to die for.
The Commandos hit the stairwell with brutal efficiency.
A flashbang went first, rolling under the barricade and detonating with a concussive blast that turned thought into static. Before the echoes even faded, two Commandos surged forward, weapons up, firing in precise bursts. The Railroad remnants returned fire wildly, rounds slamming into walls and chewing apart furniture, but the difference in training showed immediately.
The Commandos didn't rush.
They advanced.
Measured steps. Clear calls. Overlapping fields of fire.
"Left clear."
"Right covered."
"Reloading."
The Railroad fighters shouted too, but it was chaos layered on chaos.
The leader realized it almost instantly.
This wasn't a skirmish.
This was an execution wrapped in tactics.
"Fall back!" he roared. "Now! Third floor! Move!"
They retreated up the stairwell, dragging wounded with them, tripping over debris, slipping in blood that smeared across cracked concrete steps. One man stumbled and went down hard, his rifle skittering away. A Commando put him down with a single shot before he could even scream.
Up on the third floor, the leader slammed a hand against the wall, chest heaving.
"How many?" someone asked.
He didn't answer right away.
He already knew the truth.
Too few.
Not enough to hold. Not enough to counterattack. Not enough to escape cleanly.
Still, he tried.
"Set up here," he ordered, voice hoarse but controlled. "Windows. Hallways. We make them pay for every meter."
They scrambled to comply, overturning furniture, smashing through drywall to create firing angles. Someone kicked open a door that led to the roof access.
The leader's eyes flicked to it.
A possibility.
Not a good one, but a chance.
Below them, the sound of advancing Commandos grew closer. Boots on stairs. Short, clipped orders. The steady cadence of professionals doing exactly what they were trained to do.
The leader swallowed.
"Listen to me," he said to the five people left near him with faces streaked with grime and fear. "If it goes bad, we split. Roof and rear fire escape. Don't bunch up. Don't look back."
One of them laughed, a thin, hysterical sound. "You really think we're getting out?"
The leader met his eyes. "I think some of us might."
It was the closest thing to honesty he had left.
The door at the far end of the hallway blew inward.
The Commandos didn't shout this time.
They didn't need to.
Gunfire ripped through the corridor, precise and lethal. Two Railroad remnants went down before they could even bring their weapons up. Another screamed as a round took his shoulder, spinning him into the wall.
The leader fired back, ducking behind a chunk of concrete, heart hammering. He shouted orders that were barely heard over the noise.
"Roof! Go! Go!"
Two of them bolted for the roof access.
They didn't make it.
MacCready was already there.
He'd moved faster than the Railroad remnants expected, his mobile unit cutting around the building exterior and climbing from a neighboring structure. When the roof door burst open, he was waiting, rifle braced, eyes cold.
The first remnant stepped out and froze.
MacCready didn't.
Two shots. Center mass.
The second remnant tried to retreat, stumbled backward through the doorway, crashing into someone behind him.
MacCready surged forward, kicked the door fully open, and tossed a flashbang inside before they could react.
The explosion of light and sound tore through the small stairwell.
Inside the building, Robert felt it through the floor.
"Roof team engaged," MacCready's voice came through the comms, calm and controlled. "Attempted escape neutralized."
"Copy," Robert replied, already moving.
He advanced up the stairwell with Alpha, stepping over bodies, mind focused, emotions locked away. This wasn't personal. It couldn't be.
The third floor resistance collapsed in minutes.
The remnants fired back, but it was disjointed now. Their leader shouted himself hoarse trying to rally them, but fear had already done its work. One by one, they fell.
When the dust began to clear, only a handful remained alive.
And the leader was one of them.
He retreated into a side room, slamming the door shut, barricading it with whatever he could drag into place. His breathing came in ragged pulls. Blood trickled down his temple from a glancing wound. His hands shook as he reloaded for the last time.
"This is it," he muttered to himself.
Outside, footsteps approached.
Not rushed.
Deliberate.
A voice came through the door, calm, almost gentle.
"Open it," Robert said. "It's over."
The leader barked a laugh. "You really think I'm walking out of here?"
"I think you don't have any other options," Robert replied.
Silence.
The leader closed his eyes for half a second, then shouted, "We fight back!"
He kicked the barricade aside and fired through the doorway.
The return fire was immediate and overwhelming.
Rounds punched into the walls around him, shredding plaster and wood, forcing him back. A sharp impact knocked the weapon from his hands. He stumbled, disoriented, ears ringing.
Before he could recover, Robert was on him.
The tackle drove the air from his lungs, sending them both crashing to the floor. The leader swung wildly, landing a glancing blow against Robert's jaw. Robert barely noticed.
He pinned the man's arm, twisted hard, felt something pop.
The leader screamed.
"Enough," Robert said, voice low and iron-hard.
MacCready appeared a second later, weapon trained, eyes flicking to the corners of the room, ensuring no one else was hiding.
The leader glared up at them, pain and defiance mixing in his eyes.
"You think you won?" he spat.
Robert tightened his grip. "This isn't about winning."
He nodded to MacCready.
MacCready cuffed the leader's remaining good wrist with efficient movements, then hauled him to his feet. Another two Railroad remnants that clearly higher-ups by their gear and demeanor were dragged in by Commandos moments later, wounded but alive.
The rest of the building was quiet now.
Too quiet.
Reports filtered in over the comms.
"First floor clear."
"Second floor secured."
"No additional hostiles."
Robert closed his eyes briefly.
Sixty had gone in.
Only three came out alive.
They escorted the prisoners outside into the cold night air. The building behind them was scorched, windows blown out, smoke curling lazily into the sky. The city absorbed the violence without comment, ruins standing silent witness.
MacCready pushed the leader down onto his knees, boot firm against his back.
The man looked around, eyes darting, finally seeing the full scope of it with fifty Commandos forming a loose perimeter, weapons still up, faces unreadable.
He sagged.
"It's over," he murmured, more to himself than anyone else.
Robert stood in front of him, hands resting at his sides.
"Yes," he said. "It is."
The leader looked up. "You'll kill us anyway."
Robert studied him for a long moment.
"No," he said. "You're more useful alive."
That, more than anything else, broke whatever fight the man had left.
As the Commandos began securing the area and preparing transport for the prisoners, MacCready stepped up beside Robert.
"Well," he said quietly, exhaustion finally creeping into his voice, "that was ugly."
Robert nodded. "But it's done."
MacCready glanced back at the ruined building. "Railroad's finished."
Robert didn't answer immediately.
He thought of beliefs. Of how they didn't always die, how sometimes they changed shape.
Finally, he said, "This chapter is."
They turned away as dawn began to creep over the ruins of Boston, the light pale and uncertain, washing over the aftermath of a war that would never be remembered by history, but would ripple outward all the same.
______________________________________________
• Name: Sico
• Stats :
S: 8,44
P: 7,44
E: 8,44
C: 8,44
I: 9,44
A: 7,45
L: 7
• Skills: advance Mechanic, Science, and Shooting skills, intermediate Medical, Hand to Hand Combat, Lockpicking, Hacking, Persuasion, and Drawing Skills
• Inventory: 53.280 caps, 10mm Pistol, 1500 10mm rounds, 22 mole rats meat, 17 mole rats teeth, 1 fragmentation grenade, 6 stimpak, 1 rad x, 6 fusion core, computer blueprint, modern TV blueprint, camera recorder blueprint, 1 set of combat armor, Automatic Assault Rifle, 1.500 5.56mm rounds, power armor T51 blueprint, Electric Motorcycle blueprint, T-45 power armor, Minigun, 1.000 5mm rounds, Cryolator, 200 cryo cell, Machine Gun Turret Mk1 blueprint, electric car blueprint, Kellogg gun, Righteous Authority, Ashmaker, Furious Power Fist, Full set combat armor blueprint, M240 7.62mm machine guns blueprint, Automatic Assault Rifle blueprint, and Humvee blueprint.
• Active Quest:-