David was driving.
Frank sat in the back, silently prepping his gear.
The air inside the van was so tense, even the radio seemed to hush itself.
At the final traffic light before leaving the city, Rory suddenly asked:
"David, have you ever thought about what you'll do once you return to normal life?"
David's hands tightened slightly on the steering wheel. He paused, then shook his head.
"I just want to see my family again. That's all."
Every day, he watched his wife and children through surveillance cameras, each moment a painful reminder of what he'd lost. But that pain was also his reason to keep going.
Frank was the same.
His drive was vengeance.
Rory's motivation, on the other hand, came from an obsession with bioengineering, and getting stronger.
"David," Rory said, "everything we do is so that one day we can live better. You say you want to go home, but have you thought about what comes next? What job will you take? What gifts will you bring your family?"
David looked genuinely lost.
Because he hadn't thought that far.
He only imagined the moment of reunion, never the reality of rebuilding.
In America, being a good husband wasn't exactly easy.
Rory caught Frank's eye in the rearview mirror and added:
"Maybe you should take a page out of Frank's book, just live like a zombie. No one cares, you don't care, and when you die, nobody remembers. That's peace, right?"
David let out a nervous laugh and wisely stayed silent.
Frank looked up, scoffing:
"Mind your own business. My life's not your concern."
That was just Frank, he never accepted kindness, but had no problem soaking up hostility and then turning it into bullets.
Rory shook his head:
"I should've upgraded your IQ along with your muscles. But hey, as long as you're happy. After all, paying the stupid tax is tough enough."
Frank took a beat to realize Rory was calling him dumb in a roundabout way.
His aim was legendary.
His comebacks? Not so much.
"Rory, you're a damn bastard."
"Thanks. At least my head isn't just for decoration, and I don't get all weepy over someone who tried to kill me."
David parked the van two kilometers out from Rollins' countryside estate.
The drone footage on his screen showed the place was crawling with guards.
Armed patrols. Guard dogs.
Like a fortress.
All three men huddled around the tiny display.
"Frank," Rory said, "what's the move?"
Frank rubbed his chin, thinking.
"Best bet? One draws fire from the front. The other sneaks in from the side."
Classic infiltration tactic.
But… who plays bait?
Frank was a battlefield tactician. He could take the front, but he wanted to be the one to finish Rollins himself.
Rory could act as the decoy, but his odds weren't great, if the guards turned back to support, Frank would be surrounded.
David tapped the satellite map and highlighted the nearest emergency response points.
"Closest police station is 17 km out. Military base is 28 km. Cops would take 30–40 minutes. But if the military sends a chopper? They'll be here in under 5."
"Fan-freakin'-tastic," Rory muttered.
Rollins was CIA.
If things got loud, backup would rain from the skies.
"If I had Hulk's powers, we'd skip all this and just bulldoze the place," Rory grumbled.
He turned to David.
"Why don't you be the decoy?"
David looked at him like he'd gone insane.
"I'm an analyst! I sit at desks! I wanna live!"
Frank sighed.
"I'll do it. I'll draw their attention. Rory, take the explosives. When they pull back to defend the house, blow the bastards sky-high."
He pulled out a backpack loaded with TNT and handed David the detonator.
"This is the trigger. Don't push it until I say."
Rory raised his hand.
"Objection. What if he panics and hits it early? Then I'm toast."
They ignored him.
Weapons loaded. Doors slid open. Frank stepped out first.
Before Rory left the van, he jabbed a finger at David.
"I swear, if you touch that trigger before the command, I will come back from the grave and haunt you."
A few minutes later, Rory was in position, crouched in a grove beside the estate.
"In position," he whispered into comms.
"Copy."
Frank's voice came through, along with the crack of a suppressed rifle.
One down.
Instantly, the estate lit up with alarms.
The guards split, half falling back to protect the main house, half heading toward Frank's position.
But they weren't taking the bait.
They stayed inside the grounds.
"Change of plans," Frank barked. "Rory, flank and help me clear the perimeter."
"On it."
Rory moved in, rifle ready. His chaotic "faith-based" marksmanship didn't help much at a distance, he needed to close in.
Frank was still firing from the treeline, drawing heat.
Rory reached the outer wall and opened up.
Bang bang bang.
He emptied a full mag.
Only dropped two.
The guards scrambled, repositioning, and in doing so, opened gaps Frank could exploit.
Bang! Bang!
Rat-a-tat.
Rory pulled a grenade, yanked the pin, and hurled it around the wall.
BOOM.
Frank charged in, and together they cleaned house.
At the front door, Frank gave it a mighty kick.
Didn't budge.
"Reinforced blast door. I need the TNT."
He rigged the charge, then spoke into the comms.
"David, now. Trigger it."
KRA-KOOM.
Dust and flame erupted.
The entry was gone.
Frank lobbed the remaining TNT through the hole.
"Hit it again!"
BOOM.
The entire frame shook.
Frank dove into the smoke.
Rory followed right behind.
Three minutes later, it was all over.
Only three people were left standing in the entire estate:
Rory.
Frank.
And CIA Covert Ops Director William Rollins, on his knees, hands in the air.
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