Outside the Royal Tower, the street had been transformed into a mechanized slaughterhouse. The "Iron Curtain" protocol was no longer just a defense; it was an executioner. The automated turrets hidden in the masonry fired with a cold, precision that no human could match. Every time a cluster of mercenaries tried to regroup, a hail of lead from a Royal building or a burst from a hovering Falcon helicopter turned them into a memory.
The air was thick with the scent of cordite, burning rubber, and the metallic tang of blood. Thompson's police force, emboldened by the arrival of the Royal air support, pushed through the wreckage.
"Drop the weapon! Hands behind your head!" a police officer shouted, pinning a young gang member against a burning car.
The mercenary, terrified and realizing the "bounty" was a lie, threw his rifle aside and dropped to his knees. He raised his hands, shaking. "I surrender! I surrender! Please—!"
Thwip.
