This crossover story is primarily composed of Army of Two and Saints Row video-games; although there are additional influences from franchises of Bioshock and Tom Clancy's Rainbow Six for this occasion. Copyrights infringement not intended.
A different note: The fictional setting here takes place presumably around a couple years before all this COVID-19 conundrum appeared back in real-life. Plus, be warned of the culturally tense... 'pandemonium' written here — for all the other absurdities to appear in potential chapters. Any criticism is affordable, if you all want to.
Chapter 1
An American airliner lands on the asphalt runway of Wesley Cutter International Airport under the morning sun. After coming to a full stop when docked to a jet bridge, the civilian aircraft opens its front door behind the pilot cabin. Therefore, all the passengers gradually exit the airliner through the enclosed connector. Two of them to be tracked of are men wearing casual clothing (jackets and hats included), whose names are Tyson Rios and Elliot Salem by the way. The concourse that they emerge into... has a small crowd of people waiting to get themselves boarded for the next departure flights and no automatic walkways.
"Man... not enough decorations to be wowed about this place. Right, Tyse?"
"Elli, let's focus on our arrival today and the host waiting for us."
"Heh, sure thing."
The masculine pair soon proceed for the custom checkpoints; where their passports are checked for identity verification. Later, the two guys walk to the baggage carousels for picking up their luggage. Once that goes in order, the male duo heads for the main exit of this airport's main terminal.
As this pair of camaraderie move to the outside environment at the loading zone, two women of identical faces and black clothing greet the particular visitor with a hand-wave... and several guards wearing 'business' suits and 'loose' coats. "Glad to have you coming here, Mister Rios and Mister Salem." The lady twin with a white-frame sunglasses addressed the male guests.
"You two some sort of tour-guides for this city, ma'am?" The Chicano New-Yorker guessed.
The identical woman favoring pink sunglasses gives out a correction. "Hmph, more like respectable business partners from our employer that you gentlemen are about to meet."
Salem whistles at the tight-fitting chicks, "Wonder what kinda boss would hire such hotties such as yourselves?"
"Someone that is not be screwed around, Mister Salem." The other indistinguishable sister warned him. "Anyway gents, please sit inside."
Without further troubles, the masculine guests enter this SUV after putting their luggage in the car's covered trunk. Soon, the sport-utility vehicle in a red and black color scheme leaves the airport building — while also escorted by two automobiles of similar paint-jobs.
"You ladies mind telling us your names, out of courtesy?" Tyson politely asked.
"Hmm... our introduction can wait until we're together with the primary client hiring you two," the female person who wore that pink-sunglasses (and being the current driver apparently) responded to the request. "Still, thanks for the proper etiquette towards us members of the fairer sex."
Elliot talks back to his comrade with some weariness, "Shit, Tyse. Do you have to be this uptight so often? We're on a month-long vacation and your family is not in view here."
"A vacation that has at least a catch from what our present contract delivered to us, Elli."
The other lady with the white-frame sunglasses adds in, "Which will be further discussed, once you two fellows make contact with our proprietor. All thing said, we'd all appreciate no more rabbles from your mouths while traveling in this vehicle today."
Promptly so, the male passengers keep their mouth shut for the duration of this ride through the lake-locked city called Steelport. The window views for sightseeing include the waters belonging to the Great Lakes, undefined platforms under construction and floating on the same aquatic body, ports for boats, and the skyscrapers that are part of the metropolis. After around a dozen minutes of unceremonious movement, the convoy finally enters a loading dock/garage within the base of a tall building (located in the Henry Steel Mills neighborhood). Once they fully parked, everyone nonchalantly move out of the automobiles and get their personal effects.
To Rios and Salem, that would be their luggage.
To the rest of the Morningstar members — minus the monozygous ladies... their firearms for any dissatisfying circumstance to pop up.
Can't blame the male VIPs for becoming a bit cautious on the sudden presence of weapons. Even so, the identical twins direct their visiting fellows towards one of those elevators in this enclosed lobby. Once inside, that chosen lift ascends to a specific floor of this 536-metered skyscraper for the upcoming meeting.
"Would you guys mind telling us why the wea-?" Elliot's question is interrupted by an armed guard whose gun barrel has just ominously touched and staying still at the guest's cranium.
"We didn't give you permission to speak at this instance, merc." Demanded the mobster.
The monozygous woman wearing the pink eye-wear further remarks, "Until our chairman allows you pair to talk business, it's advisable to remain silent for the time being."
And so, the revealed 'mercenaries' take heed on that suggestion for the elevator duration. Ultimately, the lift arrives at the desired floor level and open its door for the group to walk into this interior atrium tinted in red color and some five-pointed star decorations. They continue moving thru the layout, until the lot enters a sizable boardroom of that same red pigment (in addition to the Greco-Roman objects on display... and four large, cuboid containers).
Awaiting Tyson and Elliot at the round-table is a well-dressed man with greying hair and a cigar in one hand. "Greetings, fellow owners of Tactical Worldwide Operations. Please sit down so we can politely start our discussion." Correspondingly, the male guests sit on the provided leather chairs on their own. The female twins promptly position themselves side-by-side near the 'french-accent' man, while also standing upright. "I have no doubt you've met these visions here, Viola and Kiki?" Rios and Salem look at the two identical twins with much confusion, then to each other, and finally at the older host of this building. The next thing the Mexican-American does is raising a hand up for questions. The apparent head of this meeting noticed. "Hmph, of course you would have queries concerning this security contract. Speak freely in this appointment, then."
Tyson finally speaks, "For the sake of less confusion, may we request introductions from yourselves beforehand?"
"Certainly." The senior male soon gestured the raven-haired twins to identify themselves.
"The name's Viola DeWynter, lieutenant of the Morningstar division." The lady with the white sunglasses stated.
"I'm Kiki of the Dewynter Sisters," self-introduced the other woman wearing her pink-colored eye-wear.
Elliot cockily comments, "Hot damn, at least I now have some way of telling you two apart."
"Pray that you certainly do, Mister Salem." Viola cautioned.
Then, it's the boss's turn to self-identify. "As for myself typically, Phillipe Loren in charge of this trading enterprise."
"So I've heard, Mister Loren." The Chicano guest acknowledged. "Any further details being permitted for us contractors to know?"
"Only the specifics pertaining to your primary assignments, gentlemen. Anyway, let us punctually proceed with the business conversation."
The Louisianian remarks, "Fine by us PMCs, French guy."
Phillipe's face expresses an annoyance at him. Yet he then shrugs off and signals the identical twins, "Ladies, if you will."
Viola audibly commences, "Ahem... Listen carefully, soldiers of hire. In order to seriously receive your fifty million dollar reward, performing one month of guard duties for our designated assets must be your top priority."
"Which includes VIPs like our employer himself here," Kiki tagged on.
Rios wonders, "If that's the case, then who is being suspected to try an assault in the coming days?"
"Not at this moment in all honesty," Loren admitted. "We currently have no inklings on those responsible for the unwarranted exchanges of goods from our inventory. Even my most talented expert in technology is still working to uncover their identities."
"Uh... hold on," Salem said. "How much lucrative shits did you guys had lost from those trading... mistakes?"
Before he can respond more, the older boss suddenly hears vibrations coming from his smartphone and take it out in the open. "One moment, gentlemen." Phillipe promptly replies with a question, "Anything worthy to report, Mr. Miller?" He listens to the London-based accent from a peer while the rest of the group wait with some 'bewilderment.' "What kind of situation unfolding at the Stilwater 1st National Bank?" Several seconds of hearing an explanation passes by his ears and he then asks, "Do we have security cameras observing this heist?" A moment of more listening later... "Très bien alors, put them on screen at my location." Almost instantaneously, six TV screens pop outwards from the big circular table and subsequently turn themselves on. "My apologies, fellow contractors. It seems that an ongoing incident at our new property in the nearby city of Stilwater has captured our attention. Thus, this meeting here will be on standby until the monitoring is done. You're free to observe the live videos, notwithstanding."
"Likewise, sir." The Mexican-American professional complied as he look at one of the visual-audio devices that solidly delivers the real-time feed within this financial building... which starts with a giant statue of a Greek-like warrior on a horse is demolished to rubble by the fast impact of an unfortunate guard — plus one grenade explosion — launched from... somewhere in the lobby room (filled with gunfire noises).
"What the crazy fuck was that?" Elliot confusingly stated as he watches the live content on a separate screen.
A distorted voice from the TV displays exclaimed, "OH MY GOD!"
"You couldn't wait to kill him until we found out who these guys are?" A female robber wearing an enclosed headgear of a man's large head with sunglasses expressed her minor disapproval on someone's action... while also shooting back at the armed bank tellers.
"Eh." The person responsible for that destruction shrugged.
"Uh... we're gonna die!" The quite panicky individual with a sizable duffel-bag said as he lays low.
"What happens to, "I do my own stunts"?"
"Hey, Hey... do these look like squibs to you?"
The person in full costume outfit commands as he finishes the defending employees with an box-fed assault rifle, "Alright people, let's find that vault." Collectively, the gun-toting burglars leave the lobby for the opened room behind the bank counters. Shortly afterwards, the armed group meets a closed door.
"That's right, you fuckers! We're comin' for you!" That guy grandstanding at the obstacle declared as he kicks one leg... only to fall down without making a dent at the door. "Ow! Oh..."
The female intruder sighs, "Oh Jesus..."
"Get up Birk, let's keep moving." The apparent leader of this robbery berated him, while the other man with the same head-wear competently strikes the hinged barrier with one foot — which unsurprisingly leads to several 'security' guards in the hall trying to stop them with lethal force.
"I can't believe you launched that guy into a statue!" The woman shouted in conjunction to firing her weapon into the defenders.
"I can't believe you're still thinking about it." The fellow burglar moderately countered as he guns his enemies down.
"Do you want to know who these people are?"
The fully-suited honcho reminds his party, "Listen, all that matters is the vault. Let's find that and get the hell outta here." Once all the hostiles were neutralized, the bank robbers go upstairs to the upper floor... only to find red-clad 'mobsters' coming downstairs and then start shooting at the intruders.
"Is this what it's normally like?" The anxious trespasser asked while staying down.
"Normally, the tellers don't use fucking shotguns." The confident one replied, along with shooting opponents at the same time.
"Yeah... normally, banks don't look like a palace either. You see those statues before you blew 'em up?" raised the trouble-making gal.
"Will you forget the horses, these guards are packing military-grade hardware..."
The costumed leader wonders, "Who the hell are we robbing?"
Kiki Dewynter smirks and crosses her arms, "If only they knew the consequences of their heist."
The other twin in contrast is paying more attention to her gang's unexpected casualties. "I'm more concerned with how our gunmen were easily taken out by this group."
Like so, the Morningstars on that upper level were evidently defeated and the raiding party soon went upstairs for the financial building's vault (aside from a tackling attempt by one 'mobster' upon that robbing woman, which resulted in the offender getting shredded by her automatic firearm). Once at the destination, the burglars examine the heavy door for the money-stored room.
Except for one panting downwards for air from surviving the previous firefights... while also wearing the confining headgear. "Huff... ha... I... I can't breathe."
"Ugh..." The female interloper reluctantly removed that costume piece from his actual head.
In the mean time, the other male member knocks on the vault's door a few times — to no avail. "No way we're cracking this thing. Ready for Plan B?"
"Yep," The commanding thief agreed. "Josh, get over here..."
"Got the tools right here, homes." After arriving, Birk turns around with the luggage in front of the boss for accessing the items inside the large bag (in the background, the lady and the self-assured fella remove their nonsensical headwear from facial obscurity. "So uh... what's Plan B, huh? We drill it?"
The man wearing his real sunglasses (kinda think about it, this guy's head was probably what those costume headgear were based upon) smirks at the dull idea in his normal voice, "Fuck no. We blow it."
"WHAT?!" Josh overreacts at the dangerous scheme, while still standing behind the leading burglar checking the explosives quite roughly inside that carryall. "Tah... Not cool man!"
Apparently, just one demolition device in the head-honcho's gloved grip is needed, "Time to get to work." He leaves it attached to his utility belt and then nudges the team's objective, "We'll need to set those above the vault." Out of the blue however, many gunshots from the lobby below shatters those windows on the floor that these armed robbers are currently at.
"Hey... I think we've got company..." Birk 'cautioned' them while they began their response with plenty of lead from the burglars' guns — excluding the male amateur himself out of hostiles' sights, obviously.
The brunette thief with a revealed ponytail hair reinforces that info, "Looks like they're comin' in from the lobby."
When those gunmen wearing red-clad clothing are gradually incapacitated, an additional squad of them emerges out of the elevator leading to that big indoor space and wastes no time in firing their weapons at the intruders.
"Shaundi," Josh stated in an actor's 'cool' tone as he's hiding.
"What?"
"We need to talk."
"We really don't."
"It's just... if I die here, I don't want things to go unsaid."
The woman irritably says with scorn, "I should be so lucky..."
With the Morningstar reinforcement finally out of action by the armed robbers, they proceed upstairs to the office level above the vault.
"Oh my God, you're the Saints! You HAVE to sign this for me!" interrupted a female fan in a purple hoodie (which is kind of weird for her to be there).
Nevertheless, the leader writes his signature on the woman's autograph. "Anything for a fan."
The robber with the duffel-bag attempts a celebrity appeal. "Hey, Josh Birk. Don't be starstruck, I'm very approachable. Want me to uh... sign your breasts?"
"Uh... no. That's alright." She denied that idea.
"Yeah, well, you know... buy Nyte Blayde on DVD."
Without warning... the live footage are cut off and replaced by blue screens; confusing everyone in the boardroom.
"Oh pour pleurer fort..." Loren expressed his displeasure at this technical issue, so he returns a phone call. Strangely though... the dial tone doesn't seem to be right. "What in hell is happe-?" Multiple sounds of explosion simultaneously rock the group inside — followed by frequent blasts and distal gun-discharges beyond the skyscraper.
"That doesn't sound good," Tyson discerned the ominous noises.
"Evidently, it is for all of us here." Phillipe takes one smoke from his cigar in light of this unwanted predicament, before he stands up and looks at the hired pair from T.W.O. "Another apology for not concluding our arrangement today gentlemen, but this urgency shall not be taken for granted. Ladies, their equipment please." Accordingly, the Dewynter twins move for those large containers shaped like rectangular prisms: two of them were locked with circular dial mechanisms — all thanks to the private-military contractors prior to their 'anonymous' delivery to the clienteles. Likewise, the monozygotic women arrive at the particular cases and begin solving the single-dial padlocks.
"Uh... excuse me, identical chicks." Salem wonders at the focused ladies, "Shouldn't be us owners of those armored suits inside the boxes to do the unlock-?"
Unbelievably to the soldiers of fortune, the two containers are unlocked and then had their content of body-protection gears exposed to the outside... including the armored masks. Rios raises a question, "Do we require an explanation for how you madams know the combination numbers?"
"Not needed, mercenaries." Kiki gave an answer.
Viola adds, "Regardless, we definitely need you two to immediately put on your body armor."
"Heh... can't really say no to such lovely gals, then." The Louisianian contractor sets it aside as he and his Chicano associate proceed to assemble together their suits of bulletproof armor; whereas the accompanying guards remain alert on both the hired soldiers and unseen turmoil. Meanwhile, the Dewynter sisters open up the other two cases — which reveals armaments prepared for combat usage by the PMC duo (One IMI Negev LMG, one Fightlite MCR weapon, one PGM 338 bolt-action rifle, one Remington MSR firearm, one SilencerCo Maxim 9 pistol, one Smith & Wesson Model 629, etc.)
Once the T.W.O. operators thoroughly covered themselves in body armor, the senior employer standing near the geared pair delivers a familiar reminder. "Just to be absolutely sure messieurs, your current assignments of high-priority are to safeguard this property of Morningstar and foil our unknown attackers."
"Not like we had any choice at this time," uttered the Mexican-American professional as he scrutinizes the modern weaponry provided. An inkling appears in his head while noticing the military-grade instruments' national origins and remembering their usual availability. "Sir, are any of these guns acquired by legal means?"
"Mister Rios, have the goodness to focus on getting yourself combat-ready. Further talks shall be available when a respite from this violence presents itself."
Elliot relatively agrees as he organizes the ammunition boxes onto the belt-fed AR, "No shit, Frenchy. This amount of firepower here will make whoever those bastards are think twice about messing us." A period of time afterwards, all the guns are prepared for action... eventually? "Hey, where will we expect the unidentified SOBs to pop out here?"
As if on cue, a number of armed assailants wearing militia-style outfits burst out from the meeting room's only entryway. "Your days of mongrel-breeding disgrace are now o-!" Two bullet-storms from the armored contractors' automatic weapons immediately cut down those uninvited aggressors. The violent noises shortly become quiet once the unknown attackers are lying dead on the now blood-tainted floor.
"Well, shit... isn't that convenient to our tactical advantages at this location." Tyson bewilderingly commented.
Salem adds, "Not to mention how they just died like amateurs, Tyse."
Before long however, a pulling sound of a grenade pin has been heard from beyond the one-way doors. The defenders with guns snap at the sole entrance/exit; and expecting some adversaries to resume an assault outside this boardroom. Stranger yet — several seconds of waiting goes prior to a gloved hand appearing with... [BOOM!] ...eh, scratch that: Obliterated by one hand grenade being allowed to cook itself for too long. Which soon followed by an awful scream of a woman.
"Ouch... whoever that gal was, she should've definitely done more rethinking about picking a fight."
The Chicano 'mercenary' asks the senior patron, "Suggestions, Mister Loren?"
"The insolent wench will be interrogated very soon by our members here, including myself. Ladies, the counter-hack flash drives for our two contractors."
Accordingly so, the homogeneous Dewynters hand out the USB devices to our T.W.O. hirelings. "You must plug these sticks containing the anti-hacking software into our primary computer servers that are two floors below this level, gents." Viola briefed the body-armored duo.
Kiki states further, "In addition to make sure those rude intruders will never tamper the important electronics anymore there."
Abruptly, a few gunshots vibrate from the entryway where some Morningstar 'homies' inspect that survivor behind the walls. By a strange kind of fortune (depending on one peculiar perspective), the bullets from a hand-held pistol fail to hit any of those incoming interrogators who quickly dodge away.
"Ugh ... Gardes, retenez cette salope têtue." Obediently, the guards safely apprehend that self-injured suspect by holding both arms; although it doesn't mean restrictions for them to beat her up (while dragging the lass on the floor) when she has minor opportunities to spew out... xenophobic declarations.
"That punch means nothing you nigger-bred frog-eaters!"
The Louisianian freelance somewhat moans, "Man... does that pretty face had to say such shameful stuff today?"
"Come on, Elli. We need to reach for our clients' servers first." Tyson reminds his partner-in-battle. "Besides... I really don't want to know about every dark crap residing inside her brain at this instance."
"Sure thing, bro. I mean, someone could described me as a white-trash working for the highest bidder from all the mercenary gigs we're doing."
The captured Caucasian angrily shouts at the private military contractors during their move to clear out her like-minded companions, "Go to Hell, you money-grubbing neanderthals!" She swiftly gets a hard slap to her face.
This time however, that disciplinarian act came from Phillipe Loren contemporaneously in front of the stubborn prisoner. "Mind your manners, please. We do have a policy against discrimination at work, harpy."
"Pah! Fucking bold of you French devil to speak all high and mighty, since you have stolen billions of dollars under our noses that should've been used to make America great again!"
The chairman annoyingly sighs, "Gravement... are you that indoctrinated in believing the distasteful publicity from that narcissist of an American President? Such turmoil of politics doesn't suits our style of business here."
"Ha... aha. Which business, frog-munching hotshot? The one where you foreign thugs had sold thousands of weapons to terrorists seeking to end our freedoms, without a shred of loyalty?! Or the fucking part of trafficking illegal whores into this nation of liberty, having no care of racial purity?!"
"Hmm..." The senior raises an eyebrow, "Whoever informed you trespassers of the Syndicate's 'sensitive' dealings should've certainly include my nationality as Belgian. Never a big admirer of eating amphibian legs, to be honest."
The defiant captive mockingly replies, "Ohhh... Sorry that your tongue led a homegrown patriot like myself to assume you as a Frenchie crime lord. It doesn't get across our freedom-lovin' heads on why you scumbags were here tarnishing American supremacy through forbidden prostitutes, instead of staying back in Europe and indulging yourselves in expensive waffles and chocolates!"
As a reaction, the Morningstar kingpin delivers a hard kick in the fair-skinned belligerent's... groin area. "That's enough of this self-centered mockery of yours. My next concerns are the names and whereabouts of your masters, infantile mare."
The Caucasian woman audaciously huffs despite the pain inflicted, "Hah... heh, us chosen ones to obey any masters? What fucking nonsense coming out from a vile gang! We don't believe in kings and tyrants deciding on anything we wanted to achieve! The only thing you villains are facing is the people's unshakable commitment to bring back the greatness of White America free from foreign debaucheries!"
Loren smokes his cigar again, and aggravatingly breathes out seconds later. "Quite a good thing for me to maintain my etiquette from previous interrogations... since your jingoistic rants did confirm our suspicions of a mastermind behind this terrorism attempt; along with the unsolved theft of four billion currency in dollars from our reserved funds several weeks ago."
"More like a God-granted uprising in the tens of thousands that will burn down every-!" A kick to the throat from Phillipe's right foot has torturously disrupts her latest tirade and left this female hostile unable to speak further.
"It's clear to me that your strong adherence to this despicable ideology will never be discouraged, unfortunately. Furthermore, all that 'patriotic' nostalgia you'd passionately spoken of... has provided extra indications that your expendable mind is now ironically a perfect puppet for an ambitious, unidentifiable manipulator with a firm preference against this international organization. Considering that the financial heist of our money was done through hacking expertise rivaling my cyber-crime maestro, rather than your wishes for divine intervention. Speaking of xenophobic dedication, your obsessions for national glory and racial 'paradises', as well as the evident loathing on ethnic diversity and tolerance, had cynically sabotaged any type of critical thinking and individuality that you particular Yankees were supposed to cherish from your heroic victories over tyrannical cretins in world history. Yet here you are, acting impudently similar to those Nazi bastards that had once brought devastation across Europe in the Second World War — without human mercy or decency to everyone not conforming to their eugenic ideals of 'Ubermesnch'. My late parents in their childhood lost both my Belgian grandfather and grandmother to such state-obedient killers, for your information. Therefore, whoever this puppeteer or perhaps puppeteers are in pulling your narrow-minded strings shall be dealt with accordingly for their antagonistic audacity towards us." The Syndicate chairman casually takes out a switchblade and then fiercely thrusts that knife into the female bigot's stomach.
Blood spews out from the woman's mouth as she experiences that stabbing pain of a sharp weapon. Still, the defiant insurgent croakingly curses, "F-fu... Fuck... y-you... F-fr... French... s-sh-..." Without delay, one fist from the Morningstar leader himself brutally bangs onto the dying offender's head — silencing her for good.
"Demoiselle... I. Am. Belgian!"
XXXXXXXXX
A dozen minutes has passed by since these right-wing fundamentalists stormed the main lobby hall and killed those 'undesirable' employees in service to the dishonorable gangsters running Steelport. In the duration of waiting and patrolling, the ethnocentric terrorists had desecrated the interior scenery with graffiti and bullet holes (not to forget the ongoing abuse on the dead bodies that used to be the guards and servants: ranging from physical beatings to... carnal acts). On the other hand, their own deceased pals were carefully dragged towards the area's walls and paid 'respect' onto these exclusive casualties. Overall, the domestic intruders maintain their surveys for any counterattack via armed criminals on foot or automotive equivalents to their machine gun-equipped technicals: particularly for the 'freedom fighters' being metaphorical roadblocks outside the targeted skyscraper; who sometimes took potshots at civilian bystanders in panic that doesn't fit their image of being 'White Americans' out of malice and boredom.
"Is this a fucking joke or what?" One of them remarks in the middle of the urban street, "I would've expect these Syndicate subhumans to put up a bigger fight than on how we easily ended their pathetic lives back there."
Another says, "Well... If they were weaker than us, then all of these simultaneously coordinated bombings wouldn't be all necessary. Then again, I could imagine their ugly faces being quite petrified at our successful offensives by surprise."
"Yeah, quite true indeed. At this rate, the lawbreaking outsiders will finally bow before our superiority upon... them? The hell?" This arrogant guy suddenly notices some faraway objects coming at them (while also hearing faintly, sharp sounds that accompanied the recent alert in the distance). He soon uses the optics on his assault rifle to get a few more details of what's coming up. Initially, they looked boxy and seemed to have lighter blue colors. Unexpectedly, the domestic terrorist visually detects a couple 'puffs' through the optical gear...
Immediately followed by two fast whooshes avoiding him — but not the two weaponized pickup trucks that quickly get engulfed in violent explosions. Those surviving zealots look at the flaming carnage and madly search left and right on what happened. They then focus at those squarish targets staying on the path towards the Syndicate Tower; when viewing via their gun-sight optics... several xenophobic fanatics promptly realize that armor-
[BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM]
The death toll soon turns very troubling as the previously confident xenophobes are being blasted to bloody pieces... thanks to the auto-cannon volley from that Soviet-designed BMP-2 propelling forward by its two tank-like tracks and with the blue paint-job. "S-sh-... Shit, shit, shit! Enemy armor inbound! Someone get those bazoo-" This guy's body is instantly shredded into... gory bits by an unrelenting torrent of bullets from an M134 Minigun that is currently part of an armored/shielded turret above the American-made M113 APC in light neon-blue color (and a skull symbol with a star in one eye-socket).
Of course, the terrifying mowing upon the ultra-conservative militants continues to roar. "Dah-hahahahahaha!" the teenage gangster using the Gatling-style weapon laughed. "Have fun receiving Uncle Sam's bloody investment, you fascist wankers!"
In due course, everyone of those 'terror' racists outdoor is killed off for real. Those inside the main lobby and witnessed that particular destruction seriously position themselves for the incoming military-grade vehicles. Out of the blue, a ding sound from a large elevator door reverberates the hall-like room. Assuming to be their Caucasian comrades, two of them decide to walk for the vertical lift. Before the armed jingoists can say any congratulation or warning of what's happening however...
Two armored belligerents (with a heavy ballistic shield held by one in front) are in the staring sight of those militant xenophobes. Without hesitation, the mercenary not holding the portable barrier — but wielding a pump-action shotgun commandeered from those dead losers instead — permanently dispatches the confused offenders to their faces. Subconsciously, the rest of the right-wing vandals reorient their aggression against the gatecrashing duo. As a response, the PMCs in body armor move closer to one side of the interior walls (the hired soldier with that big protection equipment orients the handheld cover for fast projectiles launching from hostiles at the opposite side; while the masked shotgunner keeps his aim at the opponents along the path he selected to stroll thru). Taking account of how bulletproof their suits of armor are, hundreds of bullets fail to stop the professional gunmen as 12-gauge shots eviscerate a handful of extremists at pointblank. The freelance intervention is enough of a distraction for the Deckers-owned armored-personnel carrier to utilize its rotary machine-gun in opposition to those sidetracked zealots not in the hired shooters' pathway and vicinity.
Not a happy event for the homicidal right-wingers getting annihilated.
In the end, all twenty of those radicalized nutjobs stop breathing for good and the shootout ceases.
"Hey Rios, are those guys like friendly or what?" Salem asked while the modified M113 unbelievably strolls into the center of this skyscraper's sizable reception area.
"In light of how this ballistic shield is close to complete disintegration, I hope for the former."
The rear hatch of that blue-clad APC opens and out comes a team of cyberpunk/Gothic-wearing teenagers carrying firearms; although there's one exception in the form of one individual having some kind of high-tech pad on his right forearm as this male adolescent 'timidly' approaches the armored operatives.
"U-um... Hi there, gentlemen. " The British-accent young man smiles 'awkwardly.' "Are you two the private military contractors we hired for our security deals?"
Tyson and Elliot glance at each other and then concentrate on that 'cyber-punky' man. "Do you know Phillipe Loren upstairs then?" The Chicano professional asked.
"Uh — yes. Absolutely, sirs! Considering my genius within the cyberspace realm, I'm practically..." A high speed rush of a car faraway interrupted the collective focus of his introduction.
Outside again, one speedily car covered in metal plates heads for the newly-replaced roadblock of bluish civilian vehicles and that IFV under Deckers' control. Bearing in mind the extraordinary situation they're in, the teenage shooters on sentry duties simply launch a barrage of rounds at the unrecognizable automobile approaching them in haste. Nonetheless, the suicidal driver crashes onto a gangster-owned van... and then detonate the explosives packed inside his car. Consequently, a sizable blast obliterates several of the Gothic-Cyberpunk gunmen in the open proximity. The upgraded BMP-2 appears to be relatively fine, but it and the surviving adolescents now have to confront two more 'car-bombs' running towards the other road direction. Urgently, the armored fighting vehicle's 30mm auto-cannon delivers bursts of warheads at those self-destructive machines on wheels. Thankfully, the fanatical bombers are blown to smithereens before they reached their targets.
Nonetheless, the hostile demise seemingly did nothing to relax the young adult who just saw that havoc outside. "Well then... I can't neglect my rendezvous with the Belgian leader any further today. So, I'll let you fortune soldiers safeguard this entrance from those... jihadist buggers out there. Cheers!" Like a metaphoric flash, the teenage delegate ran for the main elevator (plus a few of his minions).
Rios verbalizes his disbelief, "... Not sure to wrap around my head on how young these troops here are."
"Same here... " The Louisianian partner commented. "That, and myself can't believe that the Loren dude is not actually French."
"...Seriously?" Tyson shown his bewilderment. "Do we have time to question our employer's ethnicity in the mist of all the goddamn shit happe-... ning?" More of that ominous noise related to automotive mayhem has been overheard. "Aw... Christ. Find cover, Salem!"
Meanwhile, on both paths of the urban street are four 'kamikaze' automobiles rushing at the customized infantry-fighting vehicle. It's main turret swivels towards one direction... and respectively unleashes two guided missiles onto those car-bombs. Quickly after the explosive results, the BMP-2 uses the auto-cannon against the remaining targets like last time. Even when finally terminated with loud bangs, the last death-seeking motorist blows apart a 'bit' close for comfort. Yet the following respite doesn't have seconds to spare; as four rocket-propelled grenades abruptly race for the distracted IFV — and hit home-run with fireballs and smoke.
"Allah 'akbar!" Shouted one of the four extremists that are verbally proclaiming their jubilation over a presumably destroyed military equipment. "Almawt lilkafir al'a-!" Without any anticipation however, his head bursts out blood and tissue through the cranial back. Same goes for another who awfully received a sniper round to the fanatic's skull from one of the T.W.O. contractors that have just performed their synchronized shots.
"Really? Like, fucking really?!" Elliot voiced his astonishment on these familiar types of terrorism while he expertly repeats his lethal accuracy on the next assailant. "Jihad-fixated gang-bangers again?!"
Tyson speaks as he promptly ejects the empty cartridge that eliminated the last RPG militant recently. "Elli, all we can do today is to guard this choke point and grant those overzealous assholes tickets to Hell!" Before long, a group of 'Islamic' terrorists arrives outside... and soon get sniped away from the PMC duo one-by-one.
Granted though, hostile reinforcement manifesting as six technicals show up at the outdoor anterior of the Syndicate Tower's main lobby — Only for one improvised SUV to be destroyed by the remaining missile launched from its parent war-machine (Still operational due to the BMP-2's combined upgrades of slat/cage and reactive armor that were previously targeted, evidently). With haste, the Soviet-made auto-cannon turret chews up the two irregular automobiles and their commuters on one part of the city street. Notwithstanding, the other malevolent half did not waste time attacking the IFV and unloading their armed passengers.
"Wow... isn't that damn lucky for us mercs here?" The Louisianian hired gun remarks that turn of events.
The Chicano coworker doesn't seem to be confident in contrast as he made a bullseye onto an unlucky insurgent; then followed with a switch from his Mini-Hecate to the Israeli-made LMG. "That doesn't mean we can get cocky with our regressive opponents out there, Salem." One of those 'Middle-Eastern' ultra-hardliners move closer to the rear of that modernized BMP-2 — which instantly earns him a lethal, short burst of lead from Tyson's light machine-gun. Then again... the violent reply also attracted the ire of several 'Muslim' fighters, causing them to shoot him.
"Hey Rios! I'm gonna flank them, while you continue that distraction." The friendly 'white-trash' inform his body-armored associate as he rotates the Remington sniper rifle for his Fightlite MCR.
The Mexican-American operator warns Elliot while defeating a few more assailants, "Keep your eyes open for more surprises, Salem!"
"I know that, Tyse." As intended, the soldier wearing his fiery-mask perform an initial dash from cover to the 'cleared' side of the track-based military vehicle. A third of the way outdoor however, he suddenly hears high-speed rackets that Elliot was all too acquainted very recently. "Oh come on, car bombs again?!" Therefore, the Caucasian American freelancer reverse his movement back inside the tall building (yet also fires away suppressive volleys of bullets for deterring incoming attackers from shooting back; as he retreats backwards). By the time two additional rabid autos arrive at breakneck acceleration for the skirmish, Salem began to run and gets behind an ad-hoc defensive position at last.
Punctually enough to not being caught in the dual blast-waves, where those suicidal road-hogs definitely rammed and exploded onto one side of the preoccupied BMP-2. Evidently, the two explosions together are powerful enough to flip over that poor Soviet-made IFV.
"Yyyeeeaaahhh... that part was rather FUBAR, Rios." Elliot observed the capsized war-machine with some concerns when the dusts dissipated themselves.
The armored Chicano is about to say a retort, but glass-breaking sounds and subsequent flashes of flame nearby distracts him — which led Tyson to see the BMP-2 being set on fire by Molotov cocktails. "...I don't think these cutthroat fuckers had any care for collateral damage, bro."
Relentlessly, the Allah-alleged agitators with extra troop numbers push up their assault against the mercenary pair... and that refashioned M113 using both the surplus guided missiles and the rotary machine gun to fight back. Regardless of this intense firefight, the appalling losses are visibly lopsided for the jihadist attackers. Once the ammunition storage for the M134 Minigun has finally became empty, a handful of those 'divinely' twisted extremists are left standing on the urban battlefield — in which the T.W.O. gunmen essentially mopped them up with little difficulty.
"...So Tyse," Salem ponders while looking at the macabre aftermath. "Any military story to spit out from memory lane because of those familiar type of enemies?"
Rios flings back, "Do I look like someone having a great mood to gossip classified operations, Elliot?"
"Jeez... chill out, bruv. It has been a sweet thing to see that extraordinary, if not overcompensating, Minigun tearing apart the radicalized motherfu-..." Out of the blue, a deep motorized sound is distantly heard — yet also on approach to the skyscraper's main hall. "Uh... hide?"
"Yes, Salem. Stay out of sight, pronto."
As suggestive, the two private-military contractors obscure themselves behind improvised barriers from potential hostiles. A short period later, a motorcade of turret-mounted SUVs and armored semi-trucks in greenish paint-jobs make their appearance at the front outside. All of that military capabilities for guarding one luxury car with the same color mixture. After parking on the road, muscular passengers wielding assault rifles and covered in Mexican wrestling head-wear exit these automobiles.
Including a large man wearing a custom-made business suit and a Lucha libre mask coming out of his rather elegant car. "It is I, Killbane the Walking Apocalypse! Show yourselves in the open!"
"...Killbane?" The flame-masked professional quietly inquired. "Like the luchadore champion from those Murderbrawl wrestling matches?"
Rios whispers, "Shut your mouth, Elli."
Coincidentally, the primary elevator opens its door... to reveal the Dewynter Sisters donning ballistic protections and ammo bags for their feminine torsos (in addition to Viola carrying a Kel-Tec KSG-25 shotgun and Kiki with her Standard Manufacturing DP-12; granted that they also both have FN F2000 assault rifles being slung onto their backs). What's more, the identical twins 'informally' walk forward with calmness from the vertical lifting space to the middle of the main lobby — and side-by-side with the parked APC.
"So Killbane," The indistinguishable woman wearing the white sunglasses spoke towards the manly VIP that both ladies apparently knew. "How serious are the attacks on your gang's district that have forced yourself to come here?"
After hearing that question ostensibly, the wrestler-masked man walks in the twins' direction and then stop a few yards apart from those two sisters. "Enough for me to consider hearing your plans for crushing these disrespectful challengers real good," the leader of Steelport's Luchadores venomously answered.
"Indeed it is... Mr. Pryor," said the homogeneous gal with the pink sunglasses; who doesn't seemed to mind the intimidating fellow being irritated when hearings parts of his real identity. "Of course, our discussions for retaking our city do involved the two soldiers of fortune at present here to listen carefully."
The masculine character's face shows some kind of surprise. "...The mercs that Matty helped us to recruit?"
"Who happens to be us pair, sir." The grey-masked hired gun verified.
Killbane turns his attention to that responder and views all the equipment utilized by both contractors from Tactical Worldwide Operations. Before saying any remark on these armored warriors however, commotions outside The Syndicate-owned building draw away the current residents' focus to see the firearm-toting 'wrestlers' organizing themselves quite chaotically; for evidently a defensive perimeter.
One of the Luchadores foot-soldier warns his group's kingpin, "Boss, looks like we've got company of those socialist freaks heading towards us!"
"Then why warning me anyway?" Pryor ominously grilled this minion of muscle. "Let them come here, boys! Make those communist wannabes receive the beatings they deserved for provoking The Syndicate!"
Nonetheless, faint whistling sounds are heard by the mercenary guests and the criminal gunmen that quickly grow louder... until significant explosions land upon the former wrestlers and their vehicles guarding outside the skyscraper's main entrance.
"...Does anyone want to know how these 'Red doppelgängers' got their hands on mortar artillery?" Salem asked when everyone around him saw the ongoing carnage perpetrated by this bombardment.
The disquieted Tyson interjects, "My consideration right now is the availability for Plan B. Ladies?"
After a short while of being stupefied by the unexpected barrage, the Dewynter twins get their act together and diligently look at the Luchadores leader. "Killbane, Loren and Miller are waiting in the boardroom for you to deliberate strategies for this unorthodox conflict." Viola told the large man.
"I will do that... after getting my hands on their insolent necks to snap!"
Kiki intervenes, "Your meeting with our chairman is very urgent to the highest level! Thus, go up there immediately in order to really take back Steelport together!"
The Lucha libre-masked figure bares his teeth in a growl, prior to him strolling towards the main elevator in the end. Meanwhile, the hired soldiers evaluate their guns for reloading ammo and other weapon-related issues and the armed sisters switch their shotguns for the Belgium-made rifle.
"So... that your plan, girls?" Elliot wondered. "Just sit here, wait for the mortars to stop, and let whoever out there to storm this position until it's either them or us ended up dead?"
The Dewynter lady with that white sunglasses replies, "It's the only one valid at this moment; although we could mentioned reinforcements to firmly secure this entire neighborhood of Henry Steel Mills."
"What kind of reinforcements?" asked the Chicano contractor.
The pink sunglasses-wearing woman suggests, "Just wait and see, Mr. Rios."
Concurrently, the mortar barrage soon stops and the defenders (including one Luchadores grunt) stay behind cover. Shortly later... modified vehicles similar to armored gun-trucks and van-based technicals appear at the primary entryway of The Syndicate Tower. Diverse fighters in ragtag outfits — apart from the red-colored scarves, bandanas, or similar cloths they additionally wore over — depart their militarized transports... yet they do not start any shooting or push towards the foremost lobby area at this instance. The only person walking forward is this African-American woman with braided hair and a serious face.
She later stops between the outside and inside boundaries that the damaged entrance represented. "Answer something to us neglected folks, rented enforcers of your Syndicate!" shouted the female 'revolutionary.' "How do y'all define patriotism in this country of liberty?"
The sole survivor still sporting his Lucha libre mask boldly stands up and aims a shotgun in his hands at the dark-colored gal. "Who the fuck cares about stupid patriotism anymore, you bi-!" Two fast projectiles from 'socialist' snipers fatally shut this gangster up thru his masked head before triggering the chance to kill her. The professional gunmen and identical twins are moderately dumbstruck on the accuracy and quick response to that audacious attempt.
The brown-skinned front-woman shakes her skull disappointingly. "Quite a damn shame there... because it does matter very much to us True Patriots on our interpretation to that democratic devotion! So, what will the rest of you want to say about human dedication as Americans?"
Hearing that inquiry has gotten the private military contractors' brains pondering on patriotic duties. Regardless of how solid or fluid their national commitment were. "Uh... no offense lady," Elliot began talking while out of sight. "But I could take on that loyalty-to-country job; as long as the payment is good enough to overlook other offers of expenses."
Tyson looks at his armored buddy with 'mild' irritation. "...That reply sounds rather self-serving to our outdoor opponents in front of us, Salem."
"Perhaps so... then again, it could also be said about our business getting associated with mercenary stereotypes like the other PMCs worldwide."
"It still doesn't mean we blindly follow the money flow on every contract delivered to us."
"Welp, at least us hired soldiers no longer take every order from our previous commanders of the US Army — and can pick any mission of our choosing."
"Hey, keep in mind that you and I founded our company when we're not satisfied with just being civilians and wanted to put our combat skills to good use after our honorary discharge from the military."
"Sure I do remember, Rios. Going to war-zones like Libya, Ukraine's Donbass region, and areas of Syria that our armed forces usually dare not to intervene by official methods."
"While fulfilling the bargains that we had chosen over the-"
Several explosions at different frequencies audibly barge into and surround every one's hearing; which leads to Daisy Fitzroy using her earphones for updates. "Calling all lookouts on Henry Steel Mills, report!" The intelligence she's getting includes car bombs hammering their garrisoned roadblocks, positions under attack from merciless racists, and observations of Syndicate forces moving in fast. She sighs at the unfavorable news. "Acknowledged, comrades. We shall fall back to the recently-captured strongholds southwest of here immediately! Do not waste your lives in stubbornly staying and fighting our adversaries in this district. Fitzroy out!" Soon afterwards, the African-American leader commands her combat group of "True Patriots" to essentially retreat towards the Carver Island District.
"What about this opportunity, ma'am?" One of the Red fighters asked.
"It has proven to be the wrong timing, I'm afraid. We're leaving, now!" Incredibly, this party goes back to their makeshift transports and quickly leaves the proximity of the Syndicate Tower.
"Ooookay... that was strangely welcoming," commented the Louisianian mercenary seeing that withdrawal with confusion; alongside the other defenders sharing the perplexing feelings.
"Yes..." The Mexican-American professional awkwardly agreed. "Something that we could all agree upon." He then turns his attention to the Dewynter Sisters. "You haven't answered us two about our expectation from your reinforcements, ladies."
As if by a fluke, the main elevator opens its door... and out comes two armored giants bigger than the operators form T.W.O. Each holding a Gatling-based machine gun connected to an appropriately large ammunition backpack on 'its' spine. They continue to walk for the primary entrance (bypassing the APC and the hired guns that are staring in disbelief) until those juggernauts are now outside in the middle of the urban road.
"That's one component of what you're asking for, Mr. Rios" Kiki added undisturbingly — in a rather weird way.
Elliot wonders, "Um... so yeah, how did us guys missed seeing these... uh, brutes?"
Out of the blue, hostile technicals rushing through both directions of the city street. Without hesitations however, the heavily-armed 'Brutes' fire away their multi-barreled instruments of death at the extremist-ridden vehicles on either route respectively. The relentless streams of bullets from two handheld M134 Miniguns tear apart the charging automobiles of murderous purpose. Even so, those abnormally committed terrorists keep on stampeding for and shooting at the two sizable 'ogres' defying their 'incompatible' causes despite the growing losses. After a moderate period of wiping out dozens of fundamentalist-driven cars, the rotary weapons just ran empty of projectiles from the 'human' behemoths' ammo containers — which left these Brutes rather vulnerable to the remaining hostiles' ramming speed. Subsequently, the persisting technicals finally make hard impact on the armored giants... notwithstanding how they also crash each other quite hazardously. Once the vehicular skirmish stops, a big pile of collided automobiles is for all at present to see.
"Wow... Talk about demolition derby over there," remarked the fiery-masked soldier of fortune with some kind of... enjoyment observing that sizable heap of automotive machines.
Several seconds forward however, relative movements occurs across the motorized mound — as if the two 'Brutes' are still kicking for another go.
Tyson voices his astonishment, "What the hell... your 'Goliaths' are alive after all of that happened to them?!"
Also noticing the extraordinary survival of the two juggernauts... are the jihadists now trapped/buried together within their crumpled transports and their Caucasian counterparts. One shouts, "Samah Allah astashhaduna!" Which soon followed by those saying the same commitment in Arabic.
"Oh Jesus Christ... Find cover, NOW!"
Urgently, the tower's defenders inside the main lobby return to their defensive positions — just in time for all the 'Islamic' technicals to blow themselves up! Considering how much bombs were stuffed inside those automobiles, the cumulative fireball as a result is... huge. Countless bits of car parts instantly dispersing across all circumferences of the combined blast waves. Window glasses from nearby buildings shatter into thousands of pieces and rain down onto the urban pavements. Once the resulted smokes slowly disappear and the glass shards stop raining, the scenic decimation of all those weaponized vehicles (and the mutilated corpses belonging to both the brutish pair and those unlucky extremists) is there for anyone alive to see.
"Ugh..." Kiki groans with her dirty hair, "Do any of those imbeciles even learned how to act respectfully like courteous gentlemen?"
Rios solemnly answers while looking at the aftermath, "Evidently not here, ma'am. If anything, I would also advise no further exploration on how desperate they are to make kamikaze crap for their version of Allah."
"Most certainly," Salem reciprocally agreed. "Those type of Middle-Eastern lunatics are such nasty pain in the ass; whenever we're once Army Rangers or in previous missions as private military contractors." As he's doing sightseeing the visible destruction left behind, Elliot gets something in his mind that makes him snort a few times without warning. "...Kinda think about, their latest suicide runs do appeared to be more goofy than those that had occurred on the other battlefields we've been through. Wonder if the terrorists' noggins were scrambled up extensively by watching too much Looney Tunes episodes or the mature, yet awesome, cartoons broadcasted on Adult Swim?"
Viola verbally counters with skepticism, "Right... it seems doubtful that those xenophobic fanatics would've adored such satirical animations, Mr. Salem."
Before long, the live defenders hear noises belonging to some helicopters approaching outside. When seen from the viewpoint of the battered entrance to the skyscraper's main lobby... the rotorcraft's overall bodies represent designs of AH-1W Super-Cobras — American attack choppers to be specific. As these aircraft hover above the burnt wreckage in front of the primary doorway, a number of those Soviet-based BMP-2s travel towards that same access without significant hurry. The Dewynter twins comfortably observe their reinforcements, while the professionals from Tactical Worldwide Operations are quite stunned looking at this amount of military firepower.
The 'white-trash' soldier of fortune inquiries his armored associate, "Soooo... can you tell me the purpose of that security contract again?"
Omake 1: For That Good Heist Going Bad (Sort of)
Multiple explosions vibrates the building that is Stilwater 1st National Bank... and being seen from the floor above the now-exposed money vault by these flabbergasted robbers of 3rd Street Saints. Apart from (or maybe including) the 'Method' actor of Nyte Blayde feeling real panicky about the unfolding situation; after he unintentionally pressed one panic-button underneath an office desk — immediately followed by these violent spectacles of fireworks that the thieves are currently witnessing. Then, faint noises of gunfire manifest around the financial structure... and apparently the whole city. Very shortly, the eyes from the Boss/Playa, Shaundi, and Gat focus on the male amateur with the shared bewilderment (disregarding the ongoing alarm noises, observantly).
"I-I... I didn't meant for this to happen!"
The brunette gangster exhales her 'compromised' annoyance. "Should we be aware of any secret motive that will get us all jail time, Josh?"
"W-what?! I don't wanna be some dude's bitch!" Almost instantaneously, Birk dashes for the unblocked staircase downward to get away from this undesirable situation.
"Do I have to go after him?"
Johnny says otherwise, "Forget about it, he'll be fine." With no time to waste, the three robbing gangsters take position for incoming police actions.
Potentially, however.
"How long until the chopper gets here?" Shaundi asked her outgoing leader still in his costume.
"I dunno... probably like two waves of SWAT guys?"
"Sounds about right... if they unbelievably ignore all of the shitty bombings that were happening around us."
"Well, let's hope the police do pay attention to the fuckers doing those explosions. Then again, I wouldn't mind finding out their names and then kick their pussies out of Stilwater!"
The Asian-American lieutenant smirks at the idea, "...Now that is something I hadn't have fun in years."
Meanwhile, the worried actor has simply made it downstairs at the hall and eventually runs pass the bank counters for the elevator. So concerned with getting out of the bank that he didn't notice the button already lighten up before Birk presses it. As the waiting continues, Josh catches his breath and attempts to relax. "Ooff... huff... okay, Birk. Stay calm, head for the exits after the elevator, find transport to leave the city, and... return my role as Nyte Blayde." When the ding of arrival is heard, he 'tranquilly' walk for the opening door... only to suddenly get pushed back on the floor by someone already inside that vertical lift. The downed man feels the hurt behind his head and spine. "O-OW! That... might leave... a mark."
A squad of gunmen wearing mismatched garments point all their firearms at poor Josh... without firing a shot, strangely enough. The leader of this ragtag group looks down at the guy and says, "Who the in Heaven's name are you supposed to be?"
Around the same time, the three Saints wait for their aerial crane's arrival to lift up the exposed vault. Bizarrely, they have yet to experience any shooting through the windows.
Apart from receiving a phone call from a familiar member of their powerful gang. "Boss! Are you alright? I was close to complete my interview for my music career — when all of this explosive shit happens!"
"I'm fine, Pierce. Shaundi and Johnny are still with me guarding the bank vault for our publicity stunt. But we're still waiting for that heavy-lift helicopter to steal away the money chamber!"
"And you need a ride out of there, right?"
"Uh... I don't believe that will be necessary, Pierce. We can probably take down every assholes that will try to stop us downstairs."
"...Whatever you say, Boss. Be careful, though." Thus end the wireless conversation, not the background of battle on the contrary.
Gat announces, "Our airborne crane should be here soon, but... why the hell are we not being shot at with every seconds goes by?"
Back to the bank lobby notwithstanding...
"Hot damn, never thought this actor of that Nyte Blayde show to be such a wussy."
"Leave him alive anyway, soldier." The Bronx-accent squad leader of these "True Patriots" commands his subordinate. "What matters apparently is to kill that criminal monster of a 'celebrity' and recover all that locked incomes for the city's poor folks in need. Besides, this building is our stronghold now."
Another revolutionary asks, "Rules of engagement, sir?" The gun-toting latecomers did see the dead bodies and structural damages inside this large room.
"No recklessness, comrades. Move out!" As these 'socialist' militants walk fast for the 3rd Street Saints upstairs, the commander takes a glance at Birk. "Have you found another set of stairs leading to the ground floor?"
"Uh... no?"
"...Then help us search for one, for God's sake!"
For the waiting robbers in the mean time...
"Well, here's our ride... in one piece strangely enough." Shaundi commented once she recognizes their aerial crane.
The Playa nonchalantly orders, "You know the drill, people." Accordingly so, the thieves connect all the steel hooks with the four integrated metal rings on top of the exposed vault (Probably because this chamber was once carried by a similar aircraft to its high-level destination during construction). "You two go to the back."
"And you."
"I'm staying with the vault."
"Okay, we'll see you when we tou-" Her confirmation is suddenly interrupted... by a hand grenade hitting quite hard on the female's forehead when she turned around.
Where it lands after bouncing off is... very inconvenient for the costumed leader standing on his stolen goods. Plus, another similar explosive doesn't helps.
"FUCK!" The Boss quickly dashes away from those two grenades, prior two them self-destruct into explosions.
The same goes for Johnny taking cover while holding his unconscious ally away from those blasts. "Wow, talk about fucking rude for being late and fast-balled Shaundi."
"Your heartless reign must end, villains!" Shouted one armed revolutionary as he triggers two confiscated sub-machine guns to fire at the trapped Saints.
As expected though, the gang leader and his Korean-American homie waste no time shooting back. The offender luckily evades that barrage downstairs and out of sight.
"Shaundi, are you alright?!" yelled the action-oriented kingpin. No response yet from the knocked out woman. "Gat! You get her awake, while I distract these fucking bastards.
"You got it, Boss!" Therefore, the male gangster behind some protection frequently taps her head with a lighter touch.
As for the pilot flying the heavy-lifting helo, he does his job without direction from the Playa not on top of their vault.
The costumed leader uncomfortably spots that procedure. "Uh... Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, wait! Wait! What are you do- [projectiles zip too close!] Ah! SHIT!" Which distracts him from those rebels taking a chance to kill him; answered by the Boss unleashing suppressive fire towards them.
"I'm sorry, sir! But this bird cannot stay airborne any longer! I'll relocate it to the destination as planned! Wish you well, Boss." Naturally, the aerial crane flies away with its cargo.
The Playa feels... pissed, "Argh... G-God-... Son of a BITCH!"
Fortunately, Shaundi slowly regains consciousness as Johnny finally goes back to shooting the attackers. "Oooph... ow... What just happened?"
"Well... to put it short: you've gotten dazed by a fucking hand grenade, which then exploded nearby, followed by these hostiles trying to kill us, two us fighting back, and the vault successfully taken away without the Boss guarding it." The sunglasses-wearing gangster explained.
She raises one eyebrow with confusion and look around the current situation, carefully. Her conclusion: not so great. "Got a new plan to get out of here, Boss?"
"Oh, I'm still stuck with murdering every rude asshole that are in the way while moving downstairs... But these guys are not making it easier as intended!" The crime lord responded.
One of those combat-ready dissenter mocks, "All you bad guys keep on doing is wasting ammo! Very soon, the wrath of the exploited people will come for your sins!"
In any case, the prolonged shootout and evasive maneuvers proceed for some time — probably with enough distractions to not detect a purple-colored helicopter landing on the bank's flat roof and someone exiting out for the accessible doorway. That person walks down the staircase and hears the firefight below. This individual cautiously peeks battle... and notices his friends in trouble. So, he pulls up a pin from a hand-grenade and throws it at the feet of those aggressive misfits that immediately notice the small bomb.
"Shit! Grenade!" warns a 'Red' fighter as they run downwards with haste; before the explosive violently bursts itself.
"Boss! Up the stairs to the rooftop!" The man yelled as he quickly toss another primed grenade towards the left-wing insurgents' retreated position.
The costumed leader signals his team to run quickly, "On me, everyone!"
Like so, the 3rd Street Saints sprint for the escape above — while the rescuer pour lead via an SMG down that staircase to prevent further assaults. All together, the four rush upstairs for that chopper parked on the flat roof. Once outside, they enter the rotorcraft and start the engine for takeoff. By the time those asymmetric fighters reach the topmost level by stairs, the airborne transport makes its getaway a success.
"Fontaine, this is Crassius." One of them on the flat roof bitterly reported thru radio channels. "Both objectives are out of reached by helos belonging to the 3rd Street Saints."
"Hmm... not something I wanted to hear, but those fascist maniacs and Moslem killers competing nearby will occupy our attention for the time being. Regroup."
Returning to the Saints-owned chopper any-who, the Playa gives his thanks to the rescuer. "Nice save you did over there, Pierce."
"Aww... what can I say, my intuitions can be helpful at certain times."
Shaundi then changes the topic, "Yes, your rescue is a valuable godsend. But are there news about our stolen vault from that financial building?"
"Hey, I wasn't disclosed from you guys of how this publicity stunt was supposed to end!"
The Boss thoughtfully gives that answer, "In front of Saint's Row Church, where this gang and its stardom began."
"Oh... alright then, we'll go over there."