The grenades landed behind cover. Some quick-thinking invaders reacted instantly, leaping from their positions. A few fell victim to stray heavy machine gun fire while others barely dodged the bullets.
BOOM!
The explosion sent debris and shrapnel flying in all directions, wounding several invaders. Between the grenade blasts and the HMG suppression fire, the enemy numbers dwindled to about twelve. The survivors remained prone behind new cover, too afraid to raise their heads.
Ratatatatata! Ratatatatata! Ratatatatata!
The intermittent HMG fire continued suppressing the intruders, its echoes ringing through the area. Though the invaders occasionally returned blind fire, the suppressing fire proved remarkably effective - most didn't dare lift their heads for more than a second. Whoever was operating that HMG clearly knew their business!
But Maximilian understood this stalemate couldn't last forever. Eventually, either the ammunition would run out or the HMG barrel would overheat from sustained firing.
The suppressing fire continued momentarily before stopping - this pause lasted longer than usual. No longer just conserving ammo or adjusting targets. Only two explanations remained: either they'd run out of ammunition or the barrel had overheated beyond use.
Maximilian wasn't about to wait and find out. But as he prepared to move and assist, he spotted an old man dressed like a cowboy from a Wild West movie approaching the intruders from their rear.
The intruders noticed and quickly responded, leaving only a few to maintain position toward the motel while the rest turned to confront the cowboy.
"Y'know... I was gonna retire. Then you idiots showed up," the old cowboy drawled as he swaggered forward, spinning his revolver.
"Shit! That's Carter! The Old Cowboy! Shoot him! Kill him now!" one of the intruders - apparently their leader - shouted in panic. But it was already too late.
The Old Cowboy's first shot struck the leader's weapon, cracking it beyond use. The bullet then ricocheted into the neck of a nearby intruder - one of the few unprotected spots in their armor.
His second shot obliterated another intruder's trigger finger before ricocheting off cover and striking a third attacker in their unprotected ass.
This impossible-seeming trick shooting continued through all six rounds in the revolver. When the smoke cleared, only four intruders remained alive - including the panicked leader. The Old Cowboy had deliberately spared them for interrogation.
As for Maximilian? He'd already retreated from the scene the moment he confirmed the old man had things under control. He had no desire to get involved - especially not with heroes. His first encounter with Dragon Fist had left him with distinctly unfavorable impressions of the so-called heroes.
— 15 Minutes Later —
The police had arrived to clear the scene and take the intruders into custody. Officers now swarmed the area, investigating and interviewing both the motel owner and Oldcowboy about why a heavily armed, well-trained assault team would target a simple roadside motel on the city's outskirts.
And most importantly - why did a modest motel owner possess a f*cking M2 Browning machine gun? This was military-grade hardware, not some hunting rifle.
Captain Thomas Baker of the local precinct arrived on scene. After directing his officers to establish police tape around the perimeter, he approached the motel owner for questioning. What he didn't expect was to find the legendary Oldcowboy casually present, and apparently on friendly terms with the proprietor.
The motel owner himself, a bald, bearded grump, sat behind the counter as if completely unbothered by either the police presence or the recent firefight. He sliding his phone through news articles, indifference to his surronding.
"Cough. Cough." Thomas feigned clearing his throat to get the man's attention. "Mr. Buck, a word if I may."
Buck glanced up from his phone but remained silent.
"Er..." Feeling awkward by the owner's demeanor, Thomas imeediatly skipped the pleasantries and mentioning the the elephant in the room. "According to city-state law, I don't believe the M2 Browning is on the list of firearms authorized for civilian possession." He led with the big gun, hoping to shake some compliance from the bald grumpy old man.
Buck said nothing, merely pointing with his tump to a framed certificate on the wall behind him. Thomas move to the framed certificate squintinh his eyes at the document:
SPECIALIZED ARTISAN FIREARM LICENSE (SAFL)
Issued Under: [Hero Support Act V.9 / Ordinance Development Clause]
Bearer: [Buck "Gunsmith" Morrison]
Authorization Tier: [Class X – Experimental Arms]
Permitted Activities:
Manufacture, modify, and possess military-grade/prototype firearms for hero support purposes.
Custom ammunition production including:
Anti-regeneration rounds (bio-toxic, nanite-disruptor)Barrier-piercing/Force field Negation projectilesNon-lethal/EF-suppression roundsStandard military/civilian ammunition (excluding specialized rounds beyond Class X authorization)
Conditions:
'License Holder' cannot engage in combat unless directly attackedAll weapons must be logged with [Hero Armory Bureau] (unregistered prototypes = felony)Ammunition must not cause "unnecessary suffering"
Revocation Clauses:
Unauthorized salesCollateral damage exceeding $10M per incidentModifying weapons for Villains
"What?! You're the Gunsmith?!" Thomas whirled to face Buck, who responded with a single grunting nod.
"Anything else?" Buck asked, clearly annoyed by the scrutiny.
Thomas could only manage a wry smile. This guy is far above his pay grade. One wrong move here, and he'd likely find himself demoted to parking lot security.
"C'mon kiddo, we didn't do anything wrong It's just self-defense! Did you forget the Second Amendment?" Oldcowboy drawled between swigs from his whiskey bottle, his Southern accent thick as ever.
"With all due respect, sir," Thomas replied with his by the book attitude, "the Second Amendment means nothing now. America is no more. This is City-State Arkadia, and we abide by Arkadian law - even if we're on the North American continent."
"Why is it that every time someone says 'with all due respect,' what they really mean is 'kiss my ass'?" Oldcowboy feigned hurt.
"And what does Arkadian law say to you?" Buck asked, fixing Thomas with a gaze that made the captain nervous. Thomas knew he could banter with Oldcowboy - the hero was amicable and easygoing. But the Gunsmith? That was another matter entirely.
He'd heard the stories. Like when a hotshot hero demanded custom weapons from the Gunsmith, only to be told to get a Hero Armory Bureau permit first. Everyone knew the waiting list for the Gunsmith's services was longer than the Great Wall of China. When the hero pulled a gun in response, Buck simply phoned the Bureau. By morning, the hero's license was revoked, but not before receiving a bullet in his backside from the Gunsmith himself.
This grumpy old man was the real power player here.
"It says you two are clean, sir. But we still need to investigate your motel," Thomas said nervously. Buck merely nodded and resumed scrolling through his phone, making Thomas sigh inwardly with relief… at least the grumpy bald oldman wasn't giving him trouble.
"Sir! We found something on the third floor, you need to see this," an officer called.
Thomas followed his subordinate upstairs, with Oldcowboy trailing behind. The veteran hero's presence didn't bother Thomas - if anything, his expertise might help explain why armed professionals had attacked a simple motel.
The scene in Maximilian's former room told a grim story. Six corpses total - three by the doorway, three near the windows. The doorway victims showed grenade injuries: one died instantly, and two others bled out from severed neck arteries.
The window group told a more disturbing tale:
First man: brain pierced by a stool leg through the eye socket
Second man: knife driven through the eye into the brain
Third man: neck snapped cleanly
Oldcowboy surveyed the remarkably undisturbed room, aside from bullet holes and broken glass, there was little evidence of a struggle. "Seems my old friend has returned from the dead," he murmured.
"What do you mean, sir?" Thomas asked.
"Look at this," Oldcowboy pointed to the three corpses near the window. "Where's the fight? Nothing's broken except those bullet holes. The first one got a table leg introduced directly to his brain. The second one... the same method but with a knife stolen from the first. And this one..." He knelt, examining boot scuff marks on the floor.
"Lost his balance from a leg sweep, then snapped neck on the way down. Poor bastard never stood a chance."
"You know who did this? Who's come back?"
"Blood Mongoose," Oldcowboy stated grimly. "This precision, this ruthlessness... no one else could take out three trained soldiers without giving them a fighting chance. That's the only name that fits."
"Blood Mongoose!? Impossible! He's already dead!" Thomas exclaimed, his voice tinged with alarm.
Who was Blood Mongoose? The leader of an elite UEC special forces unit specializing in black ops, assassinations, and apprehending rogue heroes/villains on the UEC's hit list. It was well-known that the UEC didn't tolerate threats to their authority. This task force served as their precision instrument before resorting to more overt solutions like their pillar-class heroes.
Oldcowboy stroked his chin in thought. "Unless..." he mused, "it's someone with the same skills, precision, and ruthlessness." After a pause, he added, "I don't know if it's possible... but... if Blood Mongoose ever took a disciple, then we might be looking at his protégé."