After that night, the Crows were back at their home base, shoveling down food as usual. The mess hall buzzed with casual banter—until the doors swung open. A Crow stepped inside. He looked like any other, same uniform, same gear, but something about him carried the weight of years. A veteran.

  Silence fell instantly.

  One of the Crows, barely swallowing his last bite, muttered, “Is it happening? Is it really happening? Who even tried that?”

  The veteran gave a slow, deliberate nod.

  That was all it took. Every Crow in the room shot up, chairs screeching against the floor as they scrambled for their weapons. Boots pounded against steel floors, grabbing gear, loading mags. A storm of motion. Vega, still seated, watched the chaos unfold. She turned to the Captain, who was already strapping on his vest.

  “Where are you going?” she asked.

  The Captain didn’t even look at her. “Stay out of this. You don’t want to know.”

  And just like that, they were gone.

  ---

  Scene Change

  The Crows arrived at one of their most secure facilities—a heavily fortified stronghold buried in steel and concrete. Hundreds of Crows were already there, moving with deadly purpose. No jokes, no chatter. Just preparation.

  And then—alarms.

  A deafening wail blared through the base. Every Crow dropped what they were doing and got into position. No offense. No counter-attack. This time, they were locking down. They were on defense.

  Then came the explosions.

  One after another, boom—boom—boom—the ground shook as breaches blew open along the perimeter. Dust and debris filled the air, and then they saw it—an army. More than a battalion, more than they had ever faced in a single battle. The enemy flooded in like a tidal wave, guns blazing, outnumbering them ten to one.

  The Crows held the line. They had no choice. They weren’t winning this fight. They were buying time. Reinforcements were 45 minutes out. The enemy knew that. And they were playing dirty—throwing men into the meat grinder, treating their soldiers like disposable clones. For every Crow standing, ten more enemy soldiers crashed into them.

  They fell back, step by step, deeper into the facility. Hallways turned into kill zones. Blood painted the walls. Their last stand was at the blast doors—a massive missile bay behind them, housing the very thing they were sent to protect.

  Pinned down, gunfire hammering against their cover, it was only a matter of time before they broke.

  And then—

  Their radios crackled to life.

  “Reinforcements in 3…2…1—”

  A thunderous explosion from outside.

  The enemy forces faltered. Confusion swept through their ranks. Their last desperate push became frantic, their movements erratic. The Crows inside could hear the gunfire shifting, the battle tilting in their favor.

  And as their reinforcements stormed the facility, the fifty Crows in the last stand finally allowed themselves a breath.

  For now.

  The Crows spread across multiple battlefields, reinforcing their other bases under attack. Some had already fallen, others were barely holding on, but by the end of the day, every single attacker was wiped out.

  As the Crows swept through the wreckage, they found enemy soldiers still breathing, struggling to crawl away. A few reached out, pleading in broken English.

  “P-please… no more…”

  A Crow cocked his rifle. Click.

  “No stragglers.”

  Gunfire echoed. Even their own wounded weren’t spared. The Crows never left anyone behind—not even the dying.

  But stopping the attack wasn't enough. Now, it was time for the hunt.

  They weren’t just predators—they were the predators even other predators feared.

  Scene Change – Mafia Office

  A Crow sat in the bloodstained office of a mafia boss, boots resting on the desk, a cigarette smoldering between his fingers. The boss was tied to a chair, shaking, his face bruised and bloodied. Outside, his men were nothing but corpses.

  "Spill it," the Crow said, tapping ash onto the desk. "You know it, and we want it."

  The boss clenched his jaw, staring at the bodies outside. “If I talk, I’m dead anyway.”

  The Crow chuckled, leaning forward. "You’re already dead. But how much it hurts? That’s still up to you."

  A long silence. Then, the boss broke, spilling everything—names, locations, numbers.

  When he finished, he looked up, desperate. “I told you everything! You said—”

  Bang.

  The Crow exhaled, flicking the cigarette onto the body. “I never said anything.”

  Scene Change – AC-Crow Inbound

  Inside the AC-Crow, silence. Fifty Crows sat shoulder to shoulder, where only a squad would go, faces unreadable behind their gear. A single voice cut through the quiet.

  “This is revenge, not war.”

  Another chuckled. “Revenge is just war made personal.”

  The red light above flickered. The captain finally spoke. “Remember—no Russians.”

  The light turned green. They jumped.

  Scene Change – Russian Militia Base

  Below them, a heavily armed compound, belonging to a militia that had stayed out of the war—until they made the mistake of attacking the Crows.

  They landed undetected, shadows moving through the night. As they reached the electrical grid, one of them whispered, “Cut it.”

  The power died.

  Inside the base, shouts erupted in Russian. Boots scrambled, weapons clicked. The soldiers had no idea where to shoot.

  But one word kept repeating in their panicked voices.

  "Crows."

  Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

  A soldier turned a corner, flashlight shaking—only to be met with a blade to the throat. Another blindly fired into the darkness, his gun clicking empty—before a silenced shot put him down.

  Room by room, hall by hall, the Crows cleared the base with silent efficiency. Every enemy fell. Not even screams were left behind.

  Once the compound was secure, they spread out, drenching the base in gasoline.

  The captain stepped over a fallen Russian soldier, noticing a faded photo clutched in his cold hands—a wife and child smiling up at him.

  The Crow scoffed. “A gun would’ve been more useful.”

  He struck a match.

  The fire spread fast, consuming the base, thick smoke rising into the sky.

  One of the Crows adjusted his rifle, glancing back at the inferno.

  “We should’ve grabbed a car or two.”

  The others chuckled, then turned away, vanishing into the night.

  The moment they exited the base, something shifted.

  Without warning, every Crow turned, moving in perfect sync, pinning one of their own to the ground. The man thrashed, eyes darting in panic, but he knew—he had been caught.

  The Captain stepped forward, boots crunching against the dirt. He stared down at the traitor, his expression unreadable. Then, in a low, measured tone, he spoke.

  "You’re not very good at hiding."

  The traitor’s breath hitched.

  The Captain crouched beside him, pouring gasoline over his trembling body. The liquid soaked into his uniform, the stench of fuel mixing with sweat and fear.

  "The way you hesitated..." the Captain continued, almost conversationally. "Taking your time to follow orders. Trying to drag the fight out. Glancing at me—nervous, just hoping I'd turn my back."

  The traitor whimpered.

  The Captain struck a match.

  The flame flickered, reflected in the terrified man’s eyes.

  "You did this to yourself."

  He dropped it.

  Fire erupted.

  The traitor screamed, writhing as the flames consumed him, his voice cracking into raw, primal agony.

  "No! Noooo! Help me!" he begged.

  His squadmates didn’t move. They just watched, silent, unfazed.

  One Crow exhaled, shaking his head. "Pathetic."

  Another muttered, "He was dead the moment he betrayed us."

  The flames roared higher. His screams turned to choking gasps. His skin blackened, his eyes boiled—until there was nothing left.

  They walked away before the fire even died out.

  A few miles from the burning corpse, the Crows deployed a pick-up balloon. A small, high-pressure helium balloon carrying a reinforced tether shot into the sky.

  They locked their harnesses onto the line. Then they waited.

  Minutes passed. Then—a roaring engine.

  The AC-Crow approached, its massive silhouette cutting through the night. The large hook at its nose latched onto the balloon, yanking the entire squad into the air in a single, fluid motion.

  Suspended hundreds of feet above the ground, they climbed—one by one—into the aircraft.

  As soon as the last Crow entered, the hangar doors sealed shut.

  They were finally heading home.

  Or so they thought.

  A deafening explosion rocked the aircraft. The hangar doors blasted apart in a fireball, sending shockwaves through the cabin.

  "Missile impact!" someone shouted.

  The AC-Crow lurched, alarms blaring as smoke poured in.

  "More incoming—five, no, six SAMs!"

  Outside, the Russian militia wasn’t finished. Anti-air missiles streaked through the night, locking onto them.

  The pilot fought to evade, launching flares, twisting through the sky, but the enemy had too many eyes in the air.

  "Brace! We're not making it!"

  Without hesitation, the Crows jumped.

  Fourty figures dived into the abyss, vanishing into the darkness below.

  ---

  The Hunt Turns to Survival

  They hit the ground hard. Too hard.

  Some rolled, recovering instantly. Others groaned, limbs aching from the impact.

  No time to rest.

  A deep, guttural engine roar echoed through the trees. Armored vehicles.

  The Crows froze.

  They had landed too close to an enemy patrol. Worse, attack helicopters circled above, sweeping the ground with searchlights.

  They were trapped.

  For the first time in this entire operation—they were the prey.

  "We don't engage," the Captain ordered, voice firm. "No noise. No movement. We walk."

  And so they did.

  They moved like ghosts, slipping through trees, weaving through r

  uins. Avoiding every patrol.

  They took detours. They crouched in rivers, waiting for searchlights to pass. They moved inch by inch, careful, methodical.

  Because they knew—if they were spotted, the sky itself would burn them alive

  Scene: The Second U.N. Meeting

  The conference hall is suffocating with tension. Diplomats, military officials, and intelligence officers sit in grim silence.

  One question looms over them all:

  “Who did it?”

  Who wiped out half of the Russian militia in a single night?

  The double doors swing open. A Crow officer strides in, flanked by two guards. Their black uniforms, emotionless faces, and calm, methodical steps make the room feel colder.

  The murmurs die instantly.

  A U.S. diplomat clears his throat. “We suspect your forces entered Russian soil and carried out an unauthorized military operation.”

  The Russian diplomat slams his hand on the table. “Don’t suspect, we know! They butchered our men! These ruthless, bloodthirsty bastards must be arrested—now!”

  The Crow officer barely acknowledges him. Instead, he leans back in his chair, amused.

  Another diplomat raises a hand to calm the situation. “Let’s not escalate this further. We need to hear their side first.”

  All eyes lock onto the Crow officer.

  He stays silent for a moment. Then, with a cold smirk, he finally speaks.

  “It’s funny.” His voice is low, laced with mockery. “When our bases were attacked, no one batted an eye. But now that we retaliated, suddenly we’re the villains?”

  A European diplomat narrows his eyes. “There were civilians inside. And you burned it to the ground.”

  The Crow officer chuckles. “Civilians? Sir, you really need better intelligence. All we found were soldiers in civilian clothes.”

  The Russian diplomat snaps.

  He shoots up from his seat, rage distorting his face. “Enough! You think you can just walk in here, mock us, and get away with it? You think you’re untouchable?”

  He lunges at the Crow officer.

  Before he even reaches him—a gunshot echoes through the room.

  One of the Crow guards moves faster than anyone can react.

  The Russian diplomat collapses back into his seat, gripping his leg, blood pooling beneath him. His screams of agony fill the silence.

  The Crow officer doesn’t even flinch. He simply exhales, rubbing his temple.

  “Jesus. I was hoping to get through this without unnecessary noise.” He glances at the wounded diplomat. “Next time, use your words.”

  The room is frozen. No one dares to speak.

  His voice drops lower, almost a whisper. “You can investigate us if you want. But be very, very careful. You might stumble upon something unrelated to this… and we’d be forced to take action.”

  He turns his gaze to the U.S. diplomat. “Apologies for diverting our forces from your ongoing operations. We’ll refund every dollar you paid us this month. Tomorrow, we resume service as usual.”

  Without another word, he stands. His guards follow, their boots echoing ominously.

  He strides out of the room, heading straight toward the waiting Crow chopper—fully loaded with enough illegal firepower to wipe the U.N. building off the map.

  As the engines roar to life, the world realizes one thing.

  The Crows don’t take orders. They give them.

  ---

  Scene: After the Crows Leave

  The moment the Crow officer disappears beyond the double doors, the silence is deafening.

  The Russian diplomat is still on the floor, clutching his bleeding leg, his breathing ragged. The security team rushes to his aid, but no one speaks.

  Then, slowly, every set of eyes turns toward the U.S. diplomat.

  A European official finally breaks the silence, his voice laced with disbelief. “You hired monsters to end this war.”

  The U.S. diplomat exhales, adjusting his tie as if this was just another routine meeting. His face remains impassive.

  “We pay for their loyalty,” he says. His tone is flat, unwavering. “Not for the things they do. Even we won’t take action against them.”

  A heavy weight settles over the room.

  They all realize something terrifying.

  The Crows don’t follow laws. They don’t fear consequences.

  And worst of all—even the most powerful nations in the world won’t dare stop them.

  ---

  The meeting room was a battlefield of its own. Diplomats shouted over one another, debating whether they should unite and wipe out the Crows before it was too late.

  “They’re getting too strong! If we wait any longer—”

  “If we attack now, it would be suicidal!”

  Silence fell as all eyes turned to the U.S. diplomat. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, his voice calm but firm.

  “You all knew what would happen when we hired them,” he said, glancing around. “And now that they’re doing exactly what we paid them to do, you suddenly want them gone?”

  No one responded.

  The diplomat scoffed. “Just remember—this is your war, not ours. If you want them gone, you do it yourselves. The U.S. won’t lift a finger against them.”

  Vega watched it all unfold from the television in her quarters.

  The screen flickered as news anchors debated the Crows’ actions. Some defended them. Others called them war criminals. But none dared suggest punishing them.

  She stared at the screen, her grip on the remote tightening. She no longer saw them as soldiers—just mercenaries with no regard for law or morality. They weren’t protectors. They weren’t heroes. They were killers. Killers who needed to be wiped out, erased from history.

  Just then, a commotion echoed from outside.

  Vega turned to the window.

  The old squad—the same Crows she had fought beside—had returned.

  A crowd of her soldiers surrounded the gates, cheering for their “heroes.” The Crows marched through without a care, their usual arrogant swagger in full display.

  Straight to the cafeteria, as always.

  She followed them.

  Inside, the Crows lined up, dropping small tokens onto the lunch lady’s counter—dog tags, badges, spent bullets—little offerings to their favorite cook.

  “Extra rations for the war heroes?” one of them smirked.

  The lunch lady rolled her eyes but piled on the food anyway. The Crows cheered, laughing like kids in a school cafeteria.

  Vega clenched her jaw. They were celebrating.

  They had burned men alive, massacred an entire militia in a single night, and now they were joking over trays of food as if none of it mattered.

  She took a deep breath, forcing herself to step forward.

  A Crow soldier turned to her, raising an eyebrow. “Something wrong, lieutenant?”

  She didn’t answer immediately. She studied his expression, searching for even the slightest hint of remorse. There was none.

  “How do you justify what you did?” she finally asked.

  The Crow smirked. “Just another job, nothing personal.”

  Vega’s stomach twisted.

  She wanted to say something—wanted to scream at them, to tell them they were no better than the monsters they claimed to fight.

  But she couldn’t.

  Not yet.

  Not until the time was right.

  As she turned to leave, a voice stopped her in her tracks.

  “It’s funny, isn’t it?”

  She glanced back.

  A Crow leaned against the wall, arms crossed, staring at her with an unreadable expression.

  “We were never meant to survive this war.”

  Then he walked away, leaving her alone with her thoughts.

  Inside her quarters, Vega sat in silence, the blue glow of the television flickering against the walls. The news droned on about the Crows, their latest massacre being analyzed from every angle. Some called them war heroes, others war criminals. The debate was endless.

  Then, from just outside her door, she heard voices.

  “They burned people alive, man,” one of her soldiers muttered. His voice was hushed but filled with anger. “They’ve committed more war crimes than I can count, and no one bats an eye. If it were us, we’d be locked up.”

  His companion scoffed. “And yet, they’ve saved our asses more times than we can count.”

  Vega leaned forward, listening.

  “They’re my heroes, okay?” the second soldier continued. “I don’t care what they do—they get the job done. While we’re stuck following the Geneva Conventions because we have to, they do what’s effective.”

  The first soldier let out a bitter laugh. “So what, we just ignore the atrocities? Just let them play executioner because it’s convenient?”

  “You can whine about morals all you want,” the second soldier shot back, “but at the end of the day, they do what we can’t. And we’re still alive because of it.”

  There was a pause, then a sigh.

  “Whatever, man,” the first soldier mumbled. “I just don’t think we should be worshiping them.”

  “Then don’t. But I’m going to get drunk with them anyway.” He chuckled. “Come on, the ‘heroes’ are drinking till they pass out. Let’s go have some fun.”

  Their voices faded as they walked away.

  Vega sat there, staring at the screen, the weight of their words pressing down on her.

  Outside, the Crows were being treated like legends. Inside, she felt the bitter taste of disgust rising in her throat.

  They weren’t heroes.

  They were killers who had been allowed to thrive.

  Vega sat in her quarters, fingers tapping against the desk. The voices of her men still echoed in her head. Heroes… criminals… they do what we can’t…

  She didn’t even flinch when a knock came at the door.

  The Crow Captain stepped in, casual as ever, a faint smell of gunpowder still clinging to his gear. He pulled a chair and sat across from her, resting his arms on the table.

  "You've been looking at us differently, Vega." His voice was calm. Not accusing. Just observing.

  Vega met his gaze but said nothing.

  The Captain leaned back slightly. “You think we’re monsters, don’t you?”

  Her jaw tightened. “You don’t follow rules. You don’t hold back. You burn people alive.”

  The Captain let out a short, dry chuckle. “And yet, when the world needs something done, who do they call? Who do they pay?” He leaned forward, lowering his voice. “You think they hate us? They love us. They love that we do the things they’re too scared to admit they need.”

  Vega’s hands curled into fists.

  The Captain stood up, adjusting his gear. “Sleep on it, L

  ieutenant. We’re not your problem.” He walked to the door, then paused.

  “By the way,” he said "do you know what's the most effective war crime?"

  He smirks and says "the one noone admits is one"

  With that he left