A few days after their last mission, Master Sergeant Kratos led his squad of twelve on a new operation, their bloodlust unquenched, their gear a sadistic extension of their will. Their orders: extract terrorist intel from an unwilling source, Amir Hassan, holed up in a sprawling mansion on the city’s outskirts. With carte blanche—no rules, no consequences—they were free to indulge their fetishized cruelty to break Amir and wrench the intel from his shattered will. The squad’s uniform was wheat-colored Fox Racing MX gear, a brutal second skin that unified them in dominance. Their Fox Racing V3 helmets, wheat-hued with brown-tinted goggles, gripped their skulls, integrated comms crackling with predatory intent. Carbon-fiber-knuckled gloves clenched handlebars and weapons with possessive hunger. Their Fox Racing Instinct 2.0 boots—microfiber leather fortresses with TPU plating on shin, toe, heel, and calf—molded to their feet like a sadist’s embrace. The ULTRATAC rubber outsoles, paired with metal Achilles inserts, gripped with unyielding tenacity, four forged metal buckles snapping shut with a commanding click, sealing their dominance. The hinge lockout system locked their ankles, defying injury, while the polyurethane tongue and slim medial design fused wearer to machine or ground, every step a promise of destruction.
The convoy was a mechanized beast, split into two predatory units under Kratos’s command. Six men, including Kratos, rode cream-camo KTM EXC 300s, each bike a snarling predator engineered for war. The 2023 KTM EXC 300s were modified for military dominance, their two-stroke, 72mm bore engines roaring with low-end torque, power valves tuned for surgical precision, their guttural snarl a war cry. Lightweight chromoly steel frames, coated in matte desert camouflage, gleamed with titanium skid plates, shrugging off debris and bone. WP Xplor forks and shocks, revalved for heavy payloads, carried encrypted comms, reinforced panniers, and quick-release M4 carbine mounts. Kevlar-laced Dunlop Geomax Enduro tires, their knobby treads ravenous, clawed through any surface, eager to crush flesh or metal. Self-cleaning alloy footpegs locked into the Instinct 2.0 boots, even when slick with blood, merging rider and bike into a single instrument of cruelty. Each KTM was a fetishized extension of its rider, every bolt and weld pulsing with sadistic intent, built to dominate and destroy.
The other six men rode in two armored cars, hulking beasts of steel and menace, their reinforced plating scarred from past missions, run-flat tires grinding with relentless hunger. Each car, a desert-camouflaged MRAP variant, weighed over 14 tons, their V-shaped hulls deflecting blasts, tinted ballistic windows glinting like predatory eyes. Mounted with remote-controlled M240 machine guns, the cars were fortresses on wheels, their engines rumbling with a menacing growl. Inside, the crews sat on blast-resistant seats, their Instinct 2.0 boots tapping the floorboards, itching for action. The cars’ tires, thick and reinforced, crushed obstacles, their treads leaving deep scars in the earth. Each vehicle carried encrypted comms, thermal imaging, and a rack of M4 carbines, ready to unleash violence. The armored cars were the squad’s backbone, their presence a promise of unyielding control, their crews reveling in the power of their rolling fortresses.
The convoy tore through the city’s outskirts, the six KTMs leading in a V-formation, their engines snarling in unison, tires kicking up dust and gravel. Kratos rode point, his KTM’s knobbies chewing the asphalt, the engine’s vibration pulsing through his boots, a sadistic rhythm that set his blood alight. Jenkins, Stryker, Chaz, Collins, and Torres flanked him, their KTMs weaving with precision, each rider’s Instinct 2.0 boots locked to the pegs, their wheat MX gear catching the wind like a predator’s pelt. The armored cars followed, their engines a deep rumble, tires grinding the road, maintaining a tight perimeter. The car crews—Martinez, Lopez, and Rivera in one, Carter, Hayes, and Diaz in the other—scanned the surroundings through thermal scopes, their M240s trained on threats, their boots ready to hit the ground. “Eyes sharp, boys,” Kratos growled over the comms, his voice cutting through the engines’ roar. “This is our hunting ground.”
As they roared toward the mansion, the comms crackled with anticipation. “This Amir guy’s gonna wish he was never born,” Kratos snarled, his KTM’s engine peaking as he twisted the throttle. “We’re gonna grind him into the fucking carpet.” Jenkins laughed, his bike weaving, tires humming. “Bet he’s sipping tea, thinking he’s safe,” he mocked. “Gonna smash that illusion with my treads.” Stryker leaned into a turn, his KTM vibrating. “Aiming for his spine first,” he said, voice dripping with malice. “Nothing says ‘talk’ like a snapped backbone.” Chaz’s gloves flexed on the handlebars. “I’m thinking ribs,” he chuckled. “Crush ‘em slow, let him feel every pop.” Collins’s carbine bounced against his back. “Hope he’s got a big family. More bones to break.” Torres laughed. “Let’s turn that mansion into a slaughterhouse. My KTM’s begging for blood.” Martinez, in the lead MRAP, scanned the road. “Gonna lock this place down tight,” he said, boot tapping. “No one’s getting in or out.” Lopez grinned, checking his carbine. “Bet we’ll hear the screams from out here.” Rivera laughed. “Hope they leave us some scraps to stomp.” Carter, in the second car, adjusted his M240. “Let the bikes have their fun. We’ll keep it locked down.” Hayes nodded. “Gonna be a bloodbath.” Diaz chuckled. “Fuck feeling bad for Amir. He’s our doormat.”
The mansion loomed, a pristine fortress of wealth, its white walls and manicured lawns a mockery of the squad’s savage intent. The oak front door stood no chance. Kratos gunned his KTM, the engine’s snarl peaking as he smashed through, wood splintering under his tire’s knobby tread, fragments flying like shattered bones. The bike’s torque surged, the rear wheel spinning, shredding oak into sawdust, the vibration a sadistic thrill through his Instinct 2.0 boots. His five bikers followed, their KTMs roaring through the wreckage, tires clawing at the plush cream carpet, leaving streaks of mud, ash, and malice. Jenkins’s bike tore through a splintered plank, grinding it to pulp. “Like chewing fucking firewood,” he cackled. Stryker’s tire ripped a rug to shreds. “Too clean for us,” he growled, carpet fraying under his tread.
The armored car crews halted outside, their MRAPs idling with a menacing hum, forming a perimeter. Martinez manned the M240’s controls, scanning the grounds. “No one’s sneaking up,” he said, boot tapping, TPU plating glinting. Lopez and Rivera scanned windows, carbines ready, while Carter’s crew mirrored them, gun on the driveway. “Let the bikes have their fun,” Carter said. “We’ll lock this down.” The cars’ tires sank into the lawn, crushing grass into mud, a brutal claim on the territory.
Inside, the immaculate house—cream carpets, crystal chandeliers, polished marble—was defiled by the squad’s filth-caked tires and boots, their Instinct 2.0s tracking grime and bloodlust. Barefoot residents froze, their screams drowned by the KTMs’ snarls. Kratos spotted a man in the foyer, mid-stride, slipping. He swerved, his KTM’s front tire slamming into the man’s chest, knobbies ripping flesh, ribs cracking with a wet snap. The man collapsed, gurgling, as Kratos spun his rear tire, shredding his pelvis, blood pooling beneath the rubber. The vibration was electric, pulsing through his boots’ ULTRATAC soles, a sadistic thrill. “First one’s the sweetest,” he snarled over the comms.
Jenkins targeted a woman fleeing toward the stairs, barefoot. His KTM roared, rear tire catching her spine, vertebrae cracking through the frame. “Fucking twig,” he cackled, spinning, peeling skin, leaving a smear on the carpet. Stryker plowed into a young man cowering by a couch, front tire crushing his skull with a pop, brain matter splattering. The vibration hit Stryker’s boots. “Thought he’d hide,” he sneered, grinding, skull collapsing. “Just a stain.” Chaz caught a woman crawling under a table, leg kicking. His rear tire slammed her ribs, cracking, tread ripping skin. “Crawl all you want,” he laughed, carpet soaking red. Collins smashed a man’s knee, joint collapsing, knobbies shredding cartilage. “Run now,” he mocked, blood pooling. Torres silenced a maid’s scream, tire crushing her cheek, throat tearing. “Scream’s better choked,” he hissed, grinding.
Outside, the armored crews held their posts. Martinez spotted a groundskeeper fleeing toward a shed. “Runner,” he growled, aligning the M240. Rounds tore through the man’s legs, dropping him. Lopez laughed. “Fucking rabbit.” Carter’s crew watched a car slow, then speed away. “Smart,” Carter muttered, gripping his carbine. “This is ours.”
Inside, the rampage continued, tires and boots a fetishized force. Carpet turned battlefield, blood pooling. Kratos led deeper, bikes roaring through hallways, crushing photos. A woman screamed, slipping. Kratos’s front tire caught her throat, cheek tearing, scream choking as he spun, grinding her face into carpet. “Waxing the floor,” he growled, skull collapsing. “Fucking perfect.” Jenkins slammed a man’s chest, ribs snapping, blood bubbling. “Singing now,” he mocked, shredding lung.
Kratos located Amir in a study, oak door smashed by his KTM’s tire. Amir cowered behind a desk, screaming. Kratos leaped over, rear tire landing inches from Amir’s face, knobbies grazing his cheek. He spun the tire, shredding his shoulder as Amir crawled, barefoot, slipping in blood. “Going somewhere?” Kratos sneered, rolling over his spine, vertebrae popping. “Stay down,” he growled, grinding his pelvis, bone cracking. The sensation was intoxicating, boots pulsing. Amir whimpered, blood pooling.
Other bikers spread. Jenkins smashed a bedroom, crushing a man’s leg, femurs snapping. “Sleep through this?” he cackled, ripping muscle. Stryker caught a woman in a bathroom, tire crushing pelvis, crack echoing. “No shower’s washing this,” he mocked, blood mixing with grout. Chaz found a man in a closet, tire slamming chest, ribs caving. “Hide and seek’s over,” he laughed, shredding skin. Collins and Torres tore through a dining room, crushing a couple under a table, knobbies snapping spines, blood pooling.
Outside, armored crews kept the perimeter. Rivera spotted a curtain twitch. “Eyes,” he said, carbine shattering glass, figure dropping. “Nosy fuck,” he laughed. Cars’ tires sank deeper, scarring earth. “Ours,” Hayes said, scanning.
Kratos dismounted, boots crunching over Amir, TPU grazing skin. “You’re gonna die, Amir,” he said, boot on chest, buckles glinting. “Just tortured? Very tortured? Or watch your wife, then die?” He laughed, a cruel bark. “You think you get a choice? Fucking pathetic. I decide how you break.” Amir’s eyes widened, body trembling. “Please… no,” he stammered, voice hoarse. Kratos smirked, grinding his boot, ribs creaking. “You don’t talk yet, dog. You’ll beg first.” He spat on Amir’s face, saliva mixing with blood. “You’re nothing but meat under my heel.”
“Chaz, Stryker, grab the wife,” Kratos ordered. They dragged Layla from a nearby room, feet scraping carpet, screams muffled by Chaz’s glove, throwing her into the study like garbage. “Hiding under a bed,” Chaz sneered, kicking her ribs, cracking. “Fucking possum.” Kratos leaned over Amir, boot pressing harder. “Look at your wife, worm,” he growled. “She’s gonna scream louder than you.” Amir sobbed, “Leave her!” Kratos laughed, stomping his face, cheekbone cracking. “You don’t give orders, dog. You beg.”
Layla writhed, Chaz and Stryker looming. Stryker stepped on her chest, boots crushing breasts, TPU sinking, screams piercing as he leaned, holding Chaz’s shoulders. “Tits done,” he laughed, grinding, flesh splitting, blood trickling, pulping under pressure. Chaz stood between her legs, boot hovering. He drove the toebox into her vagina, TPU tearing tissue, sinking deep, blood gushing. “Fucking melon,” he cackled, pushing, Layla’s screams sobbing. Kratos forced Amir’s face aside, boot trampling cheek, buckles cutting. “Watch,” he snarled, stomping, jaw creaking. “Your fault, Amir.” Amir whimpered, “I didn’t know!” Kratos stomped harder, blood pooling. “Liar. You knew we’d come. Now you pay.”
Chaz ground his boot deeper, vaginal tissue shredding, blood coating ULTRATAC, flesh splitting, grotesque ruin. “Wrecked,” he mocked, twisting, Layla convulsing. Stryker pressed, breasts pulping, blood and fat oozing, TPU imprinting. “Mush,” he sneered, rocking. Kratos leaned closer, boot on Amir’s throat. “Feel that, dog? Your wife breaking. Wanna join her?” Amir choked, “Please… stop.” Kratos laughed, grinding. “Stop? We’re just starting. Spill every fucking secret, or I’ll make you watch her guts spill first.”
Amir gasped, blood bubbling, jaw trembling, but he stayed silent, eyes wild with fear. “Wrong choice,” Kratos said, nodding to Chaz, who drove his boot deeper, tissue splitting, blood gushing, carpet crimson. “Fucking jellyfish,” Chaz laughed, toebox shredding, wound raw. Stryker ground breasts, tissue liquefying, paste oozing. “Mush,” he mocked. Kratos, trampling Amir, ordered Stryker to switch. “Take him,” he said, mounting his KTM.
Stryker stepped on Amir’s chest, crushing ribs, while Kratos gunned his bike, rear tire rolling over Amir’s crotch, spinning, knobbies shredding pants, skin, muscle, dick, and balls into pulp, pelvis cracking. Amir’s scream was deafening, a raw, guttural wail that echoed through the study, his body convulsing as the knobby tread ground his genitals into a bloody, pulpy mess, the vibration a sadistic rush through Kratos’s boots. “Scream louder, dog!” Kratos roared, spinning the tire harder, blood spraying, tissue tearing like a grinder, the pelvis splintering under the relentless tread. “Like churning fucking butter,” he growled, the bike’s roar amplifying Amir’s shrieks. He dismounted, boot finding an intact testicle, swollen but whole. He stomped, ULTRATAC crushing, the ball bursting like a grape, fluid mixing with blood, smearing carpet. “No jewels,” he sneered, grinding, paste under tread.
Kratos leaned over Amir, boot on chest, trampling face. “Airport bombing. When, who, where?” he demanded, stomping, jaw fracturing. “Talk, or I’ll crush your skull next.” Amir sobbed, choking on blood, still defiant. “I don’t know!” he gasped, voice cracking. Kratos stomped harder, blood spraying. “Lying dog. You know everything. Spill, or I’ll rip your wife’s heart out and make you eat it.” He grabbed Amir’s hair, yanking his head up, forcing him to face Layla’s writhing form. “Look at her, meat. That’s your future unless you talk.” Amir whimpered, tears mixing with blood. “Please… no more.” Kratos spat again, the glob landing in Amir’s eye. “You’re wasting my time. Talk, or I’ll make you lick her blood off my boot.”
Amir broke, sobbing, voice barely audible. “Tomorrow… 3 p.m. at the international terminal. Four men—Khalid, Omar, Yusuf, Malik. Explosives in black duffels, hidden in maintenance closets near gate 17. They’re based in a warehouse, 42nd Street, old textile factory. Khalid and Omar, 19th Avenue, blue house. Yusuf and Malik, 27th Street, apartment 4B.” He gasped, “That’s all I know.” Kratos smirked, boot grinding his throat. “Funding? Who’s bankrolling this shit?” Amir choked, “A man… Tariq Al-Sayed. He funnels money through a front, Crescent Imports, on 15th Street.” Kratos pressed harder. “Security codes for the warehouse?” Amir’s voice cracked, “7-4-9-2… main gate. Biometric lock on the armory, Yusuf’s thumbprint.” He begged, “Kill me now.” Kratos laughed, “Not done, dog.”
Chaz, still on Layla, stomped her stomach, boot sinking through muscle, organs rupturing, blood pooling as the ULTRATAC sole reached the carpet. “Water balloon,” he laughed, grinding deeper, her body convulsing, blood frothing from her mouth as her screams faded into gurgles. Layla’s eyes rolled back, her chest heaving one last time before going still, the carpet a crimson swamp beneath her ruined form. “She’s done,” Chaz sneered, stepping off, his boot slick with gore, leaving a trail of bloody prints. Stryker, still on her chest, gave one final grind, the pulped tissue oozing like paste, the TPU plating caked with blood and fat. “Nothing left,” he mocked, dismounting, kicking her lifeless body aside like trash.
Kratos turned back to Amir, whose sobs had turned to broken whimpers, his eyes locked on Layla’s corpse. “Your turn, meat,” Kratos growled, shifting his boot to Amir’s head, the Instinct 2.0’s ULTRATAC sole pressing against his temple. “You’re my fucking doormat.” He raised his boot and slammed it down, the skull cracking with a sickening crunch, bone shattering under the TPU plating. Blood and brain matter spurted across the carpet, splattering in a grotesque arc, chunks of gray matter sliding down the desk’s polished wood. Kratos ground his heel, the tread pulping the remains, the skull collapsing into a wet smear, blood pooling in a viscous, glistening mess. “Lights out, dog,” he sneered, stomping again, the bone fragments crunching under his sole, brain matter oozing into the carpet’s fibers, a final testament to his dominance.
Outside, armored crews held posts, MRAPs a threat, M240s sweeping. “Clear,” Martinez reported. “Wrap up.” Bikers rejoined, KTMs roaring, tires caked with flesh. Squad planted bombs, boots tracking gore, timers ticking. They mounted KTMs and MRAPs, bikes’ knobbies crunching debris, cars’ tires grinding lawn. Convoy roared away, KTMs weaving, MRAPs rumbling, steel gleaming. Ten minutes later, bombs detonated, mansion collapsing into fireball, erasing work. Kratos glanced back, helmet gleaming. “Fucking masterpiece,” he said, men laughing, tires and boots hungry.
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