"Yeah… uh, yes…"
Nice work, Stark. That was exactly what he expected. Even consumer tech like Apple phones had backdoors baked in, so there was no way Tony Stark wouldn't leave one hidden inside something as complex as his own creation. The idea wasn't even surprising—it was practically inevitable.
Once Cohen got a quick rundown on how to access and operate that backdoor, he didn't linger. He slipped away quietly, vanishing as if he'd never been there at all. Saving people wasn't off the table, but right now, staying put was the safer move.
The outside world had devolved into chaos. Compared to that, this place—with its steady food, water, and temporary calm—felt almost like a sanctuary. There was no reason to rush out into a storm when he could control the pace of things from here.
Over the next several nights, Cohen turned the battlefield into his personal hunting ground. What started as sporadic attacks became a relentless game of death between him and the American military. He struck unpredictably, vanished without a trace, and left behind nothing but wreckage and corpses.
The pressure mounted quickly. His actions forced the U.S. military to accelerate their consolidation strategy, abandoning dozens of small and mid-sized outposts. Personnel were withdrawn and regrouped into larger, heavily fortified bases, with Baghlan becoming the central hub.
Ironically, that just made the target bigger. A single, bloated stronghold packed with manpower and equipment—exactly the kind of thing that begged to be tested.
During this time, the military escalated its response. Specialized units were deployed in coordinated hunting teams—Delta Force, Rangers, Green Berets, even Navy SEALs. They set traps, laid ambushes, and built elaborate kill zones, all waiting for Cohen to step into them.
He did.
And every single time, the result was the same. Total failure.
Bullets couldn't stop him. Fire didn't slow him down. Explosions barely staggered him. He tore Humvees apart with his bare hands and struck tanks hard enough to shake them off their treads. The myth of American invincibility was shredded piece by piece, replaced with something far more terrifying.
General Glenn, the top commander overseeing operations, locked himself in his office and didn't come out for hours. By morning, his hair had visibly turned gray. The situation had gone far beyond conventional warfare.
He wanted to request a full withdrawal. Anyone in his position would. But doing so would brand him a coward, a failure, a man who ran from a single enemy.
So instead, he reached for something else.
The Vatican.
"Holy Father… merciful shepherd of all believers… please, save us lost lambs."
When Cohen intercepted that communication through his surveillance setup, he knew the situation had reached its breaking point. They were desperate enough to call in exorcists. Push them any further, and they'd start doing truly reckless things.
That meant it was time to end this phase.
On a cold, windless night, he moved.
The target this time was different—a massive armory base located not far from a testing site. Nearly a thousand personnel were stationed there, along with enough firepower to equip a small army.
According to military logic, it was safe. Too large, too well-defended, and most importantly, outside the pattern of previous attacks.
There was also another assumption. The "Death Devil" didn't use weapons.
That assumption died the moment the sentries saw him.
Out of the darkness, a towering figure emerged, horns silhouetted against the faint glow of distant lights. The air around him seemed heavier, saturated with something cold and oppressive. Every step he took echoed like a countdown to death.
And in his hands—something that absolutely did not belong there.
A vehicle-mounted M2 Browning heavy machine gun.
A thick ammunition belt trailed behind him, feeding into a massive metal box slung across his back. The sheer absurdity of the sight shattered whatever composure the guards had left.
One of them muttered, voice shaking, "No way…"
Another just whispered, "We're dead."
Before anyone could issue an order, the gun roared to life.
"BOOM—BOOM—BOOM—!"
The sound was deafening, a thunderous chain of destruction ripping through the night. The stream of bullets tore across the defensive line, shredding both men and concrete with equal ease. Bodies were split apart mid-motion, walls collapsed under sustained fire, and everything in its path was reduced to ruin.
The Devil of Death had arrived.
…
At Baghlan Base, alarms blared nonstop inside the military operations room. Phones rang off the hook, overlapping into a chaotic symphony of panic. The operator barely managed to answer one call before realizing the severity of what was happening.
Within minutes, the entire command structure was mobilized.
When Admiral Glenn stormed into the room, it was already packed with officers and intelligence staff. His eyes scanned the chaos immediately.
"Where's the line? I want a direct report!"
No one answered right away. The operator hesitated, then spoke quietly. "The connection… was lost, sir."
Glenn froze for half a second. "Play it."
The recording crackled to life.
"Help—help! The devil's here—bang—bang—!"
Gunfire echoed in the background, mixed with screams.
"Jesus—he's got a—gun!—bang—! Oh god, oh god—he's coming!"
The operator's recorded voice cut in, trying to maintain control. "Stay calm. Where is your commanding officer?"
"Stay calm?! He just got his head blown off! Twelve-point-seven millimeter—his brains are all over me! You want calm?!"
The room went silent as the recording continued.
"…We're drowning in blood… bodies everywhere… send backup! We can't stop him—boom—! The tanks can't even hit him!"
A pause, then a strained whisper.
"I… I looked him in the eyes…"
The line cut with a sharp beep.
No one spoke.
Admiral Glenn turned slowly toward Intelligence Director Pulver, disbelief etched across his face. "You told me he wouldn't hit large bases."
Pulver's expression was tight, his lips trembling slightly. "Sir… the situation has changed."
He stepped forward, connecting his phone to the main display. "One of my subordinates sent this before he died."
The image appeared on the screen.
It was unmistakable. The same horned figure, the same monstrous silhouette. But this time, he stood in the middle of chaos, grinning as he unleashed a storm of gunfire from the M2 in his hands.
Glenn staggered back slightly. "You're telling me… demons use machine guns now?"
No one had an answer.
Satellite feeds were pulled up next, showing the armory from above. The surrounding terrain was pitch black, but the base itself burned like a beacon—explosions, fire, and tracer rounds painting the night in violent colors.
Glenn's composure snapped.
"Where are the pilots?! Get them in the air now! Load everything—heavy payloads, maximum yield!"
He slammed a hand against the table. "We have GBU-43s in storage, don't we? Load them. I want that thing erased. Completely."
A few officers exchanged uneasy glances. Pulver stepped forward cautiously. "Sir… deploying a fuel-air explosive of that scale—"
Glenn cut him off with a glare so intense it felt physical. His eyes were bloodshot, wild.
"Do it."
The room fell into submission. Orders were relayed immediately. Aircraft engines roared to life as crews scrambled to prepare the massive ordnance. The GBU-43 wasn't just a bomb—it was devastation incarnate, second only to nuclear weapons.
Once deployed, there would be nothing left. No survivors. No remains.
But no one dared argue further.
…
Meanwhile, Cohen continued his rampage inside the armory. From an outside perspective, he was unstoppable. But in reality, the results were underwhelming.
Out of nearly a thousand personnel, he'd eliminated just over three hundred. The rest had either barricaded themselves in hidden corners or fled the base entirely.
Still, he had what he came for.
Inside the weapons depot, he located two Jericho missiles with ease. Massive, destructive, and exactly what he needed.
Gripping them with raw strength, he dragged both warheads to the warehouse entrance. The ground groaned under their weight, metal scraping against concrete as he positioned them side by side.
Then he activated the system.
Thanks to Stark's backdoor, accessing the launch controls was trivial. A few quick inputs, a series of confirmations, and the targeting interface lit up.
Coordinates: Baghlan Base.
He entered them without hesitation.
The system responded with a sequence of mechanical beeps, counting down the final moments before launch.
Cohen stepped back, watching.
"Boom!"
The missiles ignited, launching into the sky with blinding force. They arced gracefully through the darkness, twin streaks of fire cutting across the night as they locked onto their destination.
....
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