Gunshots echoed through the vicinity of the palace. A battle was clearly being waged—and judging by the wounded among the brigand forces, dragged behind armored cars forming a perimeter around the entrance, it had been going on for some time.
Bruno and a company of his men weren’t far—held up in a two-story building with a balcony offering a clear vantage point over the targets below. This was the nearest strip of buildings to House von Luxemburg’s grand estate. The walls that once protected it had been breached by enemy armor.
Alongside Bruno was a squad armed to the teeth: an MG-42 machine gun team, a designated marksman, and riflemen wielding Sturmgewehr prototypes—each fitted with ZF-4 pattern optics equipped with ballistic drop compensator reticles.
Without the benefit of modern night optics, aiming these rifles in the dark would normally be difficult. But the estate’s floodlights projected illumination across the fields, making it remarkably easy to calculate range with a bit of math and the etched BDC reticles in the glass.
As confirmed by intelligence, there were ten armored cars—all pulled up around the palace entrance, shielding wounded brigands being attended to behind them. From what Bruno could see through his optic, a small rearguard had been left to protect the perimeter and alert the men inside of any approaching hostiles. Likely, they expected trouble only from a civilian uprising—not from trained reinforcements.
And clearly, they weren’t taking their job seriously.
Instead, the guards were drinking wine—no doubt confiscated from locals at gunpoint—and playing Five Finger Fillet with their boot knives to pass the time.
With the enemy’s lack of discipline now confirmed, Bruno crouched beside his radio operator and gave his orders.
"There are a handful of guards at the entrance. They’re drunk—probably on stolen wine. You five, follow me. We’ll take them out quickly and silently. You—" he motioned to the operator, "—relay to the rest of the unit. Prepare for silent infiltration and full encirclement of the enemy inside.
I want those armored cars destroyed before they can react. Keep anti-tank gunners on rooftops and balconies, and have them fire on my signal. Everyone else advances after we silence those drunken fools permanently."
The five soldiers Bruno pointed to nodded silently, confirming their orders before carefully moving through the previously cleared building to reach the street below. They ensured no enemy had slipped in during the observation phase—no surprises, no mistakes.
Meanwhile, Bruno’s orders were relayed via radio, and the rest of the 1,000-man airborne battalion began preparing for the worst.
Bruno descended the staircase like a phantom, his footsteps soundless. Once outside, he moved through the streets like the specter of death. From his load-bearing gear, he pulled a gas mask and strapped it on, then reached into his chest rig and retrieved a CS gas grenade.
He made a hand signal to the team—they mirrored him in perfect synchrony, pulling pins from their own canisters and lobbing them into the enemy position just as the CS began to vent.
By the time the grenades hit the ground, the guards were already coughing and choking—blind and dazed. Bruno and his men rushed in with bayonets fixed, silently skewering them one by one. Each kill was quick, brutal, and quiet.
After ensuring every enemy was dead and no alerts had been triggered, Bruno waved to the overwatch squad. They descended swiftly. He turned to the radio operator and asked an unexpected question:
"Do you speak French?"
The man paused only a moment before replying.
"I can hold my own. Especially with military phrasing. Why?"
Bruno pointed to the radio left behind by the dead sentries.
"A squad will provide overwatch and cover your six. Get on that radio. If anyone from the palace checks in, your job is to make sure they don’t suspect anything’s wrong. Understood?"
"I’ll do my best—or die trying, sir."
Bruno nodded, then motioned his men forward. They began slipping through gaps in the palace’s exterior walls—entry points that had been pre-identified by recon and exploited in identical fashion by other squads within the battalion.
The Wolves were inside.
And before the French brigands knew what had happened, they were surrounded by apex predators. Through perfectly coordinated radio contact, the battalion executed a lethal strike: a mixture of hand-thrown anti-tank grenades and rifle-fired HEAT grenades from GrB 39s, launched in a synchronized chain of explosions.
It struck like lightning—and thundered like God.
The armored cars were obliterated in a wave of concussive force.
Before the brigands could react, they were caught in intersecting arcs of automatic gunfire. Their exposed rear offered no cover. No retreat.
What followed was a slaughter of epic proportions.
Thousands of rounds shredded bodies in seconds. Screams were drowned by the rattle of MG-42s. And when the smoke cleared, and the thunder ceased—
Bruno was the first through the breach.
He reloaded mid-stride, discarding the spent magazine and slamming in a fresh one. 30+1 rounds of 8mm Kurz. Ready to go.
Then, like a force of nature, he pierced through the breach and led the charge into the heart of the estate.
Like Alexander at the walls of the Mallian city, Bruno rushed through the breach before any of his men could react. For a moment, they stood frozen—awed by his fearlessness, stunned by his recklessness.
And then, as one, they surged after him—not out of duty, but out of fear for what might happen to the man who had become more than just a leader to them. He was a legend made of flesh, and they would not let him fall alone.
As for Ernst Röhm, he could only sit back and curse as the reports came through the wire—Bruno’s suicidally reckless disregard for his own life, all in the name of fulfilling a promise to a woman he didn’t even love.
"The absolute madman... does he not realize the risks this kind of stupidity poses to his position? How in the hell am I supposed to approach his widow if he gets himself killed playing knight for some other woman’s honor..."