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It was the Euro Wars, but no one called it like that. That name would come later.
And the IRA made that name known.
Since the Good Friday Agreement peace ruled on the Islands and the IRA had continued to fight fascism, colonialism and emperialism world wide in the poorest regions while both MI5 and MI6 turned against other drugged or just crazy rich people intending to rule the world using money and weapons.
They also used and fell victim to the lifestyle. Just as Queen Elizabeth had predicted and warned the IRA and Sinn Fein, married to a Franc Lord. A connection some had missed.
The IRA was different and drug use was banned. They were in majority still farmers and craftsmen, but a new wing had joint coming from U.S. American Constitutionalists and the Civil Rights Movement having to have joined the military to pick up the fight against the CIA and KKK.
The IRA all for a sudden was not only a para military force, it had independent gangs as hard and brutal and dedicated as the most hardcore world wide existing gangs became in the War on Drugs.
MI6 had fallen. Those still considering Nazi Manager tactics appropriate had won...
So they thought.
Little did they know about The Punisher as the CIA had called a still wanted Green Barret whoms real US military file had disappeared.
He'd go in and so did other cells.
###
The air in Belfast tasted of ozone and cheap synthetic fuel. On a rooftop slick with rain, a figure clad in black, non-reflective tactical gear watched the city’s neon glow bleed into the low-hanging cloud cover. They called him the Phantom. The CIA, in a rare moment of dramatic flair, had once dubbed him ‘The Punisher’. The name stuck in certain circles. His US military file was a ghost, a zero-byte nullity in the deepest archives. He was a ghost with a Green Beret’s skillset and a fury that ran colder than the Irish Sea.
His war wasn't for a nation anymore. It was for the gutted, the forgotten. The IRA Provos, his IRA, was a far cry from the old guard. It was a hybrid creature now: grizzled farmers who could rewire a drone, American ex-special forces who’d seen their own government rot from the inside, and hacktivists who fought with code as sharp as any shiv. They were a shadowrunner gang with a cause, and their cause was scorched earth.
The target was the ‘Nexus’. A clandestine gathering of the new MI6 brass and their financial architects—the “crazy rich” who had traded old-world espionage for data-driven fascism. Their meeting was tonight. At the ‘Acheron’, a private data-haven skyscraper in London’s financial district. A fortress.
**Phase One: Bahamas Bank Accounts.**
The operation began not with a bullet, but with a keystroke. In a damp basement, a young woman called ‘Crypto’—a legacy of the civil rights hackers who’d joined the fight—her fingers flew across a holographic interface. She wasn’t stealing money. She was assassinating it. Her code was a silent, digital plague, slicing through the labyrinthine firewalls of seven major Bahamian financial institutions. One by one, the accounts holding the Nexus’s liquid assets—their war chest, their bribes, their godhood—were not frozen, but *erased*. Digits on a screen turned to null. A silent, financial headshot. Alarms would sound, but far too late. Panic would ripple through their ranks. It was the first crack in their armor.
**Phase Two: Hacking Attacks.**
As the financiers in the Acheron doubtless began receiving frantic, encrypted messages, the second wave hit. This was not silent. This was loud. ‘Crypto’ and her cell unleashed a coordinated digital blitzkrieg. The building’s AI, a smug and sophisticated system, was fed a cocktail of logic bombs and corrosive malware. Systems failed in a cascading roar.
* External comms: severed.
* Primary power: offline.
* Emergency lighting: engaged, casting the upper floors in a dim, blood-red glow.
* Elevators: dead, trapping them in their penthouse cage.
* Security doors: sealed shut. A mistake by their own system, locking the predators in with their prey.
The Acheron went dark and silent against the London skyline. A tomb.
**Phase Three: Targeted Assassination.**
On a rooftop two blocks away, the Phantom exhaled slowly. The crosshairs of his digitally-enhanced scope were fixed on a single man in the penthouse: Alistair Finch, former MI6, now the chief architect of their ‘Nazi Manager’ tactics. A strategist. The brain.
The rifle was a custom job, firing caseless, subsonic rounds. There was no thunderous report. Just a muffled *thump* of compressed air.
Through the scope, the Phantom saw Finch’s head snap to the side. A crimson flower bloomed on the reinforced glass behind him. One less manager. The meeting dissolved into chaos, figures scrambling for cover that didn’t exist. The Phantom was already moving, disassembling the rifle. His part here was done. The real work was about to begin.
**Phase Four: Storming the Meeting.**
They came from the darkness below. Four teams, fast-roping from silent micro-copters onto the service deck, blowing charges on maintenance hatches. No fancy laser cutters. Just brute, shaped explosives that blew the locks to hell.
The IRA Provos fighters moved with a chilling economy of motion. They were not soldiers. They were butchers in a slaughterhouse. Their gear was a mix of high-end cyberpunk tech and brutal, practical iron. They cleared the stairwells in a relentless advance.
A private security guard in polished armor rounded a corner, smartgun rising. He never got a shot off. A burst from a compact SMG stitched across his chest plate, not to penetrate, but to stun. Before he could recover, a second fighter stepped forward and placed a single, deafening shotgun blast under his chin. No words. No warning. Cold, military special forces brutality.
They hit the penthouse floor. The sealed security door was blown off its hinges with a focused charge that filled the hall with smoke and shrapnel.
Inside, the remaining members of the Nexus—the drugged, the crazy, the rich—cowered behind overturned tables. They were met with a wall of controlled fire. The IRA teams advanced in a staggered line, firing short, precise bursts. They didn’t aim for center mass. They aimed for heads. A man in a ten-thousand-pound suit drew a gold-plated pistol. Three rounds removed the back of his skull.
It was not a firefight. It was an execution. A systematic, thorough, and absolute termination. The crackle of gunfire was punctuated by the dry, clinical clicks of magazines being exchanged and the wet sounds of the work being done.
In ninety seconds, it was over. The red emergency light glistened on the polished floor now slick and dark. The Phantom’s team leader, a grizzled man from Derry with a cybernetic eye, stepped over the body of Alistair Finch. He keyed his mic, his voice a flat, emotionless gravel.
“Nexus is scrubbed. The management meeting is adjourned. Permanently.”
Outside, the city hummed, oblivious. The Euro Wars had no name yet. But in a quiet penthouse drenched in blood, the IRA had just written the first, brutal paragraph of its history.
