INT. DIMLY LIT GYM – NIGHT
The smell of iron and sweat hangs in the air. Heavy bags sway, chains rattle. MIRKO CRO COP wraps his fists. ARNOLD SCHWARZENEGGER pumps a slow set of curls. SYLVESTER STALLONE shadowboxes in silence.
JOE GILMORE (Martial Law) enters, Bible tucked under his arm, his face hard but uncertain.
He opens to Ecclesiastes 4:12 and reads aloud:
JOE
“Though one may be overpowered, two can defend themselves. A cord of three strands is not quickly broken.”
Joe shuts the book with a snap. His eyes scan the three legends.
JOE (CONT’D)
Where’s my backup? You expect me to walk into the Zone after the war and join the cops alone? That’s a death wish.
CRO COP (quiet, grim)
In my country, backup comes late. By then, the morgue is full.
ARNOLD (voice deep, deliberate)
You don’t go to war alone, Joe. Even the strongest man… needs his brothers.
STALLONE (raspy, pacing)
Yeah, but brothers ain’t always there when the bullets fly. You gotta make ’em stand with you.
Joe looks at them, his jaw clenched.
JOE
If I step into that uniform, I’m not a cop—I’m a target. Unless… unless the four of us ride.
He pauses.
JOE (CONT’D)
The Four White Cop Horsemen.
The gym falls silent. The heavy bag stops swinging, like the world itself is listening.
CRO COP finally nods, cracking his knuckles.
CRO COP
Then let’s ride.
The camera pans across the four men—Joe, Cro Cop, Arnold, Stallone—each with their scars, each with their demons. The faint echo of hoofbeats thunders under the silence.
EXT. POLICE YARD – DUSK
Eight bicycles are lined up under the orange glow of a dying sun. Gleaming chrome, whitewalls, and leather seats — they look more like warhorses than bikes.
NELLY FURTADO, clipboard in hand, paces with a quiet authority. The Four White Cop Horsemen—JOE GILMORE (Martial Law), CRO COP, ARNOLD, STALLONE—stand to one side. On the other, ICE T, ICE CUBE, PARIS, and IMMORTAL TECHNIQUE, arms crossed, eyes sharp.
NELLY
(to both groups)
We don’t do cars anymore. Too loud. Too dirty. The streets need silence, speed, and eyes that see everything. Tonight… you ride bicycles.
She marks names off her clipboard, pairing men to bikes like a general distributing weapons before a campaign.
NELLY (CONT’D)
Joe, Cro Cop, Arnold, Stallone—you’re the Four White Cops. ICE T, Cube, Paris, Technique—you’re the Four Black Cops. Eight riders. Two units. No excuses.
ICE T smirks, straddling his bike like it’s a lowrider.
ICE T
What’s next, Nelly? Training wheels?
STALLONE (gruff, half a grin)
Better than a body bag.
IMMORTAL TECHNIQUE steps forward, glaring at Joe.
TECHNIQUE
Don’t get it twisted. We’re not your backup—we’re balance. If the Zone eats you alive, it eats us too.
CRO COP (flat, cold)
Then we ride together. Or we die separate.
Nelly looks up from her clipboard, her voice carrying the final weight.
NELLY
Eight wheels roll tonight. Eight men pedal into the Zone. You are the new horsemen. White. Black. Doesn’t matter. Because when the streets remember… they’ll only whisper one thing: the riders came.
The camera pans across the lineup: Eight men, eight bikes, eight destinies colliding.
A single bell tolls in the distance.