James stepped forward, his boots crunching against the dirt and spent shell casings littering the ground. The defenders were still pulling their wounded back, some leaning against the barricade catching their breath, while others simply stared into the darkness where the attackers had vanished. The tension in the air was thick—this wasn't over, and everyone knew it.

  His eyes landed on a man barking orders, directing the militia to reposition, his stance firm despite the chaos. Authority radiated off of him. If there was someone calling the shots here, it was him.

  James walked up, stopping just short of him. “You know that was just a probing attack, right?” His voice was even, but there was an edge to it.

  The man turned, giving him a once-over. He was older, late forties, maybe early fifties, built like a man who had spent his life working rather than just barking orders. His short-cropped hair was peppered with gray, and the deep lines on his face spoke of years of battle-worn experience. He studied James for a moment before responding.

  “Yeah, we know,” the man said, his voice gravelly. “Who are you? Haven’t seen your face around here.”

  James extended his hand. “Name’s James. I’m a mercenary. But my price is high.”

  The man grunted before clasping James’s hand in a firm shake. “Conrad. I run the militia here.”

  James nodded, taking in the man’s grip, the way his stance barely shifted even as the tension of battle still hung in the air. The man wasn’t just a leader—he was a soldier. He’d seen plenty of them before.

  Conrad exhaled, shaking his head. “Look, I don’t have time for overconfident mercs looking to make a quick buck. We need real solutions, not some lone gunman thinking he can—”

  James cut him off with a smirk. “I always take my payment when the job’s done.”

  Conrad narrowed his eyes. “And what job would that be, exactly? Because I don’t see how one man is going to change our defenses that much.”

  “Oh, I’d definitely be help with the defense,” James admitted, his tone casual, “but my specialty isn’t waiting behind walls. I take the fight to them.” He let his words hang in the air for a moment, watching as the weight of them sank in. “For the right price, I can kill them all. Or at least enough to break them.”

  Conrad let out a short, incredulous laugh. “We sent twenty-five men after them. Six of them were high-level mercs.” He crossed his arms, shaking his head. “None of them came back.”

  James shrugged, unfazed. “And yet my offer still stands. You don’t have the men to take the fight to them, and you sure as hell can’t afford to sit around waiting for them to hit you again. I’m offering you a solution.”

  Conrad's expression remained skeptical, but James could see the gears turning in his head.

  James leaned in slightly, voice lower but still sharp. “What do you have to lose?”

  That made the older man pause.

  Conrad rubbed his jaw, looking past James at the battlefield, at the bodies being dragged away, at the blood-soaked dirt. He was weighing it. Considering every angle.

  Finally, he asked the only question that mattered. “How much?”

  James’s smirk widened just a fraction. “Ten thousand per kill.”

  That made Conrad scoff, a mix of disbelief and irritation flashing across his face. “That’s a steep bounty.”

  James nodded. “It is.”

  Conrad let out a slow breath. “Even if I agree to this, you’d be going in alone?”

  James tilted his head. “That’s how I prefer it. No dead weight.”

  Conrad thought for a long moment, glancing at the defenders still tending to the wounded. The gang wasn’t going to stop. If James could cripple them, it would buy the town time—time they desperately needed.

  Finally, he gave a slow nod.

  “Fine. You bring me bodies, I’ll bring the cash.”

  With the deal struck, James shook Conrad’s hand one last time, sealing the agreement. Then, without another word, he turned on his heel and made his way back toward his car.

  The sun was already beginning to set, bathing the town in a dim, golden light. It wouldn’t be long before darkness swallowed the land, and that was when he would make his move.

  But first, he had to prepare.

  James popped the trunk, the heavy metal creaking slightly as he lifted it open. Inside, his arsenal lay neatly organized—a collection of tools meant for one thing only. Killing. He reached in, grabbing his gear piece by piece.

  First, his plate carrier.

  This was new as the last one was destroyed beyond repair. This time he had opted for three inches of plasteel instead of the two. He adjusted the straps, feeling the familiar weight settle against his chest, pressing down with comforting security. He pulled on his Kevlar gloves next, flexing his fingers as the reinforced material molded to his hands.

  Then came the weapons.

  He reached for his Remington 870 Tactical, pulling it free from its secured spot. He grabbed a box of 12-gauge plasteel slugs, loading them into the tube one by one. The heavy rounds slid in with a satisfying click, each one packing enough force to tear through armor, bone, and flesh alike.

  Next, he secured a bandolier across his chest, loaded with extra shells.

  Satisfied, he slung the shotgun over his shoulder, letting it rest against his back before reaching for his HK416. He checked the magazine, ensuring it was fully loaded with plasteel-tipped rounds. He had switched them back from the full plasteel rounds he used in DC. He hated wasting money.

  Then he put 4 grenades on the bandolier.

  After ensuring everything was in place, he double-checked his sidearm—his trusted 1911, still holstered at his side, its familiar weight reassuring.

  With his weapons secured, James shut the trunk, the sound echoing in the quieting town. The streets were thinning out as people retreated indoors, wary of nightfall and what lurked beyond the walls.

  James made his way to the west entrance, where the outer defenses were manned by tired but watchful sentries. He found a spot near the barricade, propping himself against a section of reinforced concrete.

  The air was cooling, a soft breeze rustling through the distant treetops. The fires of the town flickered behind him, casting long shadows across the ground.

  He exhaled slowly, eyes scanning the horizon.

  Now, it was just a waiting game.

  When night fell, the hunt would begin.

  James moved like a phantom through the darkness, each step calculated, each breath controlled. The combat drug wasn’t in his system this time this was all him. Pure instinct. Pure skill.

  The two sentries had barely made a sound before he put them down. The first never saw it coming—a quick, silent slice across the throat, blood pooling in the dirt as the body slumped over. The second had just enough time to register his presence before James drove his vibroblade up under his chin, piercing through soft tissue, silencing him instantly.

  Now, crouched in the overgrowth just outside the ruined building, James studied his target.

  It was a three-story structure, or at least what was left of it. Time and nature had reclaimed most of it, vines snaking up the cracked walls, sections of the roof missing, exposing skeletal beams to the night sky. The gang had fortified the lower level, using makeshift barricades of rusted scrap and broken furniture to funnel attackers into kill zones. Fires burned in barrels, their flickering light casting moving shadows against the ruins. At least a dozen men milled around the entrance, some talking, others tending to their weapons.

  James remained still, watching, counting. His glowing Cherenkov blue eyes cut through the gloom, picking apart their positions. There were two snipers posted on the second floor, their scopes scanning lazily, but they weren’t expecting anyone. That worked to his advantage.

  He adjusted his HK416, resting it against the bipod he had just deployed onto a fallen tree trunk. He wouldn’t have time to relocate after opening fire—the moment he pulled the trigger, his muzzle flash would give him away. That meant he needed to drop as many as possible in one go before repositioning.

  His breathing slowed.

  One heartbeat.

  Two.

  The first shot cracked through the air, a whisper of death in the night. The second-floor sniper’s head snapped back, the round punching clean through his scope and into his skull. Before the body could even fall, James adjusted slightly, sighting the second sniper—another squeeze of the trigger, and the man's chest exploded outward, sending him tumbling over the ledge.

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  Chaos erupted below.

  Shouts rang out, men scrambling for cover, reaching for their weapons, but James was already moving. He switched to burst fire, sighting a group huddled near the main entrance. Three bursts. Three men dropped.

  A fourth ran for the alarm—a rusted old pre-war siren rigged to a car battery. James led his shot, putting a round into the back of the man’s knee, sending him sprawling face-first into the dirt. One more round into the skull to finish the job.

  A spray of automatic gunfire ripped through the air, tearing into his previous position. They had pinpointed his location.

  Time to move.

  James exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders as he felt the familiar weight of the Remington 870 Tactical in his hands. His fingers traced the rough, well-worn grip, the cold steel a welcome companion. It had been a while since he had really used a shotgun in combat.

  Rifles were cleaner. Precise. Efficient.

  But this?

  This was something primal.

  He pumped the shotgun with a satisfying ch-chunk, loading a plasteel slug into the chamber. The weight in his hands, the anticipation coiling in his muscles—it was thrilling.

  Forty-five men stood between him and the finish.

  God, he had missed this.

  The first poor bastard barely had time to register the threat before James stepped out of the shadows and fired.

  The plasteel slug punched through his chest with a sickening crack, detonating ribs and shredding lung tissue. He was sent flying backward, slamming into the hood of a rusted-out car. His body slid down, leaving a thick, smearing trail of blood and shredded muscle.

  James pumped the shotgun again, the thick recoil slamming into his shoulder.

  God, he had missed this so much.

  A man rounded the corner, rifle raised, but he was too slow. James pulled the trigger mid-step, the shot catching him square in the stomach.

  The sheer force ripped the man in half, his upper body flipping backward while his legs collapsed into a twitching heap.

  The other gang members screamed, scrambling for cover.

  James just kept walking.

  He moved through the ruins, a specter of death, methodical and unstoppable.

  A fool rushed him, a makeshift machete raised high, thinking he had an opening.

  James didn’t bother aiming for center mass—he angled the barrel up and fired.

  The man's entire head disappeared in a red mist, the explosion of bone and brain matter painting the cracked pavement. His decapitated body staggered forward, then crumpled at James’ feet. Ch-chunk. Another slug loaded.

  The scent of gunpowder, burning flesh, and blood filled the air.

  A group of men had taken cover behind an old rusted steel beam, firing blindly in his direction. James took his time, stepping over bodies, moving with purpose.

  He could hear their panicked breathing, their shaky reloads.

  They weren’t warriors.

  They were prey.

  James rounded the cover, shotgun already raised.

  The first man turned, his eyes going wide.

  BOOM.

  His torso imploded, ribs splintering outward, his tattered body flung backward into the man behind him.

  James pumped the shotgun again, stepping forward into the carnage.

  The second man screamed, struggling to push his friend’s mangled corpse off him.

  James ended it with a point-blank shot to the throat, vaporizing his neck, leaving only a gurgling stump.

  The last one tried to run.

  Coward.

  James lined up the shot and fired.

  The slug tore through his spine, snapping it like a twig. The man collapsed, legs useless, fingers clawing at the dirt in a desperate attempt to crawl away.

  James stepped over the fresh corpses, reloading methodically, his movements cold, practiced, efficient.

  His heartbeat? Steady.

  His breathing? Calm.

  Another patrol ran in from the side, having heard the chaos. Five men, guns raised.

  James moved before they could even process what was happening. He dived forward, sliding across the dirt, firing mid-roll.

  The lead man’s chest exploded, sending him spinning into the others.

  James landed in a crouch, firing again before the second could aim—the blast ripped his arm clean off, sending him spinning into the ground, screaming.

  The last three panicked.

  One tried to run.

  James shot him in the spine, watching as he collapsed, legs useless, clawing at the dirt.

  He’d let him suffer.

  The other two charged him, one swinging a bat, the other going for a knife.

  James sidestepped the bat effortlessly, twisting and slamming the butt of his shotgun into the knife fighter’s temple, sending teeth flying.

  Before the bat-wielder could recover, James blew his kneecap into red mist.

  The man collapsed, howling.

  James turned back to the knife-wielder, still dazed.

  He grabbed the man by the throat, lifting him slightly, his fingers tightening like a vice.

  The gang member clawed at James’ arm, eyes wide with pure terror.

  James just watched the life drain from his eyes.

  Then, without a word, he turned, leveled the shotgun at the bat-wielder’s head, and fired.

  BOOM.

  The headless corpse slid down onto the floor, blood spewing from the ragged stump of his neck.

  James exhaled slowly.

  Ch-chunk. Another slug loaded.

  The survivors were breaking now.

  He could hear them inside, some screaming orders, others begging to run.

  Good.

  That was the difference between men like them and men like him.

  James reached into his rig, fingers closing around a grenade. He ser the charge with a practiced motion and lobbed it through a hole in the wall. He didn’t stop to watch—he was already moving further down the ruined building, fishing out another.

  A second later, the blast erupted, shaking the structure. Screams tore through the night, agonized, panicked—the kind that only came from men who knew they were already dead. The flames flickered through the cracks, casting grotesque shadows as James pulled another grenade and threw it through a broken window.

  Boom.

  The explosion sent shards of glass and bone flying as another group of gang members were shredded by the blast.

  One man stumbled out the front, clothes on fire, skin peeling, screaming as he clawed at his burning face. James raised his shotgun and put him down with a single shot.

  Ch-chunk. Another round loaded.

  There was no movement from the first hole—just ruin and silence, bodies slumped against the walls, their insides decorating the floor.

  Good.

  James pulled the pin on the last grenade and tossed it toward the main doors, rolling it right into the heart of the interior.

  Boom.

  The force tore the doors from their hinges, sending wood and metal flying inward, revealing the hellscape inside. Flames licked at the ruined walls, casting flickering light over mutilated bodies. Some were still alive, groaning, bleeding out, trying to crawl away from the death that had come for them.

  James stepped inside, his boots crushing glass and broken bone.

  A man coughing blood tried to raise his rifle from the floor.

  James stomped on his wrist, shattering it, then fired a round into his skull, leaving nothing but a crater where his head used to be. He moved forward, stepping over bodies, scanning the shadows. The fire had spread, swallowing parts of the ruined ceiling. Smoke curled toward the open sky, adding a thick haze to the death-filled air.

  Footsteps—rushed, desperate—came from down the hall. James moved before they could even turn the corner, swinging his shotgun up.

  The first man barely had time to react before a slug obliterated his sternum, sending him flying back into the man behind him.

  James fired again, this time at the legs, shattering kneecaps, leaving the second man screaming on the floor.

  The gang members inside were in full panic, some running, others trying to mount a defense. A few held their ground, taking cover behind overturned furniture, firing wildly down the hallway toward James.

  He moved without hesitation, dropping low, ducking past the wild shots before stepping into a side room.

  A breath. A heartbeat.

  Then he pivoted out, firing twice.

  One man’s chest caved inward, the slug blowing through him and the wall behind him.

  The other lost his face, his head snapping violently backward, his body crumbling to the floor.

  James reloaded casually, each motion precise, controlled.

  The last remaining gang members were whimpering, pleading for their lives.

  James didn’t speak.

  He just kept walking.

  Today he was the reaper.

  James stood in the ruins of the raider base, the fires still smoldering, casting flickering light across the carnage. Not a single soul remained other than him. The metallic scent of blood and gunpowder filled the air, mingling with the acrid stench of burned flesh and charred wood.

  Now, with the battle over, he had time to search.

  He stepped over bodies, bullet casings, and shattered debris, his boots crunching through the wreckage. The gang had lived filthy, their base more of a rotting husk of lawlessness than an actual stronghold. Scattered bottles, half-eaten meals, piles of stolen goods—it was all there, the typical scavenger’s hoard. But James wasn’t looking for loot.

  He was looking for answers.

  His eyes flicked to a desk in the far corner, partially collapsed from the earlier explosions. The wood was scorched, the top covered in ash and soot, but he could still see papers strewn across it.

  James approached, brushing aside the charred remains of a map and flipping through the documents. Most were mundane—lists of weapons and stolen supplies, trade agreements with other gangs, and hit contracts on people who likely weren’t alive anymore. Nothing useful.

  Until he found it.

  A letter, partially buried under a pile of bloodstained rags. The edges were burned, but the paper itself was still intact. James picked it up, his fingers brushing over the wax seal that froze him in place.

  A symbol.

  An eagle with outstretched wings, wrapped in a coiled serpent—the unmistakable seal of MGI.

  James’ jaw tightened as he carefully unfolded the letter, scanning its contents.

  "Ava,

  The situation is deteriorating faster than expected. Keep the asset in place and maintain control. If the locals resist, remind them what happens to those who refuse to cooperate. Our operation cannot afford another setback.

  You will receive further instructions soon.

  — R.K."

  James’ grip tightened on the paper, his breath slow, controlled..

  They weren’t just lingering in the shadows. They were active. Influencing things. Moving pieces.

  Ava was still working for them.

  He folded the letter, slipping it into his jacket pocket before taking one last look at the ruins around him.

  Now how was he going to transport all these bodies.