《The Bloody Beast: Project Babylon》 Prologue: A Manufactured Chance part 1 ???????? ???? ???????????? ?? ???????????? (It began when the Conqueror of the West took the stars in his grasp.) ?????????? ???????? ?????? ?????? (Then were the Seekers born, then did they rise.) ?????????? ???????? ?????????? ?? ?????? ???? (The Seekers have awaited the signs, watched the sky, read the bones.) ?????????? ?? ?????? ???????? (The Wardens sharpen their blades against them.) ?????? ?????????? ???????? (The Ignorant scatter like ants around them.) ???? ?????? ???? ?????? (Only the Trinity shall walk the path.) ???? ???? ???????? (False alignments in the heavens.) ???? ???????? ???????? (Deception upon the earth.) ???? ?????????? ?????????? (Lies that fester in the minds of kings.) ???? ?????? ?????? (Sickness upon the bodies of the faithful.) ???? ?? ???????????? (Only the Ziggurat stands eternal.) ???????? ?????? ???? ?????? ???????? (When the Serpent coils around its stone heart.) ???????? ?????? ???? ???????? ???????? (When its walls weep red as the setting sun.) ???????? ?????? ?????????? ?????? (When three fires rise from the horizon.) ?????? ???????????? (I shall coil around it.) ?????? ???????? ???????? (I shall make its walls bleed.) ?????? ?????????? ?????? ?? ?????? (I shall grasp the three fires in my hand.) ?????? ?????? ???????? ?? ?????????? (And the Burning Crown shall shatter at my feet.) ???????????? ???? ???????????? (I shall raise the Ziggurat high above the world.) ?????? ???? ???????? ?????? ?????? (And the Red Beast shall reign once more.) The entire building shuddered, the walls groaning under the force of a distant explosion. Dust rained down from the ceiling, mingling with the stale air, thick with the acrid scent of burnt plastic and crumbling concrete. Wyatt held his breath, his fingers tightening around his rifle, waiting out the tremor. Only when the ground settled did he risk a glance through the shattered window. Fire and chaos consumed the streets below. Tracer rounds streaked through the smoke-choked sky, their eerie glow painting jagged red and green slashes across the battlefield. In the market square, a makeshift barricade trembled under the relentless hammer of machine gun fire, answered by the deep, gut-punching boom of distant artillery shells. The attack was coordinated¡ªfast, ruthless, and efficient. Too efficient. And that gnawed at Wyatt¡¯s nerves. ¡°This is a goddamn war,¡± Wallace muttered beside him. The Scotsman was sweating through his fatigues, damp patches blooming across the fabric. His broad forehead glistened, his hands clenched so tightly around his rifle that his knuckles had gone pale. ¡°They don¡¯t pay us for this kind of shit,¡± he added, his voice tight. Before Wyatt could answer, a deafening burst of machine gun fire tore through the windows, shattering what little glass remained. Bullets chewed through the walls, spraying plaster and shards of wood across the floor. Instinct took over. Everyone hit the deck. ¡°Well, the contract didn¡¯t say anything about being in the middle of a war zone,¡± Vladimir muttered from Wyatt¡¯s left. ¡°We¡¯re in the middle of Central Asia,¡± Wyatt shot back, ever the realist. ¡°The entire place is a war zone.¡± It was almost ridiculous. They were speaking in the clipped, manic tones of men who knew they were in serious danger but had no choice but to keep moving forward. A fresh burst of gunfire roared outside, the metallic staccato answering another volley from the upper floors. The fight was happening all around them, but for now, no one had them in their sights. ¡°We¡¯re mercs,¡± came the calm, measured voice of their commanding officer. ¡°They pay us to fight.¡± Marshal. Good old Marshal. At thirty-five, he was the eldest among them, though war had aged him beyond his years. Gray streaked his stubble, his face lined with experience, his sharp eyes constantly scanning, calculating. Always five steps ahead. Some of the men had already started moving, slipping through the debris-strewn hallways in search of better cover. But others hesitated¡ªWyatt saw it in their eyes. The same creeping dread that always took root before a slaughter. And this? This had all the makings of one. Gunfire thundered from the street below, answered in kind by weapons on the upper floors. Marshal crawled toward different groups, issuing quiet orders. Silence was their best ally right now¡ªletting the fight happen around them, picking their moment. Wyatt spotted a few slipping away, likely to cover the exits. The old man finally made his way to where Wyatt, Wallace, and Vladimir were hunkered down. ¡°Popular spot,¡± Marshal muttered, nodding toward the city beyond. ¡°Been here before?¡± ¡°No, sir,¡± Wyatt said. ¡°Don¡¯t even know the name.¡± ¡°I told you like five times,¡± Wallace huffed. ¡°I don¡¯t care,¡± Wyatt admitted flatly. Then the mortar hit. The blast rocked the building, shaking the very bones of the structure. Rubble tumbled from the ceiling, sending up clouds of choking dust. Someone cursed. Someone else coughed violently. They had to move. ¡°ANYWAY,¡± Wallace barked, forcing the conversation back on track. ¡°Yeah, we still got a job to do,¡± Marshal said, his close-cropped hair dusted in debris, his expression grim. His eyes shone with a quiet, unshakable determination. ¡°And I don¡¯t think this is the kind of job we can slink away from.¡± ¡°Why?¡± Wallace asked, his voice edging toward desperation. ¡°We were paid upfront.¡± Marshal exhaled through his nose. ¡°Because I get the feeling that whoever these people are, they¡¯re the kind of organization we do not want to cross.¡± Silence. Wallace went pale. Grim. Another explosion rattled the walls. Wyatt met Marshal¡¯s gaze and saw the truth written there. They weren¡¯t making it out clean. Hell, most of them weren¡¯t making it out at all. Marshal must¡¯ve thought the same, because he stepped closer, lowering his voice. ¡°We¡¯re going in,¡± he said. ¡°We hold the line. Buy some time.¡± Wyatt¡¯s stomach twisted. A suicide mission. The enemy was too numerous, too well-trained. No one who went into that meat grinder was coming back. The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement. Marshal clapped a firm hand on his shoulder. ¡°You, on the other hand, have a job to do.¡± Wyatt exhaled sharply. He already knew what was coming. ¡°The hospital,¡± Marshal continued. ¡°Secure the target. Get to the rendezvous point.¡± Wyatt swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. A lot went unsaid. The words didn¡¯t need to be spoken. They both knew this was goodbye. Then another explosion hit¡ªcloser this time. The building groaned like a dying beast, its foundations shifting. Debris rained down, and Wyatt threw up an arm to shield his face. And then, suddenly, something clicked in his mind. The building was going to collapse. He turned to Marshal, an idea forming fast. ¡°We can use it,¡± he said urgently. ¡°Set the charges¡ªbring it down in our favor. If we time it right, the collapse will form a barricade. Buy you time.¡± Marshal hesitated for only a second. Then he nodded, sharp and decisive. ¡°It¡¯s doable.¡± His eyes flicked across the room, already planning. Already seeing the steps ahead. ¡°Take a squad of five and go.¡± Wyatt looked to his left, locking eyes with Vladimir for the briefest moment. His closest friend. His brother in all but blood. But Marshal had already chosen, and Vlad wasn¡¯t among the five. They exchanged a silent look. A farewell of sorts. Then Wyatt turned, motioning to the five assigned to him. ¡°Move,¡± he ordered, stepping into the half-collapsed hallway. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Wyatt and the five men chosen for the job slipped into the ruins without a word, the roar of battle fading behind them. They moved through the shattered remains of the city¡¯s infrastructure, threading their way through a maintenance path¡ªan open wound in the earth, torn apart by shelling and neglect. Sunlight sliced through jagged cracks in the ceiling, casting long, shifting shadows against the rubble-strewn floor. Dust hung in the air, disturbed only by their careful steps. Wyatt kept his rifle raised, senses razor-sharp. Every nerve in his body thrummed with tension, alert for movement. Then he heard it. A sound he knew too well. Not just the staccato bursts of Western rifles¡ªthose were expected. Not just the whir of German drones or the sharp crack of black-market carbines. No. This was something else. The unmistakable, bone-rattling hammering of AK-variant rifles. And beneath it¡­ a sound that set his teeth on edge. The deep, guttural growl of Russian tank engines. He stopped dead, heart hammering. If the Russians were here¡ªreally here¡ªthen everything was about to change. His stomach clenched. Something was wrong. He turned sharply¡ªonly to find himself alone. The five men were gone. No sound, no signal, just... gone. Like ghosts vanishing into the dust. Figures. They¡¯d been paid upfront. Mercenaries weren¡¯t the loyal kind. But Wyatt still had a job to do. And he wasn¡¯t about to run. The path twisted ahead, slanting upward. Patches of golden light pooled on the cracked concrete, illuminating jagged metal beams and shattered pipes. Wyatt moved quickly, staying close to the walls, every instinct screaming at him to stay alert. Then he saw it. A rusted ladder, leading up. The battle wasn¡¯t far¡ªbut it was far enough. And if the hospital was still standing, then this was his best chance to reach it unseen. He exhaled, steadying his grip on his rifle, then climbed. Emerging into a narrow back alley, he crouched low, scanning his surroundings. The city¡ªsomething Turkic, though he¡¯d never cared to learn the name¡ªspread out before him in broken silence. He never learned the names. He never stayed long enough for it to matter. Here, away from the immediate fighting, the world felt still. Muted. As if the city itself was holding its breath. But beyond the fractured walls and abandoned market stalls, war raged on. Gunfire rattled through the streets. The distant whump of grenades sent tremors through the ground beneath his boots. Wyatt moved fast, threading through the maze of rubble, skirting burned-out vehicles and collapsed buildings. Every turn was calculated, each movement deliberate, keeping him away from the thick of the fighting. He pieced together the city¡¯s layout in his mind, mapping out where the hospital had to be. Then¡ª A chain of explosions ripped through the air. The ground shuddered beneath him. A deep, thunderous crash followed¡ªthe unmistakable sound of a building collapsing in on itself. Marshal was making his move. Wyatt didn¡¯t need to see it. He knew. The old man was bringing the walls down. Buying time. Which meant Wyatt was on the clock. Gritting his teeth, he pressed forward, picking up speed. Either Marshal and his team would die in the wreckage, or they¡¯d break through. Either way, in the end, Wyatt would be alone. As he ran, his mind turned over the pieces, fitting them together with grim clarity. The warlords, the insurgents¡ªthey¡¯d been pushing harder, with coordination far beyond their usual chaos. Too organized. Too precise. The Russians weren¡¯t just arming them. They were directing them. But why? Why so boldly? Why such an aggressive push? It seemed reckless¡ªuntil it didn¡¯t. Then it clicked. Wyatt stopped mid-stride. His breath caught in his throat. The truth hit like ice water down his spine. He knew who was behind this. Three breaths. That was all he allowed himself. One. To acknowledge the truth. Two. To crush the instinct to turn and run. Three. To move. Then he was running, faster than before, rifle tight in his grip, boots hammering against the broken ground. He had to reach the hospital. Now. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Wyatt ran, faster now, more careless than before. He knew who was commanding the advance, and that knowledge gnawed at him, coiling tight around his nerves. It wasn¡¯t just the name¡ªwasn¡¯t just the man. It was what it meant. If he was here, leading this push, then everything was already in place. Every contingency accounted for. Every move already played out three steps ahead. The battle wasn¡¯t just some reckless insurgent charge; it was a performance, and the Russians had written the script. Wyatt veered into an alley, breath sharp, bootfalls hammering against cracked pavement. The hospital. Were they aiming for it too? It made sense¡ªsecuring a medical center was a logical step in an occupation. But this¡ªthis didn¡¯t feel like occupation. It didn¡¯t feel like the careful, grinding inevitability of a Russian advance. It felt like something else. The thought unsettled him, sent his mind spiraling down twisting corridors of speculation. They weren¡¯t just supporting the insurgents¡ªthey were directing them. Pushing them forward with uncharacteristic aggression. It was too fast, too confident. And then there was the boldness of it all. The sheer audacity. This wasn¡¯t how the Russians played war. Not unless¡ª Unless they weren¡¯t worried about resistance. Wyatt¡¯s breath came faster, his body moving on instinct while his mind raced ahead, tripping over its own logic. It wasn¡¯t just that they had an objective¡ªit was that they had already won. He was running through a city that was a battlefield in name only. The fighting was still raging, but the outcome had already been decided, locked into place. It wasn¡¯t just war¡ªit was a mechanism. A machine, churning forward, cold and efficient. And he was caught in it. His fingers tightened around his rifle. He had to move faster. The city around him was deathly still. Beyond the broken walls, past the skeletal remains of half-ruined buildings, war roared like a distant storm. Tank fire thundered, gunshots cracked, but here¡ªhere, in this abandoned stretch of alley and dust-choked roads¡ªthere was only silence. The civilians huddled in darkened doorways, their eyes wide and hollow, whispering prayers too low for him to hear. Their presence should have made the city feel alive. Instead, it made it feel more like a corpse. Wyatt pushed forward. The hospital wasn¡¯t far now. He just had to¡ª A shrill whistle cut the air. His stomach lurched, instincts screaming too late¡ª Impact. The world snapped apart. A flash of pressure, impossibly bright, impossibly loud¡ªthen nothing. Silence. Then¡ª White. A vast, paper-textured whiteness, stretching out in every direction. Slowly, his senses crept back, dragging sluggishly through molasses. He reached up, fingertips brushing against his own face. Muck. Grime. Blood. His equipment was still strapped to him, his rifle still slung across his back. He exhaled. His breath felt distant, like it belonged to someone else. His rational mind caught up. Concussion round. That had been a concussion round. But why? Why here? His thoughts looped, twisted, turned in on themselves, folding like origami into strange, impossible shapes. This wasn¡¯t right. He wasn¡¯t dead¡ªhe¡¯d been close to the veil too many times to mistake it. No, this was something else. Something colder. More detached. He turned. A woman stood before him. No. Not a woman. Not exactly. The shape of one, maybe¡ªtall, slender, silver-haired, with piercing blue eyes that seemed to swallow the light. She wore plain white, unmarked, featureless. And jutting from her head¡ªhorns. Twisted, malformed, half-formed things that bent at unnatural angles. She watched him with a strange expression¡ªcuriosity, naivety, something else, something darker, slithering beneath her gaze. Something like hunger. She smiled. And the pressure in his skull exploded. His ears rang¡ªno, screamed¡ªair crushed against him from all sides, the weight of existence itself pressing in¡ª Wyatt gasped awake. His body jerked, lungs dragging in air like a drowning man breaking the surface. Dust and debris filled his throat. His hands scrambled against loose earth. The sky above was fractured, blurred with smoke and fire. He was lying on the edge of a crater, the ground still trembling beneath him. His head pounded. His vision swam. But he was alive. And somewhere, beyond the distant echoes of battle, beyond the ringing in his skull¡ªhe swore he could still hear her laugh. A laugh made of metal, gunfire and bone over rock. Prologue: A Manufactured Chance Part 2 He came to it¡ªthe echoes of mocking laughter still reverberating down the empty street. But no, it wasn¡¯t laughter at all¡ªonly the relentless staccato of gunfire and a ringing in his ears that wouldn¡¯t fade. Wyatt hauled himself upright and brushed the dust from his uniform. For a brief, disoriented moment, his mind wandered in the haze of shock before reality snapped back, urging him toward the hospital once more. A stray concussion round had fallen nearby¡ªa measured, almost deliberate explosion¡ªand its implications raced through his mind. ¡®One of those rounds could be lethal if aimed right,¡¯ he mused, ¡®but a nonlethal option might work better in this situation.¡¯ As if punctuating his thoughts, another artillery round landed on some poor souls not far off, its roar merging with the ongoing symphony of chaos. Wyatt¡¯s instincts screamed for attention. He stopped suddenly, straining his ears. There¡ªa mechanical hum in the distance. He whirled around and saw it: a black speck suspended in the air like an unseen menace. It was far enough away that he couldn¡¯t simply shoot it down, yet close enough that its silent gaze made him feel exposed. For a fleeting moment, a cold fear gripped him. This was no ordinary drone. He suspected it was an explosive variant¡ªthe kind of unmanned terror some deranged tacticians deploy to hunt their targets before delivering a fatal blow. His pulse thundered in his ears as he took a cautious step back, his mission momentarily forgotten in the face of impending doom. After what felt like an eternity, the silence returned. Then, bitter realization flashed through him. That stubby bastard is leading the attack¡­ that is the only reason I¡¯m still alive, he thought bitterly confirming his earlier assumptions. But there was no time for regret¡ªonly action. What now? he demanded of himself. He had to lose that drone, that ever-watchful predator. Wyatt scanned his surroundings with the precision of a seasoned soldier. Nearby, ruined buildings jutted out like broken teeth from the battered street¡ªa labyrinth of collapsed walls and twisted rebar, offering a maze of cover. It was a standoff: the drone, under the control of an unseen adversary who manipulated the battle¡¯s variables, versus Wyatt¡ªone man armed with his wits and a rifle. Tension hung in the air, palpable and suffocating, as the drone edged closer, its approach deliberate and menacing. Without a moment¡¯s hesitation, Wyatt pivoted and bolted into the maze of rubble. His boots pounded on the fractured pavement as he sprinted into a crumbling building. The structure had probably been once some large company or office building, now it had far more personality. Shattered glass, twisted metal, and layers of dust formed a ghostly tableau in the pale light filtering through broken windows. Shadows danced along the walls, turning every step into a precarious game of cat and mouse. Wyatt navigated the ruined corridors with exceptional competence¡ªeach decision was calculated and instinctive. He darted through narrow passageways, leapt over debris, and slid under fallen beams with the grace of a man who had honed his survival skills over countless battles. Yet, no matter how precise his movements, the ever-present hum of the drone loomed like a sinister metronome, dictating the pace of his flight. Inside the ruin, time seemed to stretch. Dust motes danced in the shafts of light, the chaos outside faded into a watercolor haze of grays, blues, and fleeting bursts of orange. Like in a dreamscape, in that surreal moment, the ruined walls transformed into an ethereal canvas, and Wyatt felt as though he were suspended between life and oblivion. But the dream was shattered by the increasing intensity of the drone¡¯s presence¡ªa constant reminder that his unseen adversary was always one step ahead. Through a hallway, down a flight of stairs, the hum pushed him left. Through holes in the walls. The hum changed. It sounded stronger, closer. Down a hole in the floor, towards the level below. He would have been able to escape but the sound, the crunching underfoot gave him away and he forwards ad the mechanical hum surged forward, as if rejoicing zipped forward Even as he navigated the twisting maze of collapsed corridors, Wyatt¡¯s mind raced with thoughts of his relentless foe. Every turn he took, every careful decision, was countered by the subtle, unnerving precision of the enemy controlling that drone. It was as if his every move were anticipated, orchestrated by a master tactician whose presence was felt only through the unyielding buzz overhead. The drone¡¯s hum grew louder, its mechanical beat a sinister rhythm echoing through the hollowed-out building. In that charged silence, Wyatt¡¯s thoughts twisted into a frenzied analysis. He¡¯s not just following me¡ªhe¡¯s outplaying me. Every choice I make, every turn I take, is already anticipated. I¡¯m a pawn in his game. Yet even as the realization struck him, Wyatt¡¯s resolve hardened. He had made too far to just die to an overly smart bomb. As he sprinted deeper into the labyrinth of rubble, the pace of the chase quickened. His pulse pounded in his ears in time with the relentless drone overhead. Wyatt¡¯s every decision was a calculated risk¡ªeach leap, each dodge, meticulously planned in a split second. But the unseen man behind the drone was a ghost, his strategies hidden in the static of war, always one move ahead. The ruined corridors became a stage for a deadly dance¡ªa race against time where the slightest hesitation could mean capture, or worse. One corridor turned into a flight of stairs, jumping up by fours and even fives. His pulse raging in his ears surging him forward. Turning right, down a more intact corridor. Through a door and through a convenient hole in the wall. Wyatt¡¯s breath came in ragged gasps as he dashed through a narrow passageway, his mind a whirlwind of calculations and desperate hopes. In the distance, the drone¡¯s eerie hum blended with the distant explosions and the collapsing city, creating a symphony of chaos that underscored the stakes of every decision. At some point, Wyatt realized that the chase was nothing more than a deadly, one-sided game. He could not run forever he was going to tire sooner rather than later, and his destination¡ªthe hospital¡ªremained fixed with time ticking down. That was all that mattered now. Outside, the chaos had melted into a watercolor blur of disjointed hues, and here he was, in a relatively intact hallway within the ruined building. For a moment, it felt as if he¡¯d stepped into an unreal world¡ªa fragile haven amid the carnage. As he turned to glance back, the drone pivoted, its small, toy-like form with a blinking light now aiming in the opposite direction. That was it: the game was over, or so it seemed. Wyatt clenched his teeth and readied his rifle. It felt almost mocking¡ªthe relentless black speck had been pursuing him with unnerving persistence, its unseen operator having a clear shot. Yet, Wyatt¡¯s competence shone through; every decision he made was deliberate, even as the threat loomed large. Time stretched into infinity as Wyatt assessed his dwindling options. The ruined building itself offered a singular chance for escape. He lowered his rifle slightly, and in that moment, the drone surged forward. Everything slowed to a surreal crawl. Wyatt¡¯s eyes narrowed as he aimed his rifle low¡ªtoward the cracked concrete of the floor¡ªand began to fire. Each round struck the surface with a resonant thud, sending splinters skittering up his boots and legs. His face remained an emotionless mask¡ªcalm, controlled, yet burning with determination. You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story. The drone, accelerating as it neared the critical distance for its self-destruct mechanism, was now playing a macabre game orchestrated by an unseen hand. Wyatt, drawing on every ounce of training and instinct, calculated the distance with clinical precision. Then, in a heartbeat, the floor beneath him gave way. He plummeted into darkness, the sensation of freefall mingling with a dawning awareness that his enemy¡¯s plan was unfolding exactly as intended. In the midst of the fall, an explosion erupted behind him. For a brief, surreal moment, the world transformed into a cascading watercolor of blue and turquoise¡ªan otherworldly display that defied the harsh reality of his situation. The impact of the fall jolted him into consciousness, the acrid stench of sewers and burning debris assaulting his senses. Wyatt was alive. Dazed but resolute, he found himself in a narrow corridor¡ªa vestige of the once-grand structure, now overtaken by decay and conflict. He flicked on his flashlight, revealing a path that led deeper into the wreckage of the sewer system. Overhead, debris cascaded down, carrying with it the bitter aroma of charred wood and decay. Wyatt blinked repeatedly, trying to dispel the shock of having flirted so closely with death. With urgency propelling him forward, Wyatt searched for any exit¡ªa staircase, a ramp, anything that would lead him away from the subterranean maze. Every step was a reminder of the unseen adversary still manipulating the drone overhead, a ghostly puppet master controlling the very rhythm of the chase. Yet even as he was outplayed by an invisible foe, every decision Wyatt made was executed with precision and unwavering resolve. The ruined corridor stretched before him like a gauntlet. Shadows danced along the walls, and each flicker of his flashlight revealed remnants of a battle that had ravaged this place. Every collapsed wall and twisted beam became both obstacle and potential advantage¡ªa labyrinth that Wyatt intended to master. His mind raced, calculating risks and plotting escape routes, even as the echo of the drone¡¯s persistent hum filled the air. In that grim moment, as he navigated the treacherous path with unmatched focus, Wyatt understood that his survival depended on turning every ruined fragment into an asset. The chase was far from over, and the unseen enemy was still out there, orchestrating a deadly game. But Wyatt was determined. With the hospital still ahead and countless lives hanging in the balance, he vowed to outthink and outmaneuver every threat¡ªeven one as insidious as a remote-controlled drone with a lethal purpose. Every step forward was a defiant act against fate itself. In this crumbling world, where every decision could mean the difference between life and death, Wyatt pressed onward¡ªresolute, resourceful, and relentlessly determined to reclaim control of his destiny. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ After emerging from the sewers, Wyatt immediately sensed that the battle had changed. The chaos now swirled around him¡ªa cacophony of gunfire, mortars, and the ceaseless roar of engines¡ªechoing down every ruined street. The local insurgents were pressing hard toward the government district, their forces flooding the avenues in a wild, reckless surge. Yet, something was off. The Russians, who had been a steady, menacing presence until now, were no longer in full pursuit. Sure, a handful of Russian units still moved with the insurgents, pushing toward the city¡¯s heart, but the majority had shifted in another direction. Wyatt listened closely, discerning the subtle differences in the sounds of combat. The clatter of heavier ordnance, the lower rumble of sustained fire¡ªthese were not the sounds of an insurgent attack; they were signatures of a deliberate, well-coordinated advance. They were gunning for the hospital. His grip on the rifle tightened as he melted into the shadows, every muscle tensed and his mind running a silent tally: weapons, ammunition, escape routes. The hospital was so close now¡ªjust one street away¡ªbut the corridor in between was a battleground in itself. Up ahead, a thin defensive line had taken shape. A small band of local fighters, their movements calculated and purposeful, held the Russians back just enough to buy time. Wyatt watched them with a mixture of admiration and envy. They didn¡¯t fight with the desperation of the hopeless; they moved like clockwork, as if every action was part of a larger plan. They weren¡¯t stalling for survival¡ªthey were buying time. But for what? For him? Or perhaps for something else entirely? His eyes swept over to the hospital¡ªa massive complex that once symbolized healing, now transformed into a grim refuge for the wounded and trapped. Drones circled overhead like vultures. Wyatt exhaled slowly, his fingers tapping nervously against the butt of his rifle. After his last encounter with a drone, he was determined to avoid another unwanted confrontation with its unseen operator. What was his play? If he charged headlong toward the hospital, wouldn¡¯t he be an obvious target? A lone figure sprinting toward a fortified building, fully geared and unmistakably armed¡ªhe¡¯d be spotted in an instant. His pulse steadied as he weighed his options. In that charged silence, his mind wrestled with self-doubt. Was he making the right call? Was his unparalleled competence enough to outmaneuver forces that seemed to anticipate his every move? He could eave, he could melt into the shadows and just disappear. No, something surged from within him. He had to make it to the hospital Before he could decide further, a distant, metallic screech shattered the stillness. His stomach dropped as he realized what it meant¡ªartillery. Wyatt¡¯s breath hitched in his throat as the whistling shells began their deadly descent. Then, with a resounding impact, the first shells struck the hospital. He could almost hear the screams before they began¡ªa chorus of agony that momentarily froze him in place. But then, as quickly as it came, the horror melted into cold, razor-sharp determination. They were shelling the hospital, and that signified two grim facts: one, they weren¡¯t expecting any survivors; two, they weren¡¯t prepared for anyone to charge in. Wyatt¡¯s fingers clenched around his rifle as he acknowledged the madness of his situation. It was a suicide run masquerading as a tactical opportunity. Yet it was his only chance to reach the target in time. And if the target was already dead inside, then he¡¯d at least fulfilled his part of the contract. A familiar bitterness crept in¡ªa ghost from old battles¡ªbut he shoved it aside. Now was not the time for regret. The first round of shells struck the street, the very ground trembling beneath him. That was his cue. Without hesitation, Wyatt broke into a sprint. Explosions blossomed around him, fire and steel tearing through the air as he ran headlong into the chaos. He weaved between shockwaves, leapt from crater to crater, his lungs burning as smoke and debris clawed at his throat. Shrapnel grazed his skin¡ªa sharp, stinging reminder of how close death could be¡ªbut he kept running. Then, with one final burst of adrenaline, he made it. Collapsing to his knees on the broken pavement, he gasped for air as sweat and blood mixed on his face. In that brief moment, he gave himself three breaths: One¡ªto acknowledge that he was still alive. Two¡ªto confirm that he was intact and mission-capable. Three¡ªto force himself back to his feet. Rising shakily, Wyatt¡¯s relief was abruptly cut short. He froze as cold steel pressed against him¡ªguns pointed squarely in his direction. His focus snapped to the source of the threat: not Russians, not insurgents, but local police, enforcers, soldiers who had chosen to stand with the civilians. A tense standoff ensued in the ruined street. Wyatt¡¯s heart pounded as he scanned the faces of the armed men, uncertain if they would understand his situation. He didn¡¯t know if they spoke English, and he certainly didn¡¯t speak their language. In that precarious silence, the only thing that mattered was whether he was friend or foe. Swallowing hard, Wyatt broke the silence with a tentative question, ¡°English?¡± His voice was barely above a whisper, laden with a mixture of hope and desperation. In that moment, as sirens wailed faintly in the distance and the din of battle roared on, Wyatt¡¯s mind churned with self-doubt and resolve. Every step he¡¯d taken had been a calculated risk, every decision a delicate dance with death. And now, standing on the knife-edge between survival and capture, he couldn¡¯t help but wonder if his instincts would be enough to see him through the chaos that lay ahead. Prologue: A Manufactured Chance Part 3 The men didn''t budge. Even as the sound of the approaching enemy advance grew more urgent. They had him on their sights. They looked ready to shoot him then and there. His mind went into He had no ace up his sleeve, no trick to pull. Oh well. He¡¯d made it as far as he could. He braced himself for the flash of gunfire when a figure emerged from the shadows of the hospital. "Finally, we¡¯ve been waiting for a long time." The voice belonged to a woman. She stepped forward, her presence immediately commanding. "T¨¹fekleri indiri?. Ol k¨¹tken adamlar?m?zd?n biri." The men obeyed lowering their guns without hesitation, which struck Wyatt as odd. Men with guns in a place like this didn¡¯t usually take orders so easily, specially from women. That was when he took a second, harder look at them. Something was off. Yes, they wore the uniforms of local enforcers and police, but¡ª His hand flew to his rifle, aiming at the woman. The men raised their weapons again in response. "Your instincts are good, young pup, but we are not the enemy," the woman said calmly. "Now follow me. The objective you must escort is this way¡­ and we should hurry. The artillery barrage is almost done." Her accent was strange¡ªone he couldn¡¯t place. She snapped something in the same foreign tongue from before, and the men lowered their weapons again. Wyatt hesitated for a brief moment before stepping inside. Things had taken a turn for the strange. He cast another glance at the men at the entrance. They were more than what their uniforms suggested. That explained the shelling¡ªif the Russians were willing to level an entire hospital, it meant they knew exactly what they were up against. Wyatt scanned the building. It looked abandoned, but his veteran instincts caught the details others might miss¡ªthe traps, the kill zones, the claymores, and an unshakable feeling that there was more hidden, something just beyond his perception. "Who are you?" he asked the woman. She half-turned but kept walking, her slow, deliberate pace grating on his nerves. The Russians were coming. They were wasting time. Under the darkness of her hood, the only feature clearly visible was her deep brown eyes. "It doesn¡¯t matter," she said. And she was right. Wyatt had been paid to retrieve the target, nothing more. Yet, something compelled him to ask again, so strongly that he clenched his jaw against it. In the silence of the building, she stopped and looked at him, as if studying him. "Is there a problem?" "No, it''s just¡ªnothing. It''s nothing," Wyatt muttered. She held his gaze for a moment longer, then turned back toward the corridor. "If you¡¯re worried about the advancing force, you need not be," she said. "We¡¯ll take care of it. We have the resources for that. But we don¡¯t have the means to escort the mark outside the zone and to safety. Not with the Guardians at our heels" She resumed her slow advance. Wyatt didn¡¯t press to know who these Guardians were. The sound of the Russians approaching unnerved him. Another artillery barrage struck the building, and a deafening crash echoed through the halls. A wall of dust roared down a nearby hallway as they descended a level. "Can you just tell me where this person is?" Wyatt snapped. "We¡¯re wasting time!" "We have all the time in the world," she retorted. Wyatt was sweating profusely. After all that running, rushing, fear, and tension this was torture. "Are you always this¡ª" he started, searching for an argument, when a firefight erupted behind them on the ground floor. "Calm? Collected? Confident?" she offered. Even though he was walking behind her, he could feel the smirk on her face. "Yeah," he muttered. He wanted to argue, but the battle behind them was growing fiercer. Explosions joined the chorus of gunfire. "Trust, soldier of fortune," she said. "Son of the Great Plains, trust. We don¡¯t usually act so openly, but right now, needs must. We will do our job. You do yours." Wyatt inhaled sharply through his nose but dropped the subject. They reached the third sublevel. Despite himself, Wyatt scanned the area. It looked like a normal hospital¡ªsterile white walls, abandoned offices, closed rooms. It even smelled clean. Or at least, as clean as a hospital could be in a city at war. Then he heard it. A soft, unmistakable sound. A baby crying. They crossed through a reinforced door, the heavy metal frame scraping slightly against the tiled floor as it swung shut behind them. The air inside was cooler, untouched by the dust and heat of the battle outside. It smelled faintly of antiseptic and something else¡ªsomething human, raw, and exhausted. It was a consultation room, smaller than he had expected, with a single examination bed pushed against one wall and a few pieces of medical equipment left in haphazard disarray. Dim emergency lights flickered overhead. On the bed lay a woman, blonde and pale, her hollowed cheeks and dark circles betraying the sheer exhaustion gripping her body. She cradled a newborn in her arms, the baby suckling weakly at her breast, oblivious to the chaos outside. Across from her, sitting stiffly in a chair, was another woman¡ªdressed like the one who had escorted him. Wyatt noted the similarity immediately. The same dark hood, the same quiet intensity. She was watching him, expectant. He exhaled sharply, shifting his weight, and turned his gaze back to the mother and child. This was his escort mission? Wyatt pinched the bridge of his nose. ¡°So you got me escorting a baby?¡± His voice came out flat, disbelief laced with irritation. The hooded woman who had led him here merely tilted her head. ¡°And the mother,¡± she added. A heavy silence followed. Outside, another explosion rattled the walls, dust sifting down from the ceiling like fine powder. Wyatt exhaled through his nose, jaw tightening. He had done a lot of things for money. Some he was proud of. Others he drank to forget. But this? This was something else entirely. ¡°I¡¯m not raising him,¡± he said, shaking his head. ¡°I¡¯ve seen this movie before.¡± To that, the three women laughed. It wasn¡¯t a soft, sentimental laugh. It was sharp, knowing. Almost bitter. Then the moment was shattered. A deafening explosion struck somewhere nearby, shaking the building down to its bones. The overhead lights flickered, and the baby let out a startled cry. Wyatt''s instincts screamed at him. He was out of time. Dust filled the air. The scent of burning insulation followed. The war was closing in. This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version. The first woman¡ªthe one who had led him down here¡ªfrowned, voice sounding constrained by surprise. ¡°They¡¯re impressive. They¡¯re pushing harder and more effectively than we expected.¡± Wyatt¡¯s frown deepened. Something about that didn¡¯t sit right. ¡°You know who I am. You have the resources, the manpower to hold the Russians at bay¡ªyet you don¡¯t know who¡¯s leading the attack?¡± His tone was edged with disbelief. That was the part they were in the dark about? ¡°Irrelevant,¡± the woman said coolly, dismissing his concerns with a flick of her wrist. ¡°We will hold. Now, please.¡± As if on cue, the woman on the bed¡ªthe one who had apparently just given birth¡ªsat up, her exhaustion momentarily forgotten. Without hesitation, she dressed herself in the same style as the others, swift and efficient, movements practiced. Wyatt¡¯s brain barely had time to register what she was doing before she passed the baby into the arms of the woman sitting on the chair in front of the bed. Then she reached for a rifle. And then she marched for the door. Wyatt stared, his brain short-circuiting. Excuse me? What? ¡°The hell do you think you¡¯re doing?¡± he finally managed, blinking in shock. ¡°For a mercenary, you ask a lot of questions,¡± the third woman¡ªwho had been silent until now¡ªsaid, her voice younger than the first two. That wasn¡¯t the part Wyatt had the most trouble with. No, what really bothered him was that he still didn¡¯t know any of their names. And why was that getting under his skin so much? He shook the thought off, refocusing. Mission first. ¡°Alright,¡± he exhaled. ¡°We¡¯re running out of time. How do we get out of here?¡± ¡°There are maintenance passages all along the second sublevel,¡± the first woman¡ªwhom he had mentally tagged as the old one¡ªreplied. ¡°They¡¯ll take you to the sewers. From there, you¡¯ll have a clear route to freedom. Though that will be up to you.¡± Wyatt¡¯s gaze flicked toward the third woman, the one who had been sitting the chair the whole time and now rose to her feet. Cradling the baby and putting him in a special harness. The mother. She wasn¡¯t the one who had been on the bed. His brows furrowed. ¡°What about the¡ª?¡± ¡°She is here.¡± The old one gestured toward the third woman ¡°But¡ª?¡± ¡°Mercenary.¡± The old one cut him off with an impatient look. ¡°You really do question too much.¡± Her voice softened, but only slightly. ¡°She is the mother. That is what matters.¡± Wyatt turned to the younger woman, giving her a closer look. Now that he was paying attention, he noticed the way she held herself¡ªbalanced, coiled. She was fit. Even beneath the loose fabric, he could tell. And her clothes were different. Less like something a civilian would wear. More like something suited for action. There was gear under the more outerlayers of her attire. Before he could press further, another explosion rocked the building. This time, the gunfire sounded much closer. ¡°No more time! GO!¡± The old one barked, snapping out a sidearm and turning for the door. For the first time, she had lost her composure. Wyatt barely had time to exchange a glance with the younger woman before they both bolted. They rushed up the stairs, their boots hammering against the concrete. It was only then¡ªonly then¡ªthat Wyatt realized just how deep they had gone. If they stalled for even a second longer, they risked being trapped underground for good. Like a swarm of insects defending their nest, the defenders¡ªwhoever they were¡ªhad formed a desperate bulwark at the entrance of the second sublevel, holding the Russians at bay. The sheer level of firepower unleashed both upwards and downwards was staggering. The air was thick with smoke, tracer rounds carving glowing arcs through the dimly lit space. The walls shook from the relentless percussion of rifle fire and the occasional, gut-punching thud of grenades going off. Before following the woman, Wyatt risked a glance upward. And something looked back. A shape loomed in the chaos, tall, coiled, ready. It wasn¡¯t just a man in combat gear, nor was it some armored behemoth. It was wrong¡ªsomething too dark, too still in the storm of motion around it. Shadows clung to its form like living things, and for a brief, skin-prickling moment, it locked eyes with him. It had noticed them. Then came the scream. It split through the cacophony of gunfire¡ªa primal, enraged howl that sent a spear of ice straight through Wyatt¡¯s spine. That was not human. That was all it took. Wyatt turned and ran. He ran like hell. He didn¡¯t think, didn¡¯t hesitate¡ªjust reached out, grabbed the woman by the nape of her neck, and yanked her along with him. She shrieked in surprise, stumbling forward under his grip. ¡°Where to?¡± he barked. ¡°Down the corridor¡ªthere¡¯s a maintenance door! Follow the green lines!¡± she gasped, struggling against his iron grip. ¡°Good.¡± That was all he could spare for words. His lungs burned, but fear gave his legs a strength they wouldn¡¯t have had otherwise. They sprinted down the dimly lit hallway, boots hammering against the concrete. Wyatt barely registered the flashing emergency lights overhead, the crumbling ceiling tiles, the distant echoes of shouting and gunfire. He was running on instinct, dragging her along whether she liked it or not. The maintenance door came into view, a heavy steel thing marked with faded hazard signs. ¡°Wait¡ªwait! It opens outward!¡± she yelped. Wyatt barely stopped in time, slamming to a halt just before he could crash into it. He could feel it now¡ªthe creeping, suffocating sensation of being watched. Of something behind them, closing in. He wrenched the door open, shoved her inside, then stepped in himself. For a second, just a second, he paused. His breath came fast and shallow. Move. He spotted a desk and some other furniture in the dimly lit room¡ªa cluttered office space of some kind, abandoned in haste. Without a second thought, he grabbed whatever he could and threw it against the door, barricading it as best he could. ¡°Come on!¡± he snapped. Prologue: A Manufactured Chance Part 4 Wyatt whirled around and grabbed the woman again, his desperation propelling him forward despite the searing aches in his limbs and the woman''s muffled protests. Her struggles against his grip only heightened the urgency of the moment. "Are there any other entrances?" he demanded, his voice tight with fear and uncertainty. He still didn¡¯t know her name. "Yes," she replied matter-of-factly, her tone steady even as she fought against him. "The entire complex is riddled with maintenance passages." Her words barely registered over the pounding of his heart, his knuckles blanching white under the strain and terror. "Great," Wyatt muttered bitterly. "That thing¡¯s going to be able to get in from who knows where." His voice trailed off as they reached a heavy door. In a sudden motion, the woman twisted free of his grasp, shaking him off with a sharp glare. She flailed, determined not to be dragged any further than she intended. "Stop. We can walk," she said firmly, as if this were just another step in a long, inevitable plan. "The Faithful will stop the advance." "I¡¯m not worried about the Faithful," Wyatt snapped, his tone laced with desperation. "I''m worried about that thing among the Russians." His words were punctuated by a palpable tremor of fear. "Either way," she replied calmly, "this place is too massive, too complex for mere mortals to fully understand." Her measured pace continued¡ªslow, deliberate¡ªand Wyatt found himself forced to match it. "I don¡¯t care¡ªwe have to reach the rendezvous point, and I need to deliver you both intact." Her face remained hidden beneath her hood, a silent nod confirming her words. "Now you''re speaking sense, soldier of fortune," she added, her voice cool and unyielding. "Worry not¡ªthe Faithful will deliver as we walk the unseen path." And she kept on walking. Slowly. Deliberately. Wyatt stared after her, a storm of conflicting thoughts churning inside. Just like the older woman before her, she was unbothered and detached. For a brief, tantalizing moment, he considered abandoning her¡ªturning and running for his own survival, leaving her to her mysterious faith in whatever force she believed was coming. But then he calmed himself, letting his anger subside as he realized she was moving so slowly that he could easily catch up after a brief respite, perhaps even sip some water. Not to mention, the baby securely harnessed to her added an unexpected weight of responsibility. Whatever that thing was, he couldn¡¯t afford to lose them. They passed through a series of abandoned offices and laboratories¡ªonce sterile, now eerily empty¡ªalong reinforced corridors and past a quiet library. At one point, she carefully closed a door behind them. The entire structure felt like a blend of a submarine¡¯s claustrophobic confines and a secretive military base. Wyatt¡¯s skin prickled as an unnatural sensation crept up his spine. A soft giggle from the baby echoed through the dark, empty hallways, and he swallowed hard. "That wasn¡¯t just the Russians back there," he muttered, finally falling into step beside her despite every survival instinct screaming to speed up. The oppressive silence of their passage contrasted sharply with the chaos they had left behind. "The Faithful will deliver," she repeated, her voice eerily calm. "What I carry is too important." She said nothing about who or what that was¡ªonly that it was vital. Wyatt inhaled sharply, his frustration and dread mingling in a bitter exhale. Maybe he was just seeing things. Maybe his brain, fuelled by fear and adrenaline, had conjured a monster where none existed. Maybe it was just a trick of the shadows¡ªa hallucination born of exhaustion. But he had seen it clear as day: a dark figure with two silver eyes, standing untouched by the chaos around it. It had looked at him, recognizing him as an individual, and that realization sent a fresh wave of terror crashing over him. "It looked at me, you know," he said, his mouth dry and voice barely a whisper. His words were met by a subtle shift in her step¡ªa barely noticeable falter, as if the weight of his admission had momentarily unsettled her. "The Faithful will deliver," she intoned again, her tone resolute. Yet, in that moment, Wyatt noticed the faintest twitch at her side as she reached for her sidearm. Relief mixed with dread¡ªat least she was armed¡ªbut it did little to soothe his racing mind. He methodically released his magazine, emptied the spent casing into his hand, pocketed the remnants, and reloaded a fresh magazine into his rifle. Each mechanical motion was an anchor, a small comfort in a situation that defied calm. Even as he forced himself to match her measured pace, his grip on his weapon remained unyielding. He swept his rifle across the dim corridors, every shadow deep and foreboding. Every distant echo of gunfire set his nerves on edge. He knew, with an instinct as old as battle itself, that the thing they had seen wasn¡¯t going to be stopped by a mere firefight. They passed storerooms filled with abandoned tools and supplies¡ªforgotten remnants of a hurried exodus. Long, narrow hallways lined with exposed pipes and bundled cables stretched ahead, and with every step, the air grew colder, more oppressive. The entire hidden structure seemed to pulse with an undercurrent of menace. "What kind of hospital is this?" Wyatt muttered, unaware that his voice had carried his question aloud. "The Faithful owned this hospital¡ªor at least, they used to," she said, and Wyatt could almost detect a prideful smile beneath her words. "It has served its purpose." That was all she offered, and Wyatt¡¯s instincts screamed at him not to press further. Yet, some part of him¡ªhis insatiable need for answers¡ªurged him to ask more. He fought against that foreign compulsion with all the training he had received; asking would do him no good now. Besides, if his instincts were right, the very air carried a deep, simmering terror. Marshal had been right. As they moved deeper into the maze-like corridors, Wyatt¡¯s mind teetered on the edge of paranoia and clarity. The slow pace, the eerie silence punctuated only by distant sounds of battle, and the nagging suspicion that the people who had hired him were as dangerous as the monstrous presence he had seen¡ªall of it wove together into a tapestry of fear. His heart pounded as he recalled the dark thing, its silver eyes fixed on him, as if it had recognized him personally. Every step echoed in the quiet, and he couldn¡¯t shake the feeling that something was watching them¡ªsomething lurking just beyond the flickering lights. His thoughts tumbled in a frenzied loop: Was it the Russians? Were the Guardians somehow involved? Or was the unseen enemy far more sinister than he dared imagine? If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement. "Enough questions," he muttered to himself, forcing his focus back on the path ahead. The corridors grew colder, the scent of antiseptic and disinfectant mingling with an undercurrent of decay. The very structure of the hospital whispered secrets of a past purpose, now overtaken by the relentless march of war. The woman¡¯s voice cut through his swirling thoughts. "The Faithful will deliver," she repeated, almost as a mantra. "What I carry is too important." Her tone was flat, matter-of-fact, yet beneath it lay a chill that unsettled him even more. He wanted to ask¡ªwanted to know who she was, who the Faithful were¡ªbut he swallowed his questions, knowing that now wasn¡¯t the time for doubts. Marshal had warned him: trust the plan, even when everything screamed that it was a trap. Yet, as they pressed on, the dissonance between her calm and the lurking dread in his own heart grew ever louder. Every shadow seemed to pulse with hidden menace, every echo a harbinger of the relentless pursuit that waited beyond. And with that, the weight of his own uncertainty pressed in on him¡ªwas he merely a pawn in a game far beyond his control? He forced a steadying breath, clenching his jaw as he vowed to push through the fear. For now, the only option was to follow the unseen path, however treacherous it might be. Every step forward was a defiant act against the dread that sought to paralyze him, a refusal to yield even as the walls of this strange, haunted hospital seemed to close in. "Move," he whispered, not just to the woman but to himself, his voice carrying a grim determination. And with that, they continued their slow, deliberate march through the labyrinthine corridors, each step a heartbeat in the dark symphony of fear, doubt, and unyielding resolve. Then, suddenly, they passed into a room that made Wyatt¡¯s steps falter¡ªa server farm. Rows of towering metal racks blinked with dim, flickering lights, and machines hummed softly, still running despite everything. His stomach twisted. What kind of hospital was this? The servers droned on, low, constant, almost soothing. Wyatt¡¯s fingers flexed around his gun, knuckles white as he swept his gaze across the rows of blinking machines. The place smelled of dust and ozone¡ªa sharp contrast to the lingering stench of blood, sweat, and gunpowder from above. He risked a glance at the woman beside him. Unbothered. Focused. The baby in her arms stirred slightly but didn¡¯t cry. Too calm. That wasn¡¯t normal, was it? No fussing, no wailing¡ªno sign that it sensed the chaos around it. He exhaled sharply, pushing the thought aside. He had bigger problems. ¡°This isn¡¯t a hospital, is it?¡± he muttered, keeping his voice low. His eyes traced the cables snaking along the walls, the cooling units humming behind the racks. The woman kept walking, her face hidden under the hood, as if unfazed. ¡°It was.¡± ¡°Right.¡± His lips pressed into a thin line. That wasn¡¯t an answer. His boots barely made a sound against the cold floor as he followed her deeper into the server room. Every instinct screamed at him to move faster¡ªto get away from whatever hell he had seen upstairs¡ªbut she walked at her own pace: steady, deliberate, as if she knew exactly where she was going. The silence pressed in. No gunfire. No distant explosions. Just the constant hum of the machines. Wyatt didn¡¯t trust it. He checked his six; the corridor behind them stretched into shadows, broken only by the occasional red emergency light. His nerves prickled. Nothing there. Yet. His fingers twitched near the trigger. "Where exactly are we going?" he demanded. She pointed ahead, toward a heavy metal door at the far end of the room. ¡°There.¡± ¡°And behind it?¡± ¡°The maintenance tunnels connecting to the sewers.¡± Wyatt exhaled. At least that was something. Then, just as they reached the door, something changed. The humming deepened¡ªas if a sudden power shift had surged through the servers. Lights flickered overhead, and the air itself seemed to tighten. A low, almost imperceptible vibration ran through the floor beneath his boots. Wyatt froze. The woman didn¡¯t. She reached for the door handle. And then¡ªa sound. Not from behind them. Not from the firefight. But from between the server racks. A scrape. Slow. Deliberate. Like claws dragging across metal. Wyatt snapped his gun up, training it on the darkness between the machines. His breath came shallow, the hair on the back of his neck standing on end. Nothing. Then¡ªa shape shifted. It was low. Too low for a man, too big for a rat, too human to be ordinary. The machines gave off just enough light for him to make out a long, lithe silhouette moving between the racks. Something crawling. Seeking, hunting. A pair of silver, moonlit eyes watched him from the darkness. The same thing from before. His stomach twisted into a knot. It hadn¡¯t followed them from upstairs¡ªit had been here the whole time. Wyatt¡¯s grip tightened around his weapon. "We need to move. Now." The woman turned the handle; the door groaned. The sound from the server racks ceased abruptly, as if the thing knew it was about to be confronted. And then¡ªit lunged. A blur of movement, a scraping rush of claws on the floor, the smell of rage, anger, and triumph flooding the air. Wyatt fired. He had hoped to avoid a fight¡ªhoped that the sacrifice of his group had been enough. But reality didn¡¯t care about hope. The thing lunged again. It looked human¡ªalmost. A twisted, man-beast, moving with a blend of animal grace and unnatural sharpness. Too fast. Silver flashed in the dark. Claws? No¡ªsteel. Knives fused to its fingers like an obscene extension of its body. Wyatt¡¯s rifle roared, its sound hammering against the tight walls of the server room. Muzzle flashes illuminated the creature in flickering snapshots: dark skin, unnaturally long limbs, a face half-hidden by shadows that clung like a second skin. Bullets struck, disappeared, were swallowed¡ªlike the darkness itself was consuming them. Yet, physics still applied; the sheer force of the rounds made the creature stagger, even if it didn¡¯t bleed. A half-second of recoil¡ªbarely enough. Behind him, the door groaned open. Too slow. Wyatt fired again¡ªtoo slow. His empty magazine clattered to the floor as his off-hand reached for the spare one strapped to his vest. The creature recovered swiftly, muscles coiled, its body winding like a spring, ready to launch forward, to close the gap, to tear him apart. Wyatt¡¯s fingers fumbled with the mag¡ªhalf a second too slow. His body moved on instinct, training screaming at him to load faster, fire faster¡ªbut he wasn¡¯t going to make it. The thing was already crouched low, its limbs tensed. And then, the woman denied it the chance. At his side, she raised her weapon and fired. The shots were precise, disciplined¡ªnot panicked, not desperate. And just as before, the bullets disappeared, swallowed by the creature¡¯s writhing darkness. But the force of her fire sent it staggering once more. Wyatt didn¡¯t waste the opening. Mag locked. Chambered. He fired. Muzzle flashes strobed the scene in violent, frozen frames¡ªthe beast recoiling, the woman pivoting, the door yawning open behind them. She grabbed him, yanking him backward. He didn¡¯t resist. Fire and move. They retreated into the dark, step by step, with Wyatt firing every time the creature so much as twitched. He emptied his second magazine before they were through the door. And the thing was already moving again. Then¡ªsomething changed. The servers sparked. Not from gunfire, not from damage¡ªthey lit up on their own. One by one, machines caught fire, not with the slow smolder of overloaded circuits, but in sudden bursts of unnatural flame. Sparks danced in the air like erratic fireflies, clashing against the dark. The creature flinched. It didn¡¯t scream¡ªnot yet¡ªbut its movements faltered, its body twisting, caught between rage and hesitation. Then, one of Wyatt¡¯s stray rounds hit its eye. This time, the sound it made was real. It shrieked¡ªa raw, horrible noise, part animal, part static, part something ancient and furious. The shadows around it convulsed, writhing as if in shared agony. Wyatt didn¡¯t wait to see what happened next. ¡°That¡¯s our cue,¡± he barked. They ran¡ªbursting through the door, slamming it shut behind them, plunging headfirst into the stinking black of the sewers. Prologue: A Manufactured Chance Part 5 Clean air. High up in the mountains, crisp and untouched¡ªa world away from the chaos below. Wyatt scanned the area, rifle raised, sweeping for signs of movement. Nothing. The rendezvous point looked deserted. It had once been a lapis lazuli mine, too small for commercial exploitation but large enough that the locals knew of it. Forgotten, quiet, and discreet¡ªthe perfect meeting place. The woman didn¡¯t wait for an all-clear. She didn¡¯t even flinch. She walked forward, the baby strapped to her chest, and sat on a crate left abandoned. Wyatt let his instincts read the surroundings: no threats, no tension. His body knew before his mind did. He lowered his weapon, clicked the safety on, and sank down to sit¡ªbarely registering the cold surface beneath him. And then, without warning, his body gave out. Not a dramatic collapse, no gasps or sobbing¡ªjust uncontrollable shaking. Deep, relentless tremors shook him. His hands clenched together as if gripping something solid could prevent them from betraying him. A quiet rustle drew his gaze upward. The woman was watching him from beneath her hood, her deep amber eyes reflecting the last traces of daylight. ¡°Not much experience walking the forgotten paths?¡± she asked, too casually for everything that had happened. Wyatt exhaled, a bitter laugh catching in his throat. ¡°I have experience,¡± he muttered, his voice hoarse. ¡°But¡ªfuck. What the hell was that?¡± She didn¡¯t answer immediately. Instead, she reached into a pocket and pulled out baby food. Wyatt stared¡ªhow long had they been running? He hadn¡¯t even noticed. Down the barren mountain, the fighting was ending; the invaders had won. Now, civilians were beginning to emerge¡ªsmall figures moving through the wreckage. The distant hum of voices grew. Even from here, Wyatt could see what remained of the hospital¡ªor rather, what didn¡¯t remain. It had been leveled. Thoroughly erased. His body tensed as he recalled the thing¡ªhow the bullets vanished into its darkness. His hands began shaking again. He felt eyes on him. Turning, he found the woman studying him. Without a word, she reached into another pocket and produced a flask, tossing it toward him. He caught it instinctively, uncapped it, and took a cautious sniff. Spirits. Strong. ¡°Drink it,¡± she said, feeding the baby with one hand, utterly at ease. ¡°It¡¯ll help with the nerves. Helped me the first time.¡± Wyatt drank. The burn hit immediately, but it was grounding. He swallowed again, more slowly this time. The woman nodded, satisfied. They fell into silence. For the first time since everything began, they were safe¡ªno one would come looking for them here, and no one would care. And for the first time, Wyatt allowed himself to think. His mission was done. All he had to do now was wait for whoever had hired them¡ªhim¡ªto come collect the package. His mind wandered. The money was substantial¡ªmore than he¡¯d ever been paid before. He could take some time off¡ªmaybe relax on the Mediterranean coast, or somewhere even further afield. Maybe¡­ His gaze flicked to the woman, to the way she cradled the child beneath her dark gear and black hood. She looked¡ªmaternal. Maybe¡­ No. He shut the thought down before it could fully form. That wasn¡¯t for him. The woman must have sensed his lingering stare because she turned, meeting his gaze. ¡°You¡¯ve done a service you can¡¯t possibly understand,¡± she said, pure honesty in her voice. Wyatt hesitated. ¡°I¡­ hope so?¡± He exhaled, his tone flat. ¡°I really don¡¯t care.¡± She smiled faintly. ¡°You have. And since I know my superiors, they won¡¯t give you thanks openly. That makes it my responsibility.¡± She nodded. ¡°Thank you.¡± Wyatt had no response. ¡°This little girl is special,¡± she continued softly, with a hint of reverence. ¡°Extremely so. Invaluable.¡± A flicker of emotion crossed her face¡ªpride, joy, something deeper. ¡°And the fact that I have been chosen to raise and guide her¡­¡± she whispered almost to herself. Wyatt¡¯s fingers tightened around the flask. Chosen? The mother had died in the hospital. He was sure of it. So, this woman had been appointed¡ªjust like that? A cold feeling settled in his chest. Who exactly had he been working for? He didn¡¯t want to think about it. Nor did he want to think about the creature either. A sound cut through his thoughts¡ªa transport. High-tech, silent. It approached smoothly, barely kicking up dust. Both of them stood. Wyatt took in its details¡ªsleek, unmarked, camouflaged to perfection. Professional. They clearly didn¡¯t want to linger. Heavily armed figures disembarked, their movements crisp and practiced. They immediately surrounded the woman. Wyatt could feel their awe radiating from them. One of them, less armed but equally armored, broke from the group and approached him. With a nod and no wasted words, the man said, ¡°Thanks,¡± as he pressed a payment chip into Wyatt¡¯s palm. ¡°You won¡¯t have trouble accessing the funds.¡± And just like that, it was done. Wyatt pocketed the chip absently. He needed to talk to Marchall. He needed answers. The woman turned toward the transport, stepping inside with the child. She didn¡¯t look back. The doors sealed shut. And then¡ªthey were gone. The transport vanished across the mountains, leaving Wyatt alone in the cold air. Befuddled. Confused. His fingers brushed the flask¡ªhe still had it. He frowned; he was supposed to give it back. Lifting it, he turned it over in his hands: silver, decorated with gold, intricate engravings. At the center¡ªa disk, sun-like in design. Expensive. Too expensive. Wyatt blinked, staring. What the hell had he just been part of? The wind howled over the ridge, but down below, the city remained. He exhaled, pocketed the flask, and started walking. He had to find Marchall. Now that the fighting was over, he might finally be able to walk the streets¡ªespecially since he knew who led the forces down there. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Navigating a taken city wasn¡¯t hard¡ªespecially if you were a merc of some notoriety and had seen it all before. Cities like these followed the same patterns after a siege: pockets of resistance still smoldering in the ruins, looters picking at what the fighting hadn¡¯t already destroyed, and victorious forces consolidating power, securing key locations, and executing whichever unlucky bastards had ended up on the wrong side. The rest¡ªthe majority¡ªwere caught in the precarious in-between. Some armed, most afraid. If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement. That wasn¡¯t a problem for the victors. At least, not yet. Order would be established soon enough. What kind of order, though, wasn¡¯t Wyatt¡¯s concern. He planned to be far away before that happened. For now, he moved through the chaos with practiced ease, blending into the shifting currents of refugees, scavengers, and silent ghosts who hadn¡¯t yet accepted that the city was no longer theirs. His clothes were dusty, his face shadowed by grime and exhaustion, but he carried himself like someone who belonged¡ªlike someone who had always been part of the scenery, even if no one could quite remember seeing him before. The air was thick with shouting, crying, and the occasional crack of a rifle. Somewhere, someone moaned in pain. Yet no one stopped. His group had agreed to meet at a predetermined location once everything was said and done¡ªa hidden bar, a Turkic speakeasy if you could call it that. Something discreet, out of the way. A place where they could blend in, count their spoils, and divide the take before disappearing into the night. Wyatt wasn¡¯t going there. There was something more pressing to figure out. If his instincts were right, then the man leading the Russian forces¡ªthe one who had orchestrated the push and seized the city¡ªwas someone he¡¯d tangled with before. If that was the case, there was no way Marshall and the others had escaped in a frontal assault. Wyatt needed to find out what had happened to them. The answer, he suspected, lay in the administrative district¡ªwhere the patrols were thickest, their routes forming a tightening net. That¡¯s where decisions were being made. And that¡¯s where he needed to go. Adjusting the strap of his rifle, he kept his pace steady. He¡¯d been in warzones long enough to know that walking with too much confidence could get you killed just as easily as looking afraid. The trick was to appear as though you had somewhere to be, but nowhere important. Still, he couldn¡¯t avoid all eyes. As he passed through the shifting throng of displaced souls, he noticed figures with radios and communication devices taking note of him¡ªnot overtly, not aggressively, but enough that he knew he had been marked. The only question was by whom. He¡¯d have his answer soon. Turning down an alley, he stepped over a shattered cart and the body of a man who¡¯d either been too slow to surrender or too proud to kneel. A few meters away, a cluster of civilians huddled near a broken storefront, whispering in hushed tones. One of them¡ªa woman with hollow eyes and a face streaked with soot¡ªglanced at him; just a flicker of recognition before looking away. Wyatt ignored it. He had no interest in the city¡¯s ghosts. What interested him were the shadows moving in his wake. Even in the chaotic ebb and flow of the occupied city, one thing was obvious¡ªnot because he felt watched (that was a given), but because the people around him began to move. Not toward him, but away. It wasn¡¯t panic¡ªnot yet¡ªbut instinct, herding behavior. He almost smiled. They weren¡¯t just watching him; they were shepherding him. Which meant that whoever was waiting for him wouldn¡¯t be waiting much longer. He rounded another corner and came into view of the barricades sealing off the administrative district. Barbed wire, sandbags, and soldiers standing at attention formed a checkpoint that had sprung up like wild blooms after the rain¡ªmeticulously planned by professional engineers. And then he saw it: the trap snapping shut. Wyatt stopped walking. His hand hovered near his rifle strap, but he didn¡¯t move for the weapon¡ªat least, not yet. Instead, he took a slow breath, scanning the street ahead. Six men. No, more. Some in uniform, some in plain clothes, all positioned too neatly to be anything but deliberate. A soldier leaned against a makeshift barricade, rifle across his chest, eyes locked on Wyatt. Behind him, another adjusted his grip on a sidearm. A third figure, clad in a long, dust-streaked coat, stood a little apart from the rest, hands clasped behind his back¡ªwatching. Waiting. Wyatt exhaled through his nose, the tension thick in the air. A quick assessment of his situation. He could turn back, try to slip away¡ªmaybe fail, maybe succeed. But one certainty crystallized in his mind: they weren¡¯t going to kill him. Not yet. He was a mercenary¡ªa tool, and you didn¡¯t break tools without reason. Especially not when other tools, watching from the sidelines, might decide it wasn¡¯t worth working with you anymore. Mercenaries could be greedy and stubborn at times, but they weren¡¯t foolish. If word spread that these Russians killed freelancers without cause, it would be harder to hire skilled ones in the future. Wyatt let out a slow breath and relaxed his posture, choosing the path of least resistance. He walked forward. The soldiers nodded, almost relieved. They didn¡¯t want to use force. Not yet, anyway. Only one among them did not react¡ªthe man in the long, dust-streaked coat. He stood apart, letting the others do the talking, his presence an unsettling void in the group. Wyatt felt something off about him, something wrong. But now wasn¡¯t the time to dwell on it. The one who seemed in charge¡ªa sergeant judging by his insignia¡ªstudied Wyatt with sharp, assessing eyes. When he spoke, his Russian accent was thick, the syllables landing with deliberate weight. ¡°You part of the mercenary unit?¡± he asked Wyatt nodded. ¡°Yes.¡± The soldiers tensed at the confirmation. A ripple of hostility ran through the group. Only the sergeant and the man in the duster remained calm. ¡°I see,¡± the sergeant said. ¡°Did your objective intersect with ours?¡± ¡°We were paid to retrieve a target and escort them to a rendezvous,¡± Wyatt replied with a shrug. ¡°You were a surprise.¡± A low murmur rose among the soldiers, their anger buzzing beneath the surface like a disturbed hornet¡¯s nest. ¡°Indeed,¡± the sergeant mused. ¡°As were you.¡± He paused, tilting his head slightly. ¡°Capable lot, I must say. Impressive, even. You made quite the mess.¡± Wyatt filed that information away. The sergeant didn¡¯t say ¡°captured¡± or ¡°killed.¡± That meant Marshall and the others weren¡¯t dead. What are they playing at? ¡°I wasn¡¯t with them,¡± Wyatt said evenly. ¡°Distraction. I was sent around the fighting while they¡­ stalled for time.¡± The sergeant exhaled through his nose, his expression tightening. A particular bitterness laced his next words. ¡°Indeed.¡± Whatever had happened, Marshall and the others must have put up one hell of a fight. Before the conversation could continue, the man in the duster finally moved. He stepped forward, unhurried but deliberate, and for the first time, Wyatt got a proper look at him. Tall. Extremely tall. Broad-shouldered, built like a warhorse. At first glance, Wyatt thought the man¡¯s head and face were wrapped in dark cloth¡ªbut then the realization settled in like ice through his veins. It wasn¡¯t cloth. It was thick black hair. And beneath it, catching the dim light¡ªsilver eyes. The same unnatural, glinting silver as the creature that had intercepted them at the server farm. Wyatt¡¯s instincts screamed at him, but years of training and experience clamped down on his reaction before it could show. He kept his face neutral, his breathing steady. Stay calm. Don¡¯t flinch. Don¡¯t give anything away. Because whatever this thing was¡ªwhatever it wanted¡ªWyatt was sure of one thing: it was watching him very, very closely. ¡°Sergeant, remain calm,¡± said the man in the duster. His voice was impossibly deep, resonating like the growl of a landslide. ¡°They are tools of fortune. However much damage they managed to do, it isn¡¯t their fault.¡± The soldier in the duster¡ªVolkov¡ªspoke with a gravity that made the others shift uneasily. Some were Russians, others locals, but all of them looked suddenly small beneath his presence. "Yes, sir," the sergeant answered, his earlier authority reduced to meek obedience. ¡°The Colonel wants to see him.¡± Volkov turned his full attention to Wyatt. ¡°We both want to have a conversation with him.¡± His voice had a strange quality¡ªdeep, cavernous even, with a subtle, sleazy edge that Wyatt had heard before. Men like this¡ªmen who spoke like this¡ªwere never straightforward. They enjoyed twisting their words just as much as twisting arms. ¡°Yes, Brother Volkov,¡± the soldiers answered as one. Brother? Wyatt noted the shift immediately. A moment ago, they had been tense, bristling with restrained violence. Now, at the mere mention of Volkov¡¯s name, they were reduced to obedient children. Slowly, Wyatt let his hand drift¡ªnot to his gun, but toward the handle of one of his knives. Volkov smiled knowingly as he stepped closer, a slow, deliberate movement. Wyatt had seen smiles like that before¡ªthe kind that never meant anything good. Prologue: A Manufactured Chance Part 6 "My apologies, soldier of fortune," Volkov said, placing a heavy arm around Wyatt¡¯s shoulders. There was an eerie sincerity in his voice, like a man genuinely sorry for the inevitable pain he was about to inflict. Wyatt tested the weight on his shoulders. No escaping that grip. Any delusion of breaking free abandoned him now, he moved his and away from the hilt of his knife. Volkov wasn¡¯t just strong¡ªhe was impossibly strong. "Come," Volkov continued, still grinning. "The Colonel has a good opinion of you, and we wouldn¡¯t want to make him wait." As they passed the barricade, Wyatt studied him in the dim lighting. Hairy was an understatement. His thick black mane swallowed most of his features, leaving only glimpses of skin¡ªa network of scars crisscrossing what little he could see. ¡°Better you than me.¡± The quiet whisper came from one of the Russian soldiers as Wyatt passed. That startled him. Even they don¡¯t want to be alone with him? Beyond the barricade, the world was a study in organized chaos. Soldiers rushed past, burdened with crates and papers. Engineers hunched over equipment, making hasty repairs. Tents had sprung up, forming makeshift districts, each with its own rhythm of activity. Wyatt barely had time to take it in before Volkov¡¯s grip tightened, guiding him forward. "Got to say, I¡¯m impressed," Volkov mused. Wyatt realized the space around them was widening. Men moved out of their way, casting quick glances¡ªnot at him, but at Volkov. A cold sweat prickled at Wyatt¡¯s brow. "Not many take me on and survive," Volkov continued, his voice light and amused. Wyatt exhaled slowly. "Is that something to worry about?" Volkov chuckled, a pleased rumble deep in his chest. "Indeed." His grip tightened. Wyatt clenched his jaw as the pressure bore down on his shoulders. Even through his gear, he could feel the force of it¡ªfelt the bruises already forming. "You had unseen help," Volkov admitted, tilting his head as though studying a particularly interesting specimen. "But your reaction speed, your steadfastness, your will¡ªthose are things to cherish." His fingers dug in just slightly harder. "As frustrated and angry as I am right now," he said, voice still light but with a sharp undertone, "breaking such a useful tool without reason isn¡¯t smart. Especially when you don¡¯t even understand what you were protecting." The words lingered in the air, cold and deliberate. Then, finally, Volkov loosened his grip. Not enough for Wyatt to relax, but just enough to let him know who was in control. They were approaching the administrative building now, a grand structure marked by bullet holes and charred from fire. Inside, the chaos became quieter, more structured. As they passed through the hallways, the air grew heavier. Somewhere in the distance, someone was crying. They didn¡¯t go up the stairs but instead followed a hallway deep into the building, eventually stepping into what had once been an expensive, well-furnished conference room¡ªnow repurposed as an office. The figure at the center was familiar to Wyatt. As soon as they entered, the colonel looked up and smiled¡ªa warm, familiar grin that only faltered for a brief second when he noticed Volkov was in the room too. "Wyatt! My favorite merc!" he greeted, his voice carrying a mix of genuine joy and thinly veiled frustration. Then, his tone shifted as he addressed the others. "Leave us." The small group around him wasted no time dispersing. The air didn¡¯t grow heavier, exactly, but colder¡ªlike a shift in pressure before a storm. "Come, come, over here," the colonel beckoned. Then, he turned his attention to Volkov. "Release him already." Volkov obeyed immediately, but Wyatt noticed the way his massive frame tensed, his ability to shift between moods effortless yet unnerving. "Wyatt!" The colonel¡¯s voice remained jovial, his stubby frame bouncing forward with an easy energy. His bushy mustache barely contained his lingering smile. "Sir, a pleasure to make your acquaintance again," Wyatt replied, caught somewhere between shock and wariness. "Relax a bit! There''s no need to be so stiff. Come now, follow me." Much like Volkov, the colonel placed a hand on Wyatt¡¯s shoulder, guiding him toward the table. Despite his cheer, the air remained thick with unspoken anticipation. Wyatt noticed that, unlike before, Volkov didn¡¯t follow. He remained on the periphery, watching, like a predator waiting for its moment. Orlov, meanwhile, was pouring two small cups of vodka. "Cheers! To being alive." Wyatt, knowing the man and knowing he wouldn¡¯t be poisoned, drank. The alcohol hit his stomach hard, snapping him out of his daze. Smart. The old man wasn¡¯t wasting time. He sat down without waiting for an invitation. Orlov raised an eyebrow but nodded, taking a seat across from him. "I must say, you were a surprise, old friend," Orlov commented, his expression unchanged, his smile lingering beneath his mustache. "As were you," Wyatt replied, repeating his earlier sentiment. "So, what was your mission?" Wyatt considered his answer for a moment before responding. "We were paid upfront at our temporary station in a town in Makran," he said. Orlov nodded. "Our job was to reach this city..." Wyatt hesitated. "I don¡¯t even remember the name of this place." At that, Volkov¡ªwho had been circling them like a great cat¡ªstopped briefly. "Peace, Brother, peace," Orlov said to the big man, his tone firm. Then, he exchanged a glance with Wyatt¡ªone that clearly said: You needn¡¯t worry about me. Worry about him. Wyatt swallowed. Orlov poured him another glass, and he drank. "So, we arrived," Wyatt continued. "We noticed there was a fight going on. Managed to get close enough to get a read on the situation from a building¡ª" "The one that collapsed?" Orlov cut in, his calculating gaze sharpening despite his relaxed demeanor. "Yes." "Was that Marshall¡¯s idea?" "No, mine," Wyatt answered honestly. There was no reason to lie, not that he even knew what there was to withhold. Orlov barked a laugh. "I expected no less from you," he said. "Once I realized which group was blocking our advance the most, it was a pleasure to fight against you one last time." The sudden weight in his voice hit Wyatt harder than the vodka. "So the others..." he started, but Orlov was already shaking his head. "I¡¯m sorry. They¡¯re gone. While I was coordinating the joint advance, he commanded the front." Wyatt didn¡¯t need to ask who he was. From behind Orlov, Volkov reappeared, his presence causing a flicker of unease in the Russian colonel. The big man remained silent, but he did something¡ªone of his hands slipped beneath his coat, scratching at something. A small object fell, clinking softly against the floor. Even from a distance, Wyatt could tell it was a bullet. Volkov smiled, but there was something off about it. Tension pulled at the edges of his mouth. In the dim lighting of the office, as the day faded outside, Wyatt noticed the faint shine in Volkov¡¯s silver eyes. The scars on his skin¡ªsome of them weren¡¯t old. Some were burn marks. Recent ones. "I... I¡ª" "I know," Orlov interrupted gently. "I know you need space, son. But understand that we need information. I came all the way here in service of the Motherland, and my associate here..." He gestured vaguely in Volkov¡¯s direction. "Well, he serves higher powers. Can you keep answering us?" Wyatt wanted to ask about the bodies¡ªwhere they were, how it had happened. But then he glanced at Volkov as the giant stepped back into the shadows. Perhaps that wasn¡¯t a good idea. Instead, he took a single deep breath and pressed forward. "Yes. The person who hired us wanted us to retrieve a package from inside a hospital, then escort it to the rendezvous point. That was it. We were paid everything upfront, with a bonus at the end." You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story. "And the person who hired you?" "Some guy in a suit. Plain-looking. Plain suit, plain tie, plain everything. Said his name was John Smith." Orlov snorted. "I think, Brother," he muttered, turning to Volkov, "that we¡¯re going to reach nowhere through that route." Wyatt could hear Volkov grinding his teeth. ¡°And once you got here? After you split?¡± Volkov pressed, his voice sharp with expectation. It was obvious that Wyatt¡¯s target and Volkov¡¯s were the same. As for Orlov... Wyatt glanced at the colonel and realized the man had been sent not just to lead the attack, but also to keep an eye on Volkov. Great. ¡°Once I broke from the rest, I took a detour and arrived just as you were shelling the hospital.¡± Orlov nodded once more. ¡°We caught you on the drone footage. That was a crazy maneuver,¡± he remarked, pouring himself another drink. ¡°Well, you didn¡¯t leave me with much of a choice.¡± ¡°Please, mercenary, we don¡¯t have time for that,¡± Volkov scoffed, the disdain in his voice palpable. Orlov shot him a warning look. Wyatt exhaled, steadying himself. ¡°Once inside, I was met by... operatives? I don¡¯t know how else to describe them. They were armed, well-trained, and disguised as local forces¡ªpolice and the like.¡± Orlov nodded again. ¡°Go on.¡± ¡°I was nearly shot, but a hooded figure intervened.¡± At that, Volkov moved like a striking snake, closing the distance between them in an instant. He was suddenly inches from Wyatt¡¯s face. ¡°Do you remember their face? Their name? Do you know what organization hired you?¡± His breath smelled of old leather and chemicals, his quick reaction unnerving. A tense silence followed before Orlov¡¯s hand landed on Volkov¡¯s chest, pushing him back with deliberate force. The disparity in size between them was striking¡ªthe colonel was practically dwarfed by the giant, yet he didn¡¯t waver. In the end, Volkov let out a low huff and resumed pacing, his heavy boots thudding against the floor. Maybe it was the alcohol, or maybe the shock had finally worn off, but Wyatt didn¡¯t feel as afraid anymore. ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± Wyatt admitted. ¡°I only remember the eyes. The one who intercepted me had deep brown eyes, and she sounded older¡­ The other two¡ªone had just given birth. She had her hood down when I arrived, and she looked Scandinavian. But she didn¡¯t stay. She handed her baby to the third one, grabbed a gun, and went to fight your advance.¡± Orlov¡¯s expression remained neutral, but Volkov had stopped pacing. ¡°The third one?¡± Orlov prompted. ¡°Amber eyes. She was the one who went with me. Other than cryptic messages about ¡®having all the time in the world,¡¯ and ¡®trusting the feithful¡¯ she didn¡¯t say much.¡± Wyatt hesitated, then exhaled slowly. ¡°Well¡­ aside from the baby.¡± The words left a bitter taste in his mouth now that he had finally said them aloud. ¡°Baby?¡± Orlov repeated, glancing at Volkov. ¡°Yes, the one we¡¯re here for,¡± Volkov answered with complete certainty. Orlov blinked, stunned. He turned back to Wyatt. ¡°So let me see if I understand this correctly¡ªyou were sent to retrieve a package, only to find that the package was a mother and a child. But the one who was supposed to be the mother¡­ wasn¡¯t the one who actually gave birth?¡± ¡°Yes¡­ I don¡¯t understand either.¡± ¡°And you didn¡¯t really ask,¡± Orlov noted, though there was no judgment in his voice. Wyatt sighed. ¡°No¡­ I know I should have. But for some reason, I felt compelled to but I didn¡¯t. Realities of the trade.¡± Wyatt shrugged That made Volkov pause mid-step. Yet after a moment, he resumed his pacing. ¡°And after that?¡± Orlov prompted again. ¡°We moved through unseen passages and tunnels, intending to reach the sewers and lose ourselves there. But we were intercepted by¡­¡± Wyatt¡¯s gaze shifted to the big man now watching him intently. The difference between the beast he had fought and the composed figure standing before him was striking, but those silver eyes¡­ they were the same. ¡°Son,¡± Orlov said softly. ¡°I know that part. I know it in detail. Please, continue.¡± Wyatt swallowed and nodded. ¡°We closed the door behind us and got lost in the sewers. Eventually, we made our way to an old lapis lazuli mine in the mountains, where we waited for pickup. That was it.¡± ¡°What did they use for pickup?¡± ¡°Some kind of high-tech vehicle, unmarked. It hummed and had active camouflage. It came from deep in the mountains and left in the same direction.¡± At that, both Russians leaned forward expectantly. ¡°Oh, right,¡± Wyatt said, reaching into his jacket. ¡°The woman I escorted gave me this. She meant for me to drink it but forgot to ask for it back.¡± He placed a small flask on the table. The moment Orlov and Volkov saw it, their expressions darkened. The silver, the gold, and¡ªmost importantly¡ªthe engraving. Volkov exhaled sharply. ¡°It¡¯s them.¡± ¡°And they wanted us to know it was them, too¡­ cocky bastards,¡± Orlov muttered. ¡°I¡¯ve got to say, brother, this is surprising, to be sure.¡± Orlov rubbed his chin. ¡°I think your theory has merit.¡± ¡°Merit? This is proof!¡± Volkov¡¯s voice rose in pitch. To prevent an outburst, Orlov raised both hands. ¡°Let¡¯s finish with our friend here before we continue. And we¡¯re giving him back his property.¡± Volkov had already pocketed the flask but, after a moment of hesitation, he reluctantly handed it over. ¡°There isn¡¯t much more to tell, really,¡± Wyatt admitted. ¡°They left. All of them had very ornate, heavy armor and weapons, and then¡­ they were gone.¡± Wyatt shrugged. He had nothing else to give them. A heavy silence settled over the room, stretching for a full five seconds¡ªlong enough for the weight of everything unspoken to press down on them. The only sounds were the faint creak of Volkov¡¯s boots as he shifted his stance and the distant hum of machinery somewhere in the building. At last, Orlov exhaled and turned to Volkov. ¡°I think this is enough.¡± His tone was calm, but firm. ¡°He has no reason to lie, and he has nothing else to give us.¡± Volkov didn¡¯t respond immediately. His sharp, calculating gaze remained locked onto Wyatt, studying him like a predator contemplating whether to strike. The intent was clear¡ªhe wanted to keep him. Wyatt met his stare, refusing to flinch. He knew better than to show weakness. ¡°Other than the engraving on the flask,¡± Wyatt continued, his voice measured, ¡°I didn¡¯t see any other distinctive markings. The one in charge actually wore less armor than the others. Lighter, more flexible. That¡¯s all I¡¯ve got.¡± Volkov let out a slow breath through his nose, his expression unreadable. A muscle in his jaw tightened. Orlov took a sip from his glass and set it down with a deliberate clink, drawing Volkov¡¯s attention. ¡°We¡¯re done here.¡± For a moment, it seemed Volkov might argue. His fingers twitched, his stance bracing as if he were about to push back. But Orlov met his gaze without wavering, and something unspoken passed between them. With a final huff, Volkov turned away, pacing the room like a caged animal. The air was still thick with tension, but the moment had passed. Wyatt exhaled, forcing himself to relax. He wasn¡¯t sure if he¡¯d just been dismissed or if the conversation had only bought him time. Either way, he was still breathing. For now. Prologue: A Manufactured Chance Final Part Some things were impossible to understand¡ªimpossible to accept. Over twenty bodies lay in a private sector of the building, arranged in neat rows like casualties of a battle no one had won. White sheets covered them, their edges weighted down by dust, dirt, and the occasional smear of dried blood. Conspicuously, the short form of Wallace was missing. The scent of gunpowder still clung to the air, mixing with something heavier¡ªsomething sickly sweet that had seeped into the walls. Death had settled here, wrapping itself around the silence like a shroud. Orlov, for all his pragmatism and detached demeanor, had at least been considerate enough to give them space. Respect, however meager, had been afforded to the dead. A sliver of light stretched over the horizon, the last remnants of day fading into night. Soon, darkness would take everything. Wyatt sat motionless, his gaze lost among the bodies. Something about the sight felt... wrong. Not just the death¡ªhe had seen too much of that before¡ªbut the way it didn¡¯t quite fit. The way he didn¡¯t quite fit. He should have been weeping. Should have felt something more than this gnawing, empty quiet inside him. Instead, he toyed with the silver flask in his hands, turning it over, watching how it caught the fading light. It was just a flask. Expensive, elegant, but just a flask. Just like the mission had been. Just like the lives they had led. He sighed, pocketing it, then closed his eyes and took three slow breaths. One¡ªto acknowledge that the mission was over. Two¡ªto accept that it was time to move on. Three¡ªexcept... he couldn¡¯t. His eyes opened, drawn instinctively toward Vladimir¡¯s body¡ªthe closest thing to a friend he had ever had. He had looked so much like him, the same callused hands from farm work and the mercenary life, the same face shape and the same brown hair bleached by the sun. A knock at the door cut through the silence. Wyatt¡¯s hand went to his gun as he turned, half-expecting Volkov. But it was Orlov. The older man looked tired but satisfied, his sharp gaze softened by something else¡ªremorse, perhaps. ¡°Thought I¡¯d bring you some food, old friend.¡± He stepped forward, offering Wyatt a bowl. ¡°And maybe a little company.¡± Wordlessly, Wyatt accepted it. The stew smelled fresh¡ªhe wasn¡¯t sure what was in it, and it was probably best not to ask¡ªbut it was warm. Familiar, in a way. They sat side by side on worn stools against the wall, both staring at the bodies in quiet contemplation. Orlov lit a cigarette, the ember glowing softly in the dim room. Wyatt frowned. ¡°Didn¡¯t you say you were quitting those?¡± Orlov exhaled a thin stream of smoke and gave him a half-smirk. ¡°Yeah, well¡­¡± He rolled the cigarette between his fingers. ¡°Need a release somehow.¡± Wyatt huffed a quiet laugh. ¡°Aren¡¯t I supposed to be the younger one here?¡± ¡°You are,¡± Orlov mused, ¡°but sometimes it feels like I¡¯m the one keeping you alive.¡± The banter almost felt normal¡ªalmost. Then Wyatt¡¯s gaze drifted back to the bodies, and the weight returned. ¡°Sorry,¡± he muttered. ¡°I know you¡¯re trying, but¡­¡± He trailed off, struggling to find the right words, to express how grateful he was despite everything. Despite the fact that Orlov¡¯s forces had killed his unit. Orlov didn¡¯t push. They sat in silence, the only sounds the occasional scrape of Wyatt¡¯s spoon against the bowl and the soft crackle of burning tobacco. Eventually, Orlov spoke again. ¡°Strange trade we chose, huh?¡± Wyatt let out a quiet chuckle. ¡°Remember the first time we met?¡± Orlov nodded. ¡°Yeah. I was on my way to becoming a colonel, overseeing some transition of power in a province in one of this countries. Making sure things turned out¡­ favorable for our interests.¡± His tone was carefully neutral, factual. ¡°And I was hired by the opposition,¡± Wyatt said, a wry smile tugging at his lips. ¡°That was... interesting.¡± If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. Orlov snorted. ¡°Interesting? Kid, you were barely more than a toddler. I could¡¯ve counted the hairs on your face with one hand and had fingers to spare.¡± Wyatt smirked. ¡°Says the man who hated his own charge. How many times did you try to get him shot?¡± ¡°Plenty.¡± Orlov exhaled another stream of smoke. ¡°Not for lack of effort, but I failed. And so did you, for that matter.¡± They shared a quiet chuckle, even in the presence of the dead. ¡°In the end, a third guy took over because we were too busy trying to kill each other to notice him moving in.¡± Orlov hummed in agreement. ¡°I got sent to Siberia for that. Watching the Chinese border for a while.¡± He smirked, the kind of smirk only a man who had learned to find humor in his own punishments could wear. ¡°And I didn¡¯t get hired for a few years after that,¡± Wyatt admitted. ¡°That was¡­ annoying.¡± Orlov studied him. ¡°What did you do in the meantime? We don¡¯t have much of a record on you from those years.¡± Wyatt hesitated. ¡°Worked the fields in a village nearby. Met a family. Stayed with them.¡± His voice wavered, and he clenched his jaw. The bitterness, the longing, the regret¡ªthey all surged up at once, tangling in his throat. He forced them down, crumpling his expression into something unreadable. ¡°I could¡¯ve¡­¡± He stopped himself, shaking his head. ¡°Didn¡¯t matter. It wasn¡¯t meant to be. I waited until I was hired again and moved on.¡± Orlov flicked ash from his cigarette. ¡°Eventually, you¡¯ll have to stop moving.¡± ¡°Only when I¡¯m in the ground,¡± Wyatt said with quiet conviction. He placed the spoon in the empty bowl and handed it back. ¡°Thanks. What¡¯s the next step?¡± Orlov exhaled slowly. ¡°There are protocols. Most of them will be returned to their places of origin. Some will be cremated, their ashes scattered. They had papers, information chips on them. As for their assets and money¡­¡± He smiled faintly. ¡°I understand there was an arrangement. At least, that¡¯s what the documents say.¡± Wyatt stiffened. It hit him like an avalanche. The agreement had been clear¡ªif someone fell during a mission, their assets and personal belongings would be distributed among the survivors. Or to those who didn¡¯t abandon their post. And he was the only one left. ¡°Yeah¡­¡± His voice felt distant. ¡°Maybe now,¡± Orlov mused, ¡°you¡¯ll have an excuse to stop moving.¡± Wyatt scoffed, deflecting. ¡°So we never meet again?¡± Orlov chuckled, shaking his head. ¡°I don¡¯t like shooting people I know, but if the mission calls for it¡­¡± He let the words linger, half a joke, half a truth neither of them wanted to acknowledge. Night had fully fallen now. The last sliver of light was gone. ¡°That¡¯s the next step for them,¡± Orlov continued. ¡°As for you?¡± Wyatt was at a complete loss. ¡°I could return to Makran, but I don¡¯t think that would be a good idea.¡± His gaze shifted toward Vladimir¡¯s body. ¡°I think I¡¯ll escort him home. Then¡­ I¡¯ll see.¡± ¡°A friend of yours?¡± Orlov asked. ¡°The closest thing to it,¡± Wyatt admitted. His voice grew quieter. ¡°And a mistake.¡± Orlov shifted slightly, as if debating whether to say something, but in the end, there was nothing to say. They were too different, and some chasms couldn¡¯t be crossed with words. ¡°And after that?¡± Orlov pressed. Wyatt exhaled slowly. ¡°Maybe I¡¯ll stay in the Fergana Valley for a while, thats were his home town is. I owe it to him to escrot his body back home. Then lay low. Then I¡¯ll decide. Perhaps¡­¡± He hesitated. ¡°Perhaps this is a sign to stop moving.¡± though in his heart of hearts he didn¡¯t belive it ¡°Perhaps,¡± Orlov echoed. Silence settled between them, thick and heavy. An aide appeared in the doorway, beckoning Orlov. He stood, stretching slightly before offering Wyatt a final nod. ¡°Goodbye, my friend. Until we meet again. I¡¯ll arrange everything¡ªalong with the transport for your things from Makran.¡± Wyatt barely managed a nod. Then he was alone again, sitting among the remains of a life he had tried¡ªand failed¡ªto build.