Fifteen trucks rumbled across the wasteland, their armored frames coated in dust and grime, each packed to the brim with barrels of oil, bricks of cocaine, heroin, and dozens of chained slaves—freshly taken from the ruins of a failed rebellion against Bermuda PMC. The engines growled like beasts in the dark, headlights cutting through the vast emptiness, while armed mercs rode alongside on modified technicals, fingers twitching over triggers.
At the front of the convoy, Darius sat in the lead truck, cigarette burning low between his lips. His black tactical vest was unzipped, exposing his scarred chest, and his M4A1 rested against his knee, barrel slick with the sweat of his palm. He could feel it in the air—this run wasn’t going to be clean.
Behind him, six of his deadliest were spread across the convoy, keeping things tight.
- Victor, the wheelman, controlled the lead truck like it was a natural extension of his body, his eyes fixed on the road, one hand resting on the wheel, the other gripping a sawed-off shotgun.
- Fang, the silent sadist, rode in one of the escort jeeps, his twin machetes strapped to his back, a serrated grin always ready to carve through flesh.
- Shade, the cold-blooded sniper, sat on the roof of Truck 8, cradling her anti-materiel rifle, her face hidden behind a black balaclava.
- Grim, the demolition expert, rode near the middle, a bandolier of grenades slung across his chest. He had one rule: If shit gets bad, make it worse.
- Vulture, the scavenger, sat inside one of the drug-packed trucks, sorting through crates of premium cocaine, tallying profits even before they reached the Black Market.
- Lana, fast-talking and ruthless, rode shotgun in the second truck, an Uzi resting between her thighs.
The route was straightforward but lethal—a 12-hour haul through dead highways and gang-infested ruins, with two stops:
- Black Market Outpost—delivering 20% of the cargo.
- The Sand Vultures PMC Stronghold—offloading the rest.
That was the plan.
But plans never survived in the wasteland.
Darius exhaled smoke, glancing at Lana beside him. Touching her, feeling her as She was staring out the window, her face illuminated by the red glow of the dashboard.
“You nervous?” he asked.
Lana scoffed, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Please. You think some Renegades or scav gangs are gonna stop us?”
Darius smirked but said nothing.
That wasn’t the problem.
The problem was what he didn’t know.
The UNKNOWN ENEMY had vanished like ghosts after Bermuda’s oil rig went up in flames. No demands. No messages. No signs of retreat or reinforcements. Just gone.
Darius had been at war long enough to know what that meant.
They weren’t done.
Victor’s voice crackled over the radio.
“Convoy is hitting the checkpoint in two minutes. No movement on scopes.”
Darius clicked his comm. “Stay sharp anyway.”
The wasteland stretched before them—a highway of cracked asphalt, rusted billboards advertising dead brands, and the skeletal remains of cars abandoned millennia ago. A perfect kill zone.
And something felt wrong.
The wind carried no sound. Not even the distant howls of feral dogs or the crackle of scattered fires.
Darius’ fingers twitched toward his rifle.
Then the first rocket hit.
BOOM!
Truck 5 vanished in a fireball, torn apart from the inside. The explosion was so powerful that flaming debris showered the surrounding vehicles.
Then came the gunfire.
Darius didn’t hesitate.
“AMBUSH!” he roared into the radio.
The convoy erupted into chaos.
From the shattered ruins ahead, mercenaries in scavenged armor poured out, RPGs and machine guns lighting up the night. Their insignia was unfamiliar—another PMC looking to carve a piece out of Bermuda’s empire.
But they had made one mistake.
They thought Bermuda bled easy.
Darius kicked open the truck door and dropped into the dirt, rolling behind cover as bullets shredded through the windshield.
The first battle of the night had begun.
Darius hit the ground running.
Gunfire ripped through the air, tracer rounds slicing past like red-hot needles. The unknown PMC hit hard and fast, but Bermuda had been through worse. They thrived in war.
Truck 5 was gone, its burning wreckage spilling flaming debris across the cracked highway. Slaves inside screamed as fire swallowed them, their chains rattling as they tried to escape.
Darius didn’t give a fuck.
He raised his M4A1, snapping onto a moving target—one of the ambushers, a merc wrapped in patchwork armor, crouching behind an overturned car.
Two shots.
The first shattered his kneecap. The second blew out the back of his skull.
“Push forward!” Darius barked into his comm, switching to full auto.
The convoy erupted into counter-fire.
- Victor spun the wheel of the lead truck, swerving around a burning corpse. He yanked a sawed-off shotgun from his lap and leaned out, blasting the nearest attacker’s chest into red mist.
- Fang didn’t bother with guns. He leaped from the escort jeep, machetes flashing. The first merc barely had time to react before his throat was split wide open. The second screamed as Fang carved through his gut, spilling his intestines onto the pavement.
- Shade, perched atop Truck 8, was a ghost in the night. Her anti-materiel rifle thundered, the bullet obliterating a sniper’s head, leaving nothing but a stump and spraying red across the wreckage.
- Grim grinned as he pulled the pins on two high-explosive grenades, tossing them toward the ruins ahead.
BOOM.
The building collapsed, burying at least ten attackers alive.
Darius moved like a goddamn force of nature, weaving through gunfire, his boots crunching on glass and bone.
One of the ambushers—a PMC lieutenant—tried to retreat, shouting into his radio.
Darius didn’t let him.
He grabbed the fucker by the collar and slammed him against the truck, forcing the muzzle of his rifle against his cheek.
“Who sent you?” Darius growled.
The man spat blood, his breathing ragged. “F-Fuck you—”
Darius pulled the trigger.
The man’s brains painted the truck door.
Just like that, the fight was over.
The last survivors tried to run.
Fang and Shade hunted them down.
By the time the gunfire stopped, the attackers were nothing but corpses.
The convoy stood victorious—but this was only the first wave.
Darius wiped blood from his cheek and surveyed the destruction.
His convoy was still operational.
They had lost one truck, but the oil, drugs, and remaining slaves were intact.
He clicked his comm.
“Get back in the trucks. We move now.”
The real war was still ahead.
The convoy rolled forward at full speed, engines growling like beasts in the dark. The smell of burning bodies and crude oil hung in the air, mixing with the acrid stench of cocaine dust kicked up from the ruined truck.
They had barely gone fifteen miles before the next nightmare hit.
Darius stood in the lead truck’s open turret hatch, M4A1 in hand, eyes scanning the ruins ahead. The road was tight, boxed in by collapsed buildings and rusted-out vehicles. A perfect fucking choke point.
Then he heard it.
The sound of something running. Fast.
Victor gritted his teeth, hands tightening on the wheel. “The fuck is that?”
Then came the roar.
Not human. Not machine.
Something else.
Mutation Republic.
Darius knew before he even saw them.
A stampede of massive figures burst from the ruins, their flesh warped by years of radiation, drugs, and forced evolution. These weren’t regular mutants—these were war-beasts, created by the Republic’s most twisted scientists. Twelve feet tall, their bodies covered in crude armor, muscles reinforced with metal plating, and eyes black with hunger.
The first one leaped onto Truck 6, tearing the roof open like tin foil.
The driver screamed as the beast ripped him from the seat and bit his head clean off.
Lana leaned out from her truck, emptying an Uzi into the monster’s chest.
The bullets ripped through its flesh—but the mutant barely reacted.
It turned its head slowly, its skull-like face splattered with blood, and locked eyes with her.
Then it charged.
Lana didn’t run.
She jumped from the truck, rolling onto the asphalt, landing in a crouch as the beast’s massive hand slammed down where she had just been.
Darius didn’t have time to help.
The second wave hit the convoy.
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- One mutant crashed through Truck 9’s windshield, ripping out the co-driver and slamming him into the pavement like a broken doll.
- Fang climbed onto his escort jeep, dual machetes flashing, hacking off the arm of one of the monsters. The beast howled, but Fang kept cutting.
- Shade took position, lining up a perfect headshot on one of the mutants. She fired—and the bullet punched clean through its skull. The beast twitched… but didn’t fall.
- Grim shoved IEDs into a pile of wreckage, setting up an explosive trap. “Get ‘em near the cars!” he roared.
- Vulture, shaking from adrenaline, dug into the drug stash, slamming two combat stim injectors into his thigh. His veins bulged instantly, pupils dilating into black pits. He grabbed a shotgun and roared, charging the mutants like a lunatic.
Darius unloaded his entire mag into one of the war-beasts.
It staggered, but didn’t stop.
“FUCKING DIE!”
He drew his revolver—a massive, custom-built .500 magnum—and fired point-blank.
The bullet took half the monster’s skull off.
It collapsed, twitched… and stopped moving.
The convoy kept fighting.
Bodies fell.
Trucks burned.
Then Grim hit the detonator.
BOOM.
The trap exploded, sending a wave of fire and shrapnel ripping through the war-beasts. Three were instantly vaporized, their limbs scattered across the ruins.
The rest?
They turned and ran.
The Mutation Republic had learned something tonight.
PMC Bermuda was not prey.
Darius stood amidst the carnage, boots soaked in mutant blood. The convoy had survived—but they had lost another truck.
He turned to Lana.
She was on one knee, blood pouring from a gash in her leg, but she was still grinning.
“That,” she coughed, wiping blood from her lips, “was fun.”
Darius offered her a hand. “We’re not done.”
She grabbed it. “Good.”
But Darius felt something.
A cold unease.
The Mutation Republic never attacked alone.
Which meant something worse was coming.
And he was right.
The wind howled through the ruins, carrying the stench of burning fuel and blood. The convoy pushed forward, battered but still moving.
Darius sat on the hood of his truck, watching as the last of the Mutation Republic corpses were thrown into the fire. Their massive, deformed bodies sizzled, filling the night with the stink of burning mutant flesh.
They had survived.
But something was wrong.
The silence was too deep.
Fang felt it first.
He stood on the wreckage of a crushed technical, gripping his machetes, his scarred lips twitching into a frown. “Something’s off.”
Victor, wiping blood off his steering wheel, muttered, “Yeah, no shit. Where’s the clean-up crew?”
Shade, perched on the roof of a still-intact truck, lowered her sniper scope. Her voice was cold. “There’s no movement. No scavengers. No wild dogs. No nothing.”
Darius exhaled smoke, his cigarette burning low. His gut twisted.
Something was watching them.
His hand moved to his radio.
“Everyone, shut the fuck up.”
The convoy fell silent.
Only the sound of fire popping and metal groaning filled the air.
Then.
The first shot came.
A single, suppressed sniper round.
It hit Vulture in the throat.
The scavenger barely had time to react before his body collapsed, his hands clawing at the gaping hole in his neck, blood pumping onto the asphalt in thick, wet spurts.
“CONTACT!” Shade roared.
Then all hell broke loose.
White Cross PMC had arrived.
The attack was surgical.
Unlike the Mutation Republic’s drugged-out monsters or the random PMC’s chaotic ambush, White Cross moved like phantoms—silent, precise, deadly.
From the shadows of the ruins, black-armored figures emerged, their rifles fitted with suppressors, their armor marked with a small white cross on the shoulder.
Darius had never seen them before.
They were too clean. Too well-trained. Too organized.
“Victor, get us the fuck out of here!” Darius roared, diving for cover behind the truck.
Victor slammed the gas, but before the convoy could move, White Cross hit them with an RPG.
BOOM.
Truck 10 exploded, the blast wave flipping two vehicles, sending mercs flying into the air, their bodies landing in smoking heaps.
Fang charged forward, dodging suppressive fire, but the moment he got close, White Cross executed a tactical retreat—vanishing before he could even swing.
Shade pulled the trigger—but the moment she did, the sniper she targeted moved.
They were one step ahead.
Grim tried to set another explosive trap, but a precise shot hit his detonator before he could arm it.
It was not a battle.
It was a slaughter.
And then—
Lana screamed.
Darius spun toward the sound.
Lana was half-hidden behind a wrecked truck, pinned down by relentless gunfire.
Her Uzi was empty, and her leg was still bleeding from the earlier fight—she could barely move.
Darius broke into a sprint.
“I got you! Hold on!”
But it was too late.
A single shot rang out—clean, precise.
It hit Lana right between the ribs.
She staggered, her eyes going wide, as blood spilled from her mouth.
She fell to her knees, blinking in shock.
Darius slid to her side, catching her before she hit the ground.
Her breathing was ragged, her hands clutching his vest, fingers slick with her own blood.
She looked up at him, smirking despite the pain. “Told you… I wasn’t nervous…”
Darius gritted his teeth. “Lana, stay with me.”
She chuckled weakly, but it turned into a cough. Blood dribbled from her lips.
“Darius…” she whispered.
Then her body went limp.
She was gone.
Darius looked up—rage burning in his gut.
White Cross was retreating.
Not running.
Vanishing.
One moment, they were there—methodical, ruthless, unstoppable.
The next?
Nothing.
Not a single body left behind. No blood trails. No gear to loot.
Just emptiness.
Like they had never existed.
Darius stood slowly, Lana’s body still in his arms. His chest rose and fell, his breath ragged with fury.
He had fought every kind of enemy—mutants, raiders, PMCs, corporations, warlords.
But this?
This was something else.
He didn’t know who the fuck they were.
He didn’t know why they had come.
But he knew one thing.
They were not finished.
And neither was he.
The convoy limped through the wasteland, battered but alive. The Black Market loomed ahead, its neon-lit entrance carved into the ruins of an old metro station.
Darius sat silent in the lead truck, his hands stained with Lana’s blood.
The seat beside him was empty now.
Victor drove without speaking, his face set in stone. Fang sat in the back, sharpening his machetes, but for once, he wasn’t smiling. Shade, normally ice-cold, stared out the window, her fingers twitching on her rifle stock.
Grim was gritting his teeth, his hands clutching a half-smoked cigarette. “They didn’t leave a single fucking body. Not one. Who the fuck fights like that?”
No one answered.
Because none of them knew.
White Cross PMC had come like ghosts, butchered them, and disappeared.
And that wasn’t normal.
Darius leaned back, closing his eyes. Lana’s last words echoed in his mind.
"Told you… I wasn’t nervous…"
His fingers tightened into fists.
She deserved better.
But in this world, no one got what they deserved.
The convoy rolled into the Black Market, greeted by rows of armed guards and neon-lit stalls selling everything from combat drugs to slaves.
This was where warlords came to buy their future victories.
Darius stepped out, adjusting his jacket.
Jarek was already waiting.
The slimy trader sat behind a booth, a gold-plated pistol resting on the table, a grin stretched across his scarred face.
“Well, well…” he drawled, eying the trucks behind Darius. “I heard you had some trouble on the way.”
Darius didn’t flinch. “I heard you had my fucking money.”
Jarek’s grin widened. “Fair enough.”
He snapped his fingers, and two Black Market goons stepped forward, scanning the cargo—barrels of oil, crates of cocaine, heroin, stims, and slaves shackled together, their eyes dull with fear and resignation.
Jarek whistled. “Bermuda never disappoints.”
He tapped his Personal Development Device (P.D.D.), transferring the credits instantly.
Transfer Complete: +50,000,000 Credits
New Balance: 115,687,950 Credits
Victor let out a low whistle. Fang chuckled darkly.
But Darius felt nothing.
Jarek raised an eyebrow. “You don’t look happy, Brimstone. This isn’t enough?”
Darius exhaled smoke, flicking his cigarette away. “I want intel.”
Jarek laughed. “Of course you do.”
Darius leaned forward, his voice low.
“Black armored , White Cross on shoulders. PMC? Renegades? FUCKING WHO?.”
The grin dropped from Jarek’s face.
For the first time, the trader looked uneasy.
He licked his lips, shifting in his seat. “Can’t help you there.”
Darius grabbed him by the collar, yanking him halfway across the table.
Jarek gasped, his pistol knocked aside before he could reach it.
Darius’ blue eyes burned. “I don’t like that answer. I just lost lana and vulture. Two of my best.”
Jarek held up his hands. “Look—I’m not lying! Nobody knows who the fuck they are! They showed up three months ago—clean ops, military precision, no paper trail! They don’t sell, they don’t buy—they just… erase people. Its like Ghosts In the night.”
Darius’ jaw clenched.
Jarek continued, voice low. “Listen… I sell information, yeah? But these guys? There’s nothing to sell. You’re not the only one asking questions, and every time someone does—they disappear.”
Darius let him go, stepping back.
Jarek rubbed his throat, coughing.
Then, he smirked. “You’re in deep shit, Brimstone.”
Darius lit another cigarette, his expression blank.
“Nothing new.”
The Black Market guards began unloading the cargo, dragging slaves into cages, hauling drugs into hidden vaults, rolling barrels of oil into underground storage.
The job was done.
Fifty million credits richer.
But two dead.
As the crew walked back to their trucks, Victor finally spoke.
“This isn’t over.”
Darius nodded. “No.”
Shade adjusted her rifle. “We’re going to find them.”
Darius exhaled smoke.
And for the first time in years—
He wasn’t sure who the fuck he was dealing with.
But he would find out.
And when he did—
There wouldn’t be a goddamn soul left to disappear.
The air was thick with smoke and tension.
Inside Bermuda Base, Dominic in the war room, cigar clenched between his teeth, fucking a slave girl.
The base wasn’t quiet.
It never was.
Chains rattled from below, where newly bought slaves were processed—sorted into workers, fighters, or the ones doomed to pleasure and torture.
The mercenaries hired by Bermuda—150 hardened killers—patrolled the perimeter, laughing, drinking, loading weapons. Using slaves for pleasures.
Riot sat on a stack of crates, rolling his shoulders. His knuckles were raw from earlier, when he’d beaten a slave to death for being too slow.
Bear cleaned his shotgun, eyes calm but watchful.
Blitz stood near the edge of the war room, grinning as she spun a butterfly knife between her fingers. But her eyes were looking a handsome mercenary.
And Specter?
He was watching the fields as ghost were there.
Something felt wrong.
Then it happened.
The cages burst open.
Hundreds of slaves—once broken, once beaten, once afraid—now surged forward like a tidal wave of rage.
Some wielded stolen knives. Others ripped chains from the walls, using them as makeshift whips.
And then came the guns.
Several mercenaries fell instantly, shot by their own weapons, stolen during the night.
An inside job.
Someone had armed the slaves.
Riot barely had time to grab his rifle before the first wave slammed into the mercs outside.
Gunfire exploded through the base.
Dominic kicked open the war room door, half naked, stepping onto the balcony. His eyes widened. "Not again, Darius will kill me"
The courtyard was on fire.
Mercs were overwhelmed, tackled to the ground by screaming slaves, their throats ripped open by bare hands.
Riot spat blood, firing into the horde, dropping bodies one by one.
Blitz laughed, spinning through the chaos, cutting throats left and right.
Bear stood like a goddamn wall, his shotgun blowing apart rebels with every pump.
Specter moved fast, dual pistols spitting fire, but even he knew this wasn’t a normal riot.
Something else was happening.
Then he saw it.
A single bullet.
A single shot.
Straight between his eyes.
Specter froze.
For a brief second, he felt nothing.
Then his skull split open—his body dropping instantly.
A sniper.
And not just any sniper.
White Cross PMC was here.
Dominic spun around, trying to find the shooter.
Nothing.
No movement.
No trace.
Just a perfect kill shot.
And then—
The gunfire slowed.
The rebels stopped.
One moment, they were fighting like demons.
The next, they froze, like puppets with their strings cut.
Then, one by one—
They dropped their weapons.
Turned.
And walked into the dark.
Like they had never been there at all.
Riot wiped blood from his lips. “What the fuck just happened?”
Dominic didn’t answer.
His eyes locked on Specter’s corpse.
And for the second time that night—
White Cross PMC had struck, killed, and vanished.
Chapter 4 was all about chaos.
- The convoy battles? Brutal.
- The Mutation Republic fight? Savage.
- Lana’s death? A gut punch.
- The slave rebellion? Pure anarchy.
- And White Cross? Still a fucking mystery.
only going to rise.
- Darius has lost people. He needs revenge.
- The Bermuda Base is shaken. Dominic barely held it.
- White Cross knows more than they should. And they don’t miss their shots.
next chapter will push the war into the next stage—Darius and his crew start hunting.
who’s hunting who?