Iris Thorne ran.
Her boots barely made a sound as she moved through the ruins of an old highway checkpoint, her breathing controlled, heart steady. Behind her, Bermuda Base was a smoldering shadow in the distance, the sounds of the slave uprising still echoing in her mind—gunfire, screams, the roar of Dominic’s fury.
She had started all of it.
And now?
She was gone.
Iris slowed her pace, moving through the debris of an abandoned outpost. Her escape had been perfect—no alarms, no last-second chase, no one suspecting a thing.
But she wasn’t safe yet.
She crouched behind a rusted barricade, pulling out a small transmitter from beneath her jacket. The device was barely the size of her palm, an old-world relic modified with White Cross encryption.
She clicked it once.
Then twice.
A single red light blinked.
They were coming.
Minutes passed in silence.
Then, a voice—low, distorted.
“I see you, little ghost.”
She didn’t flinch. She didn’t turn.
Because she knew—if they were speaking, they were already here.
From the darkness of the ruins, three figures emerged.
All dressed in black tactical gear, their armor matte, absorbing all light. No insignia. No markings. Just ghosts in the night.
Iris exhaled.
She was home.
They moved without speaking, leading her through the ruins, down a hidden path, where a body of water stretched before them.
No boats. No helicopters.
Just still, black water.
One of the operatives pressed a switch on their wrist, and from beneath the surface, three water jets emerged.
Sleek. Silent. Untraceable.
Iris climbed onto one, securing her mask.
The operative beside her glanced at her for the first time. Even beneath his helmet, she knew his voice.
Jon Renner.
“You did well,” he said.
Iris didn’t reply.
She just gripped the controls.
And together, they vanished into the ocean.
No one would ever find them.
No one ever had.
Hours later, the water gave way to land, but not just any land—an island untouched by war, hidden from satellites, from maps, from history itself.
A towering fortress of steel and stone rose from the cliffs, its walls covered in pre-war technology that no one else on New Earth possessed.
Iris stepped onto the dock, pulling off her mask as she entered the stronghold.
Waiting for her—
James Vox.
Jon Renner.
And Athena Thorne—her mother.
Athena pulled her into an embrace, silent but firm.
Jon smiled, arms crossed. “Good to see you, kid.”
James just watched. Studying. Calculating.
“You’ve done it,” he finally said. “Bermuda is unraveling.”
Iris nodded. “Darius is coming. He wants war.”
James smirked. “Then he’s already lost.”
Because White Cross wasn’t at war with Bermuda.
They were removing them.
Like a disease.
And nobody could stop them.
The air in Bermuda Base was thick with anger, sweat, and the stench of burning corpses.
Darius stood over the war table, his fingers digging into the metal surface, staring at the footage Shade had recovered.
A grainy night vision feed.
Pixie- Lena Volkov.
Slipping through the base before the rebellion even started.
She had been working against them the entire time.
She was never one of them.
Darius’ jaw clenched.
She was still out there.
And White Cross PMC was laughing in the dark.
Inside the war room, Dominic, Bear, Riot, Blitz, Shade, and Victor sat in silence.
Darius paced back and forth, cigarette burning between his fingers, his jaw locked tight. The veins in his arms bulged with unchecked fury.
The failed raid. The White Cross humiliation. The fucking mockery left behind on his own doorstep.
He needed to let it out.
And the Pixie’s two slave girls—the ones she left behind when she fled—were about to be his sandbags.
The heavy doors swung open.
Two guards dragged the girls inside, tossing them to the floor like discarded trash. They hit the cold metal hard, coughing, wrists still bound.
They were young. Dirty. Starved. Terrified.
Darius exhaled a lungful of smoke, stepping closer, looking down at them.
He grabbed the blonde one by the chin, forcing her to look up. Her lips trembled. She knew.
They always knew.
“Pixie’s little pets,” he murmured. “She left you behind, didn’t she?”
The girl swallowed hard, but didn’t speak.
The other one—dark-haired, thinner—flinched when Dominic crouched beside her, dragging the back of his knuckles along her jaw.
“White Cross got her out clean,” Dominic said, voice calm. “But you? She didn’t give a fuck about you.”
Darius flicked his cigarette away. The time for talking was over.
He grabbed the blonde by the throat, yanking her up, ripping the rags off her body.
She tried to fight, weak hands pushing against his chest, but he slammed her against the table, pinning her down.
Dominic did the same with the other girl, shoving her over the chair, pulling his belt loose.
The rest of the crew didn’t look away.
Bear poured himself another drink.
Riot lit a cigarette.
Blitz just watched, eyes cold, expression unreadable.
Shade didn’t flinch. She’d seen worse.
For thirty long minutes, the war room was filled with nothing but pain, skin against steel, and the sound of something breaking.
By the time it was over, the girls weren’t screaming anymore.
Just breathing. Shaking. Waiting for the end.
Darius pulled his gun, pressing it to the blonde’s forehead.
She looked up at him, wide-eyed, silent tears cutting through the dirt on her face.
He smiled.
And pulled the trigger.
BANG.
Blood splattered across the table. Her body jerked, then collapsed, limp, empty, gone.
Dominic didn’t hesitate. He did the same to the second girl.
BANG.
Another lifeless body hit the floor.
The room was dead silent.
Darius exhaled slowly, rolling the tension from his shoulders, wiping blood from his knuckles.
He looked at the others.
“Now,” he muttered, grabbing a fresh cigarette, lighting it. “We can talk about war.”
Nobody argued.
Because this?
This was Bermuda.
And in Bermuda—nothing was ever sacred.
Blitz, still recovering from her gunshot wound after the failed assassination attempt, leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “So… what’s the move?”
Darius exhaled slowly, eyes flickering between the footage and the map of the wasteland.
“She’s not alone,” he muttered. “White Cross had this planned from the start.”
Dominic slammed his fist against the table. “We should’ve seen it. A ghost in our ranks? We let this happen.”
Bear grunted, loading shells into his shotgun. “Doesn’t matter. She’s a dead woman walking.”
Shade, arms folded, spoke for the first time. “If we can’t find White Cross, we take everything they touch.”
Darius nodded. That was it.
White Cross was too careful, too hidden. But their influence? That left trails.
And Darius would burn every single one of them.
Their first target? A Renegade PMC that had supposedly worked with White Cross in the past.
Intel said they were stationed at an abandoned refinery, lightly defended, sitting on fuel and weapons.
Darius wanted it wiped out.
The convoy rolled out before dawn, engines growling like wild dogs, headlights cutting through the early morning haze.
Bermuda’s mercs were ready for blood.
Bear, Riot, and Blitz rode up front, shotguns and rifles loaded. Shade sat on the roof, sniper in hand.
Darius stood in the lead vehicle, gripping his M4A1.
This was going to be a massacre.
But when they arrived?
There was no one to kill.
The refinery was dead silent.
Not abandoned.
Not fortified.
Just… dead.
Darius stepped out of the truck, boots crunching against burned-out corpses.
They had been butchered.
Precise kill shots. No wasted bullets.
Some bodies were stripped of armor and weapons—but others had been left untouched, still holding their rifles.
Like they had been killed before they even realized it was happening.
Shade crouched next to a corpse, running her fingers along the bullet wounds.
“Same caliber as Specter.”
Darius’ stomach twisted.
He knew what that meant.
White Cross got here first.
You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.
On the largest fuel tank, a single mark had been painted in blood.
A white cross.
Mocking them.
Darius’ fingers curled into fists.
Blitz stared at the symbol, her usual smirk gone. “They’re fucking with us.”
Bear kicked over a body. “They left us nothing. No weapons. No survivors.”
Dominic exhaled sharply, rubbing his temples. “Darius, we’re wasting time. We keep chasing ghosts, we’re gonna run out of people to kill.”
Darius didn’t respond.
He just stood there, staring at that cross, his vision red with fury.
They were always ahead.
Always watching.
And he was getting tired of it.
The convoy returned to Bermuda Base with nothing.
Empty-handed. Again.
Darius barely spoke, barely moved. He just sat in his quarters, staring at the walls, smoke curling from the endless cigarettes burning between his fingers.
He was slipping.
And everyone knew it.
Shade watched from the shadows. She had seen killers break before. Darius? He wasn’t broken yet—but he was close.
Blitz leaned against the bar in the main hall, still feeling the pain in her wounded shoulder, muttering to Riot, “He’s gonna burn the whole fucking world trying to kill people that aren’t even there.”
Dominic sat alone, sharpening his knife, thinking. For the first time, he wasn’t sure if Darius was leading them toward victory.
Or straight into their graves.
Far away, in the towering skyscrapers of The Citadel, Shaw sat in his private office, watching drone footage of Bermuda PMC’s failed raid.
He smirked.
Bermuda PMC was lost.
Desperate.
Weakening.
White Cross was breaking them down from the shadows.
And Shaw?
He was about to take everything that was left.
The air inside Bermuda’s war room was thick with the stench of cigarette smoke, blood, and failure.
Darius sat at the head of the table, his fingers wrapped tight around a whiskey glass, staring at nothing.
The raid had been pointless. Another cross left behind, another reminder that White Cross was always ahead.
Bermuda was stuck in a war with ghosts.
But real enemies were moving in the shadows.
And nobody wanted to talk about it.
Not here. Not tonight.
Tonight was for something else.
The main hall of Bermuda Base, known only as The Pit, was a place of madness. Loud music, low lights, and the kind of vices that came easy to men and women with nothing left to lose.
The bar was packed. Cheap synth whiskey poured by the gallon. Smoke filled the air—tobacco, cannabis, chems laced with something stronger. The mercs who had made it back from the refinery raid were drinking like dead men walking.
Blitz sat on the upper balcony, one leg draped over the railing, a cigar clamped between her teeth. Her bandages were loose, dark with old blood, but she didn’t care.
Down below, Riot was already halfway gone, sitting between two Pit Girls—wild-eyed women who lived on the fringes of Bermuda, surviving by trading pleasure for protection. One of them was grinding against his lap, her hands in his hair. He let her.
The other girl?
She was cutting a line of Red Sand on the table with a broken knife, offering him the first hit.
He took it.
Deep inhale.
Eyes dilating.
And just like that, the pain from the refinery raid melted into nothing.
Bear was in a corner, drinking straight from a bottle, watching two mercs beat the shit out of each other over a debt that didn’t matter. One of them had a blade. The other had a broken bottle.
They wouldn’t stop until one of them was dead.
That was the way of The Pit.
Blitz watched it all with a slow smirk, exhaling smoke. She should’ve been resting.
Instead, she felt a hand on her thigh.
She turned.
Dominic.
“You look like you’re thinking too much,” he muttered.
She grinned, tilting her head. “And you look like you’re trying to distract me.”
“Maybe.” His fingers curled against her leg, tracing the old scar from a job long before Bermuda.
“You’re gonna have to try harder than that,” she teased, shifting just enough to let him know she wasn’t stopping him.
Dominic didn’t hesitate.
Not here. Not in this place.
He pulled her up, dragging her away from the crowd, past the flickering neon lights and the stink of cheap drugs.
Into the shadows of The Pit.
Where nobody asked questions.
And nobody cared.
Darius didn’t drink to get drunk.
He drank because it kept the rage down.
The war room was empty now, except for the Angel sitting across from him—bare legs draped over the table, wearing nothing but a silk robe that barely held together.
She wasn’t a soldier.
She wasn’t a merc.
She was something else.
Something dangerous.
Something he paid well to keep close.
“You look like shit,” she murmured, stretching like a cat.
Darius didn’t answer. He took another drag from his cigarette, watching the smoke curl in the dim light.
“You lost men today,” she continued. “And for what?”
His jaw clenched.
She smirked, sliding off the table, walking over to him, pressing her bare skin against his, fingers ghosting over the fresh bruises from the fight.
“You should stop pretending you’re going to win this,” she whispered. “You’re drowning, Darius. And you don’t even see it.”
His fingers curled around her wrist.
Hard.
Enough to bruise.
Enough to make her smile.
“Shut up,” he growled.
She did.
Because she knew what came next.
And so did he.
Blitz sat on the upper balcony of Bermuda’s main hall, a cigar clamped between her teeth, the aftershocks of fucking Dominic still thrumming through her muscles.
One leg draped over the railing, she exhaled slow, watching the smoke curl into the warm, stagnant air. Below, The Pit roared—mercs drowning themselves in whiskey, drugs, and violence, pretending for a few short hours that death wasn’t at their door.
She wasn’t sleeping much these days.
Not since she got shot.
Not since Specter’s corpse had been dragged through the dirt.
Not since Darius had started slipping.
She didn’t believe in ghosts.
But she knew something was hunting them.
She just didn’t think it would come for her first.
She heard the faintest click behind her.
Her hand instantly went to her pistol.
Too late.
A black-clad figure materialized from the shadows, pressing a suppressed pistol to the back of her head.
"Blitz."
The voice was calm, almost amused.
She knew that voice.
A Phoenix Corp hitman.
Bastards who did all of Shaw’s dirty work.
"You should’ve died the first time."
Blitz tilted her head slightly, just enough to catch a reflection in the window.
Three of them.
All wearing tactical exosuits, Phoenix Corp’s elite executioners.
This wasn’t a warning.
This was a fucking execution.
She grinned.
"Wrong bitch to try that on."
Blitz twisted hard, knocking the gun aside just as the trigger was pulled.
The bullet missed by inches.
She drove an elbow into the hitman’s gut, spun, and fired point-blank.
The first assassin dropped, blood spraying onto the steel floor.
The other two moved fast.
Blitz barely had time to dodge the knife aimed at her ribs.
A fist slammed into her wounded shoulder, making her vision explode in red pain.
She stumbled back, pistol falling from her grasp.
They had her.
She was done.
The gunfire alerted the entire base.
Riot was the first one through the doors.
He saw Blitz pinned against the railing, one assassin holding her throat, another raising a blade.
Bear was two steps behind him.
Riot didn’t hesitate.
He fired once.
The assassin holding Blitz dropped instantly, his skull exploding into the night.
The other one pivoted, moving faster than any normal man should.
Bear met him head-on.
The two crashed into the wall, Bear’s massive frame overpowering the exo-suit enhanced killer.
The assassin stabbed Bear in the side—but Bear didn’t even flinch.
He just snapped the fucker’s neck.
Blitz coughed, wiping blood from her mouth.
Riot knelt beside the dead assassins, flipping over one of the bodies.
Bear grunted, still holding his side. “Who sent them?”
Blitz leaned against the railing, pulling a knife from her boot.
She carved into the assassin’s chest armor, cutting through the fabric beneath.
And there it was.
The insignia of Phoenix Corp.
She let out a ragged laugh. “Shaw. That slimy fuck.”
Dominic stormed into the room, Darius right behind him.
Darius looked at the bodies. Then at Blitz.
Then at the Phoenix Corp insignia.
Something shifted in his eyes.
Something cold. Deadly.
White Cross?
They were ghosts.
But Phoenix Corp?
They were real.
And now?
They were at war.
Darius’ First Mistake
The bodies were barely cold when Darius made his decision.
He stood in the war room, hands flat on the metal table, eyes locked onto the Phoenix Corp insignia carved from the dead assassin’s armor.
The room was dead silent.
Dominic leaned back against the wall, arms crossed. “I know that look,” he muttered.
Blitz sat in a chair, her shoulder bandaged, a cigarette between her lips. “We all know that look.”
Bear grunted. “It’s the ‘we’re about to do something stupid’ look.”
Darius exhaled slowly, picking up his lighter, flipping it open and shut, open and shut.
Then he spoke.
"Phoenix Corp thinks they can touch us."
He flicked the lighter one last time.
"We’re going to remind them who the fuck we are."
Darius laid it out clean and simple.
- Phoenix Corp had an outpost at a refinery, protected but not heavily fortified.
- They used it to store fuel and weapons—valuable supplies that Bermuda needed.
- Darius wanted it burned to the ground.
"No warnings," he growled. "No survivors."
Shade adjusted her rifle. “Hitting a Citadel-backed corp is a different level of war.”
Victor, who had been silent, finally spoke. “Yeah. This isn’t some wasteland PMC. Shaw has resources. He won’t just hit back—he’ll wipe us out.”
Darius didn’t blink. “Then we hit harder.”
Dominic exhaled through his nose. “You’re making a mistake.”
Darius finally turned, staring at him. “Say that again.”
Dominic held his gaze. “You’re making a mistake.”
The room froze.
Bear tensed, hand resting on his shotgun. Blitz just watched, amused.
Darius stepped forward, eyes like fire.
“You think I’m wrong?”
Dominic didn’t move. “I think White Cross played us into this. And we’re walking into the trap they want.”
Darius’ hands curled into fists.
He knew it.
He fucking knew it.
But it didn’t matter.
Because Phoenix Corp had just tried to kill one of his people.
And he wasn’t going to let that slide.
Darius turned, grabbing his rifle.
"We move at sundown."
Dominic said nothing.
Because he knew there was no stopping it now.
Bermuda PMC was marching straight into hell.
And there was no way out.
Deep in the ocean, on a hidden island, Iris Thorne sat in a darkened control room, watching the holographic map of New Earth.
She knew what Darius was planning.
She knew he was too blinded by rage to stop himself.
Athena Thorne stood beside her, arms folded. “He’s predictable.”
Iris smirked. “Like all men who think they can’t lose.”
Jon Renner leaned against the console. “Phoenix Corp won’t take that lightly. Darius is playing into their hands.”
James Vox exhaled slowly. “No. He’s playing into ours.”
Iris tilted her head. “We let him burn himself out. Then?”
James nodded. “Then we finish what we started. Can’t leave evil unchecked”
White Cross never needed to kill Darius themselves.
They just needed him to destroy himself.
And by the time he realized it?
It would be too late.
The desert wind howled through the valley, carrying the stench of burning fuel and sweat.
Fifteen trucks rolled in silent formation, their headlights off, engines purring like hungry beasts.
Bermuda PMC was ready for war.
Darius stood in the lead vehicle, gripping his rifle tight, his knuckles white against the steel. He had one goal.
Burn this place to the ground.
No negotiations. No prisoners.
This was a message.
Bear led the first wave, kicking off the attack with a grenade launcher—
BOOM.
The first watchtower exploded, the guard inside screaming as he was thrown from the wreckage.
Gunfire erupted.
Bermuda mercs poured into the refinery, gunning down Phoenix Corp personnel before they even had time to react.
Riot and Blitz moved fast, clearing the south side, their blades and shotguns painting the walls red.
Shade took position on a shipping container, her sniper rifle picking off targets one by one.
Darius pushed forward, leading from the front.
This was too easy.
And he should have known better.
Ten minutes in—it happened.
The air filled with a high-pitched whine.
A second later—
BOOM.
The entire east sector of the refinery exploded.
Bear barely had time to react before the shockwave hit, knocking him into a pile of scrap.
From the burning wreckage, armored figures emerged.
Not Phoenix Corp security guards.
Phoenix Corp Black Ops.
Exo-suits. Semi auto-rifles. More advanced than anything Bermuda had ever fought.
Darius ducked behind a supply crate as the first wave opened fire.
The bursts of bullets cut through Bermuda’s forces.
Mercs screamed as they were incinerated, torn apart, disintegrated where they stood.
“FUCKING MOVE!” Dominic roared over the radio, gunning down one of the black-ops soldiers.
But it wasn’t enough.
Phoenix Corp had been waiting for them.
Blitz jumped onto a fuel tanker, dual pistols blazing.
She killed three operators before one of them clipped her leg—sending her crashing onto the hard concrete.
Riot dragged her behind cover, laying down suppressive fire.
Bear, bleeding from shrapnel wounds, ripped a dead man’s RPG off the ground, taking aim at a group of Phoenix elites.
He fired.
BOOM.
The missile hit hard, sending three operators flying in pieces.
But more kept coming.
Darius gritted his teeth, reloading.
He had walked into this.
This was his mistake.
But there was no turning back now.
Dominic’s voice crackled over the comms: “We’re getting fucking shredded. We need to move—NOW.”
Darius looked around.
They had killed a lot of Phoenix operatives.
But Bermuda had lost too many.
They had minutes before they were overrun.
Darius clenched his jaw. “Everyone—FALL BACK.”
The order went through reluctantly.
Bear grabbed Blitz, hauling her onto his back, her body limp from blood loss. She was barely conscious, her breath ragged against his neck.
“Hold on,” Bear growled, pushing forward through the chaos, dragging her toward the convoy.
They were almost there.
Then—
SHOOF.
A single, precise shot.
Bear grunted. A bullet tore through his thigh.
His leg gave out.
Blitz slipped from his grasp, hitting the ground with a heavy thud.
Bear roared in pain, trying to push himself back up—
Too late.
A Phoenix Corp operative emerged from the smoke, his visor reflecting the burning refinery.
BOOM.
A shotgun blast tore straight through Bear’s chest. Blood. Bone. Shredded muscle.
The big man staggered, looked down at the gaping hole in his torso—
Then collapsed.
Dead.
Blitz coughed, spitting blood, dragging herself backward with trembling arms. She was next.
But not by Phoenix Corp.
White Cross had their own kill to make.
High above, perched on a distant ridge, a White Cross sniper adjusted his scope.
Blitz was bleeding out, barely moving.
His earpiece crackled. “She’s still breathing.”
A pause.
Then the order: “Finish it.”
The sniper exhaled slowly, finger tightening around the trigger.
PFFT.
A single suppressed round.
Blitz’s head jerked violently, a spray of red mist bursting into the air.
Her body went still.
No final words. No last struggle. Just—gone.
Shade threw smoke grenades, covering their retreat.
Victor got the engines running, tires screeching as the convoy pulled out.
Phoenix Corp didn’t chase them.
They didn’t need to.
Because Bermuda had already lost.
The convoy roared away, what was left of Bermuda PMC barely escaping with their lives.
But no one spoke.
No war cries. No laughter. No victory.
Just the low hum of engines and the stench of burnt flesh, blood, and failure.
Bear and Blitz were gone.
Two of their best. Two of their strongest.
Dead in the dirt. Left behind.
And Darius?
He sat in the lead truck, staring out into the endless wasteland, his hands clenched into fists, knuckles white.
His fury was silent—the kind of rage that didn’t burn hot.
It burned cold.
By the time they made it back, it was already too late.
The gate was blown open.
The air smelled like blood and smoke.
White Cross had been here.
Shade stormed into the war room, face pale, eyes furious.
Darius sat at the head of the table, barely moving, fingers curled against the bloodstained map.
“They were here,” Shade spat. “While we were out bleeding, they fucking cleaned us out.”
Darius lifted his gaze, slow and cold. “What?”
She didn’t answer. She just threw a tablet onto the table.
Security footage.
The screen flickered to life.
Masked operatives, moving fast, precise.
Killing. Executing. Stealing.
No wasted motion. No mercy.
And then—the final shot.
The war room door, painted in blood.
A single white cross.
Mocking them.
Darius’ hands trembled as he reached for a cigarette.
He couldn’t even light it.
His rage made his hands shake too much.
Dominic sat across from him, arms crossed.
“This is done,” Dominic said flatly. “We lost.”
Darius didn’t answer.
“We lost Bear. We lost Blitz. We lost our base.”
Still, Darius said nothing.
Dominic leaned forward, lowering his voice. “You can’t win this war.”
Darius finally looked up.
And what Dominic saw in his eyes?
Something broken. Something past the point of reason.
“You leaving?” Darius asked, voice calm.
Dominic held his gaze. “I’m thinking about it.”
Silence.
Then, Darius nodded.
“Then start running.”
Because he wasn’t stopping.
Not now.
Not ever.
Bermuda was bleeding out.
And Darius was ready to burn the whole fucking world with it.
a brutal ride.
- The battlefield is shifting.
- New enemies are making their moves.
- Old threats aren’t what they seem.
- And Bermuda is bleeding.
Nothing is safe.
What are your thoughts? Drop a comment below! ??