James had been in town for less than an hour before he found himself in a bar.

  Town always had at least one—somewhere for the working men and women to drink away their exhaustion, where traders and mercs could swap stories or settle grudges. This one was no different.

  It was a rough place, built from salvaged wood and scrap metal, a testament to the town’s make-do attitude. Lanterns flickered along the walls, casting long, jagged shadows, and the air was thick with the scent of alcohol, sweat, and the faint trace of gun oil. The crowd inside wasn’t particularly rowdy, but there was an underlying tension to the way people sat—backs to walls, hands near weapons. It wasn’t paranoia. It was just the way things were.

  James moved past the scattered tables, noting the presence of a few off-duty guards, construction workers still covered in dust, and a handful of mercs, all talking in low voices. No one paid him any mind. That suited him just fine.

  He reached the bar, leaning against the counter, and the bartender—a thick-set man with a cybernetic eye that gave off a faint mechanical hum—gave him a once-over before nodding in greeting.

  “What’ll it be?”

  James glanced at the payment board behind the bar. Multiple currencies were listed, one of them being SDS credits.

  “Whiskey.”

  The bartender grunted, grabbed a chipped glass, and poured out a measure of amber liquid before sliding it across the counter. James took a slow sip, savoring the familiar burn. After the long drive it was nice.

  Then he noticed him.

  A man, thin and jittery, standing near the entrance. His clothes were rumpled, his face worn with exhaustion, and his eyes darted around the room like a cornered animal. Every movement screamed desperation.

  James immediately dismissed him as trouble.

  Desperate men always brought problems. And James had enough of his own.

  Unfortunately, the man spotted him. James sighed, already knowing where this was going. Sure enough, after a few moments of hesitation, the man wove his way between tables, his steps uneven, his nerves practically radiating off of him. He stopped just short of James, hovering awkwardly before clearing his throat.

  “Hey, uh… you’re a merc, right?”

  James didn’t answer immediately, instead taking another sip of his drink before setting the glass down.

  “Not interested.”

  The man flinched. “You don’t even know what I’m offering.”

  James exhaled slowly and gave him a glance. “I don’t need to. You clearly can’t afford my prices.”

  The man gritted his teeth. “I—I wouldn’t be asking if it wasn’t serious. I need someone who can handle themselves.”

  James leaned back against the bar, his expression unreadable. “Yeah, a lot of people do, which is why I make good money. You came to the wrong one.”

  The man’s hands clenched into fists at his sides. “You don’t understand—”

  “No, you don’t understand,” James cut in, his tone like cold steel. “I take jobs for money. I sure as hell don’t do charity work.” He nodded toward a table of mercenaries in the corner. “Go ask them.”

  The man’s face twisted with frustration. His shoulders tensed, but instead of arguing, his eyes flicked downward.

  Then he reached into his jacket.

  James’s fingers hovered near his 1911, ready to draw, but the man didn’t pull a weapon.

  Instead, he placed something small and metallic on the bar.

  James glanced down.

  And everything stopped.

  It was a dog tag.

  Old. Worn. The edges scratched, dulled by time and exposure.

  Stamped into the metal was a name:

  Kelly Grayson.

  James’s world narrowed to that single piece of metal.

  James hand shot out, grabbing the man by the throat and slamming him against the bar. The force knocked glasses over, making the room fall silent. Chairs scraped. People turned.

  James barely heard them.

  “You tell me where the fuck you got this right now, or I’ll—”

  The click-clack of a shotgun being pumped stopped him mid-sentence.

  James turned his head slightly, just enough to see the bartender now holding a well-worn pump-action, aimed directly at him.

  “If you’re gonna get violent,” the bartender said, his voice calm but firm, “take your business outside.”

  James didn’t let go. He stared down the man in his grip, watching as he gasped for air, hands clawing weakly at James’s wrist. Then he pulled out a thick stack of SDS credits and tossed them onto the counter.

  “Keep my seat open,” he said, before dragging the man toward the door by the throat.

  The moment they were outside, James shoved him against the nearest wall.

  “You fucking tell me where you got this,” James growled, his voice as lethal as a drawn blade, “or I’m going to make you eat your own heart.”

  The man gasped, his hands shaking as he tried to get words out. “I—I—it was my—” He wheezed, struggling to force the words out.

  James tightened his grip.

  “My wife’s!” the man finally choked out.

  James froze.

  Slowly, his grip loosened. The man fell forward, clutching at his throat, gasping in ragged, desperate breaths.

  “…Explain,” James demanded.

  The man nodded weakly, rubbing his bruised throat. “She had it for years… she never told me where it came from… I didn’t ask. Then—then she went missing four days ago. I tried to get help. No one would listen.”

  If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

  James stared at him, mind working through the pieces.

  Four days ago. Missing.

  A dog tag from a name that shouldn’t exist.

  It wasn't a coincidence.

  He knew it wasn’t.

  “Take me to your house,” James said, his voice devoid of any emotion.

  Charles hesitated.

  James’s hand hovered near his holster again. “I wasn’t asking.”

  Charles swallowed hard and nodded.

  “…What’s your name?” James asked.

  “Charles,” the man muttered.

  James exhaled sharply, then took a step back. “Start walking, Charles.”

  With that, they disappeared into the darkened streets, moving toward the mans house.

  Charles led James through the dimly lit streets of the boomtown, tension all but choking the air between them. Lanterns glowed behind drawn curtains, and distant voices drifted through the cool night breeze. But the farther they went from the main road, the quieter everything became, until only the soft crunch of boots on packed dirt and the faint hum of a generator lingered.

  They stopped in front of a small, modest house cobbled together from scavenged materials. It wasn’t falling apart, but it clearly hadn’t been built with an abundance of time or resources. Charles hesitated as he unlocked the door, his fingers fumbling before the latch finally clicked open.

  James stepped inside first. The interior was neat but lived in: a tiny living area with a battered couch, a narrow kitchen off to one side, and a short hallway leading to what looked like a bedroom at the back. The faint scent of something floral still hung in the air, he could tell that this home had a woman’s touch in it, even if she was no longer there.

  A table near the couch caught James’s eye—some scattered papers, a half-melted candle, and a framed photograph. He moved closer, picking up the frame to study it. The woman in the picture appeared to be in her early twenties, dark hair pulled back in a loose braid, her arm draped casually over a healthier-looking Charles. But it was her eyes that froze James in place: Cherenkov blue, the same unnaturally vivid color only a select few had. His jaw clenched.

  “Where did she go last?” James asked, eyes still locked on the photo.

  Charles lingered by the doorway, anxiety written in every line of his body. “She left town to meet someone private business, she said. Never told me who. She was supposed to be back that same night.” His voice caught with worry. “No one’s seen her since.”

  James set the photo down slowly, scanning the room once more. He turned, heading for the door. Charles tensed behind him. “Wait—are you going to help me?”

  James paused in the doorway. His tone was low, words clipped. “You don’t tell anyone I was here. No one. Understand?”

  Charles swallowed, hesitation flickering in his eyes. “But—”

  “Understand?” James repeated, colder this time.

  Charles hesitated, then gave a tight nod. “Why?”

  James’s eyes glowed through the tinted lenses of his sunglasses as he glanced back, not bothering to answer. A heartbeat later, he stepped outside and vanished into the night.

  James drove for about half an hour, leaving the bustle of the boomtown behind. The road was little more than a trial, winding through patches of wilderness and the occasional ruin of old-world buildings. As he approached the site. A crumbling warehouse that looked like it might have once been a distribution center. He slowed the car to a crawl. The structure rose out of the surrounding landscape like a wounded beast, its roof partially collapsed and its walls scorched by time and decay.

  He parked beneath a sign, the words too faded to read. Stepping out, he glanced around, hand instinctively hovering near his 1911. No immediate threats. The air was still. No wind, no birds, nothing but his own footsteps crunching through debris as he approached the gaping entrance. If Kelly had come here, he needed to find out why.

  Inside, the place was a mess. Rows of rusted metal shelves toppled over, littering the concrete floor with shards of glass, twisted steel, and piles of dust. James moved carefully, eyes flicking from place to place. He noticed signs of recent activity: footprints in the dust some larger,

  heavier, others lighter and a few broken pallets pushed aside. Something had been dragged or moved, judging by the marks in the grime.

  He crouched near a row of upended crates, running his fingertips over a faint smear of something dark. Old blood, maybe. Though not enough to say someone died here. He saw bullet casings scattered across the floor, spent shells from a caliber not common among casual wastelanders. More like specialized ammo, the kind used by professionals. That piqued his interest.

  He pressed deeper into the warehouse. One corner office still stood, half caved in. The door was jammed with debris, but James shoved it aside, creating enough space to slip through. The air inside was stale, thick with the scent of mold. A battered desk lay on its side, drawers pried open, their contents spilled. He kicked through the mess and paused when he spotted a weathered folder, its edges burned. Most of the pages were unreadable, but one scrap of text caught his eye: “Project Materials” and a date that placed it before the war.

  He also found a small piece of cloth torn from clothing, snagged on a jagged nail near the desk. It was dark fabric—maybe from a jacket. He tucked it into his pocket, then stood, scanning the space one last time. If Kelly had been here, she might have run into whoever left those bullet casings.

  Satisfied he wasn’t missing anything obvious, he stepped back out into the main area. No sign of life. Just echoes of some recent altercation. As he left, he noticed a faint trail of footprints leading away from the building, disappearing into the underbrush behind the warehouse. He made a mental note. If Kelly was taken, or if she’d fled, she might have gone that way.

  James moved carefully, his boots pressing silently against the damp earth as he followed the trail deeper into the woods. His rifle was raised, his body tensed for the possibility of an ambush, but the silence around him told a different story. There was no movement. No animals. No wind. Just the oppressive stillness of the night.

  And then the smell hit him.

  It was thick, putrid—rotting flesh mixed with the iron tang of old blood. He had smelled it more times than he cared to count. His stomach coiled as he stepped into the clearing.

  She lay in the center of a darkened pool of dried blood, her body contorted, left to rot in the open. James scanned the area, rifle sweeping in slow arcs. No tracks leading away. Whoever had done this was long gone. He slung his rifle over his shoulder and stepped closer. The closer he got, the worse it became.

  Kelly. Her body told a story. A long, agonizing one.

  Her fingernails had been ripped out, leaving raw, jagged beds of exposed flesh. Her fingers—every single one—had been broken multiple times, the swelling long since settled but still evident. It was the kind of torture meant to keep someone alive, dragging their suffering out over days. She had been given just enough time to let the bones begin mending before they shattered them again.

  Her face was a ruin. Swollen, bruised beyond recognition. Her nose had been broken more than once, her cheekbones fractured. Dried blood crusted around her mouth—but when James pried her lips open slightly. There were no teeth. They had been removed. Whether by pliers, force, or something worse, he didn’t know.

  And finally, the bullet hole.

  Execution-style.

  A single round had torn through her skull, leaving a dark, gaping wound just above her left ear. No hesitation, no mess clean, efficient. A mercy, compared to everything else.

  James exhaled through his nose, his fingers curling into fists. His whole body felt like it was humming, a tight coil of rage threatening to snap. He had seen men die in all manners of brutality. He had watched suffering, caused suffering. But this wasn’t just about information whoever did this had personal reasons.

  His eyes moved to the ground around her, searching for anything. Then he saw it.

  A broken syringe, its shattered casing glinting in his vision.

  He knelt, picking it up carefully. The letters were stamped on the side (MGI) faint but unmistakable.

  James felt his pulse slow. His grip on the syringe tightened. His mind went still.

  This was it. DC had been a possibility, a whisper of their existence still lurking in the dark. But this? This was confirmation.

  They were still operating.

  His hands moved on their own as he reached down and turned Kelly’s body slightly. Around her neck, beneath the dried blood and grime, he found it. The other dog tag the second half to the one pair. He unclasped it and slipped it into his necklace now numbering three.

  James let out a slow, uneven breath.

  For a moment, he didn’t move.

  His mind wasn’t in the clearing anymore.

  He was remembering old memories of childhood.

  A single tear slipped down his face.

  Then he stood.

  Without a word, he bent down, sliding his arms under Kelly’s limp form. Her body was lighter than he expected, her suffering having stripped away whatever weight she once carried. He lifted her with ease, her head resting against his shoulder, her arms hanging lifelessly at her sides.

  He turned back toward the path.

  Step by step, he carried her out of the clearing, back toward his car.

  His expression was unreadable.

  But deep in his chest, something burned.

  And when James Grayson burned someone always paid the price.