James followed and pulled into an underground parking lot, the humvee ahead of him slowing to a stop before making a sharp turn and disappearing back up the ramp.

  The space was massive, far larger than any typical underground lot—reinforced concrete walls lined with thick steel beams, ventilation fans humming overhead, and industrial floodlights casting a sterile, artificial glow over the rows of military vehicles. Tanks, humvees, and even a few personnel carriers were lined up with mechanics working on them, sparks showering the floor as welding torches hissed in the air. The smell of motor oil, burnt rubber, and faint gunpowder residue hung thick.

  James slid his sunglasses on, stepping out of the car and giving the place a quick scan. No civilian cars. No clutter. This wasn’t just some repurposed garage this was a damn armory.

  His eyes locked onto the only movement ahead.

  From a reinforced elevator, four men stepped out, all in full combat gear. Their movements were deliberate, tight formation, rifles held but not aimed. SDS soldiers—serious ones. No one was talking, no wasted motion.

  The lead man had the look of someone who had done this job a thousand times—scar on his chin, cold eyes that barely registered James before scanning his car.

  The second soldier, a younger, jumpier hovered a little too close to his rifle.

  The third was built like a damn wall, the kind of guy who looked like he could take a crowbar to the face and ask for another.

  And the fourth? He was the problem of the group.

  James recognized his type immediately—the kind who had something to prove. The way he squared his shoulders, the slight sneer, the way his hand lingered a little too long on his gun.

  James sighed. There was always one.

  The lead soldier spoke first, his voice clipped and professional.

  "Step away from the vehicle. Weapons stay holstered."

  James didn’t move immediately. His hand hovered over his pistol, resting there just enough to be a challenge, not a threat. His eyes flicked over the group, unimpressed.

  "Would anyone mind telling me what's going on?" he asked, finally stepping forward. "You did drag me out here, after all."

  The soldier remained unfazed. "The General wishes to meet you." He gestured toward the waiting elevator.

  James sighed, brushing past them, stepping inside. The soldiers followed, one of them pressing the button for the 6th floor.

  As the elevator hummed to life, James leaned back against the cold steel wall, watching the floor numbers tick by. He had been on that floor many times before. Not the top brass floor, not the corporate offices where he was taken last time for the DC contract. The reminder of that job gave him a shudder.

  The 6th floor was different.

  This wasn’t where deals were made, it was where wars were fought.

  The elevator doors slid open with a sharp hiss, and James stepped out.

  The change in atmosphere was immediate.

  Unlike the upper floors, polished and corporate, this level was purely military infrastructure. The walls were reinforced steel, lined with security checkpoints and tactical displays. The air smelled of oil, gunpowder, and stale coffee.

  Soldiers, officers, and operatives moved with purpose, voices sharp as they barked out orders.

  To his left, a group of logistics officers hunched over a holographic map, marking supply routes and troop deployments. The light from the display flickered against their tired faces, some of them running pure caffeine.

  To his right, a weapons maintenance bay—technicians worked on rifles, drones, and advanced combat gear, some of them wearing grease-stained fatigues, others in full-body hazard suits handling unstable tech.

  Further down the corridor, reinforced doors with security scanners stood guarded, likely leading to armories, war rooms, and classified storage.

  The sounds of the 6th floor were different too. No hollow corporate speeches, no rehearsed press briefings—just the cold efficiency of war.

  A group of soldiers marched past him, their armor freshly reinforced, their faces unreadable. No doubt they were being deployed soon.

  James took it all in, barely sparing a glance at the men escorting him. He already knew where they were going.

  James strode toward the end of the hall, his footsteps steady against the reinforced flooring. The sounds of the war machine faded behind him, the hum of logistics chatter, the sharp commands of officers, and the distant whine of machinery growing quieter with every step. By the time he reached the last door, there was nothing but silence.

  His escort had stopped at the entrance of the hall, standing at attention but making no move to follow him further. This was as far as they went. James didn’t hesitate. He reached for the handle, the cold steel firm under his fingers, and pushed the door open.

  Inside, sitting at a cluttered steel desk, was General Victor Kane.

  The room was dimly lit, the only light coming from half a dozen monitors spread across the walls, displaying tactical data, shifting troop movements, ancient satellite feeds, and battle reports in real-time. The faint blue glow of the screens bathed the room in cold light, making the space feel more like a war bunker than an office. Maps and schematics were scattered across the desk, weighted down by half-empty glasses and an ashtray filled with smoldering cigar butts. A blackened combat knife was stabbed into the wood, pinning down a report.

  The man behind the desk hadn’t changed much. Kane was built like an old warhound, scarred but still dangerous. His hair was shorter than James remembered, streaks of gray running through what was left of the dark brown. His uniform was wrinkled, the sleeves rolled up, exposing tattooed forearms that held many stories. He looked up as James stepped in, a slow smirk creeping onto his face.

  Kane smirked, leaning back in his chair as James shut the door behind him.

  "Well, well. Look what the wind dragged back in."

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  James stepped further inside, unimpressed.

  "Wind didn’t drag me anywhere. It just carried the scent of money my way."

  Kane let out a short chuckle, shaking his head.

  "Yeah, that sounds about right ." He gestured to the chair opposite him. "Sit."

  James didn’t move immediately. Instead, his eyes swept the room, taking in the subtle details—the half-eaten rations on the side table, the faint scent of alcohol masking stronger smells of gun oil and cold metal. Kane had been working non-stop.

  James finally pulled out the chair and sat down, resting his arms on the table.

  "So," James started, "what job is so important that i can’t even check into Harbor for the Weary?"

  Kane exhaled, grabbing two cigars from his humidor and offering one to James.

  James took it without hesitation. Kane always had the good stuff.

  Lighting his own, Kane leaned back, rolling the cigar between his fingers before speaking.

  "Although you haven't been gone for too long, Grayson, things have changed. A lot."

  He gestured at one of the monitors, where a live feed of battle-worn SDS fortifications played. Smoke curled around his words as he continued.

  "Our fight with EHD started almost a year ago, but back then, it was just skirmishes—raids, punitive strikes, a few retaliatory actions. Nothing that could be called a full-blown war. But we knew it was coming. And it did about three days after you left for Flroda ."

  He tapped the screen, where an overhead shot of Jacksonville flickered into view. Entire blocks had been reduced to rubble, smoke pouring from what used to be defensive gun placements.

  "We knew their fleet would be the deciding factor in this war. Most of our cities are on the sea allowing them to bleed us dry from the shoreline. That’s why we sent you and a few others to retrieve something that could help level the playing field."

  James exhaled, leaning back slightly. "The AI. What was it called Prometheus?"

  Kane nodded. "Yeah. And it’s been a major help. But…" He flicked the ash off his cigar, exhaling through his nose. "We had faulty intel on just how big their fleet actually was."

  James didn’t respond, waiting.

  Kane leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk. "The winter shut down most of the stable passes into upper New England and mainly New Jersey. That means we haven't been able to strike back at their cities, and they've been using that time to break ours."

  He turned the monitor, bringing up a different map, this one highlighting regions further north.

  "But winter is coming to an end soon, and before we can capitalize on the thaw, we’re planning to send our forces to wipe out their weaker allies up north the Crimson Viper Cartel."

  James raised a brow. "Let me guess—you want me to pick up a rifle, slap an SDS patch on my shoulder, and go die for the cause?"

  Kane let out a short, dry laugh.

  "Yes." He leaned forward, his expression turning serious. "I need you in this war, Grayson. Not as some foot soldier, not as another name on a roster. I need you doing what you do best—dirty, high-risk, high-reward work."

  James tilted his head. "Which is?"

  Kane’s smirk returned, but this time it was sharper.

  "Killing people, blowing things up, and making damn sure EHD regrets ever setting foot on our land."

  James tapped his fingers against the desk. "See, that all sounds very dramatic. But there’s a problem." He met Kane’s gaze, his expression unreadable. "Unlike you, I don’t work for a group, I work for money. If you want me in this fight, you’re going to have to pay me per job. It's just business."

  Kane exhaled through his nose, leaning back in his chair, the weight of the conversation settling between them. "You always did have a habit of making things difficult and expensive," he muttered.

  James smirked. "And yet, you keep calling me back. And you're the one who gave up on this life."

  Kane exhaled, shaking his head as he leaned back in his chair. "Funny how things change, huh?" He rolled the cigar between his fingers, gaze distant for a moment. "Have you ever thought about doing it yourself?"

  The air had been thick with cigarette smoke and the stale stench of sweat and alcohol, the kind of bar where no one asked questions and the drinks were barely a step above poison. The low hum of conversation mixed with the occasional burst of raucous laughter from the back, where a few mercs were busy cheating each other at cards. It was the kind of place where men like them went to unwind, burn through their latest payout, and try to forget the faces of the people they had killed.

  James had been nursing a glass of whiskey, rolling it between his fingers, watching the dim light catch in the amber liquid. Kane sat beside him, leaning back against the bar, his own drink half-finished. The job had gone clean—well, as clean as jobs like that got. An arms dealer, an ambush, a few too many bodies left cooling in an alleyway. No one was going to miss them.

  Kane lifted his glass with a grin. "Man, did you see his face, though?" He barely got the words out before a sudden burst of laughter overtook him.

  James snorted, shaking his head as he took a sip of whiskey. "Yeah, I saw it. Priceless." He coughed slightly as the burn hit his throat. "Guy looked like he'd just seen the devil himself."

  Kane slapped the bar, still laughing. "He practically shit himself. One second, he's barking orders, acting like a big-shot, the next—boom! His whole damn group was on fire, and he’s scrambling like a cockroach."

  James chuckled, shaking his head. "Man, that was a mess."

  Kane's laughter started to die down, his grin faltering slightly. He took a deep breath, staring at his glass for a moment before swirling the liquid inside. The shift was subtle, but James caught it. The easy humor was gone, replaced by something heavier.

  "But it showed me something," Kane finally said, his voice quieter, more measured. "I’m not good for this life anymore."

  James frowned, turning to look at him. "The hell does that mean? You did fine. Sure, you had that one close call, but nothing major."

  Kane let out a slow exhale through his nose, setting his glass down. "Yeah… but that close call is the reason I can’t do this anymore."

  James narrowed his eyes. "You’ve been shot before. Don’t tell me you’re getting sentimental on me."

  Kane gave him a half-smirk, but it didn’t last. He ran a hand through his short-cropped hair, looking down at the bar. "It’s different now." He hesitated, then sighed. "I have a kid, James."

  James blinked, caught off guard. He hadn’t expected that.

  "Plus Ashley’s been begging me to take the job SDS offered me," Kane continued. "I’ve been putting it off, but after today… I can’t keep doing this. Can’t keep gambling with my life when there’s someone back home counting on me to come back."

  James leaned back, rolling his jaw as he let that sink in. He had known Kane for a year or two and worked with him off and on, and trusted him in a fight but he had never taken him for the type to settle down. He thought about what Kane was saying, about the life they lived, the risks they took every day.

  Finally, James let out a short breath and shook his head. "So, what? You’re going corporate on me now?"

  Kane gave a wry chuckle. "Yeah. Guess I am."

  James snapped back to the present, exhaling slowly. He flicked the ash from his cigar and smirked.

  “Nah, I don’t. I like my freedom too much to settle down.”

  Kane let out a short laugh, shaking his head. “You’re still a young lad. Give it time—you’ll find a reason to stay put eventually.”

  James snorted. “Doubt it.”

  Kane smirked, but just as quickly as the light atmosphere had come, it was gone. His expression turned serious as he leaned forward, resting his forearms on the desk. “So, are you really going to make me pay you for every job? You sure I can’t get you to sign on for the whole war?”

  James met his gaze, then slowly reached up and pulled off his sunglasses. His eyes, glowing with that unnatural blue light, locked onto Kane’s. The smirk was gone, replaced with something cold, calculated.

  “I am,” James said evenly. “But since you’re an old acquaintance, I can give your jobs priority in my to-do list.”

  Kane exhaled, running a hand through his short-cropped hair before leaning back. He took a slow drag from his cigar, as if weighing his options, then finally sighed. “I guess that’s the best I’m getting.”

  James shrugged. “Seems fair to me.”

  Kane let out a short chuckle, shaking his head. “You’re a pain in the ass, Grayson.”

  James grinned, putting his sunglasses back on. “That’s why you keep calling me back.”

  Kane smirked, then gestured toward the side of his desk. “Alright, fine. Since I’m paying per job, let’s talk business.”