Chapter 8: The Forge of Loyalty
Markus Bauer stood in the center of a dusty, abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of Incheon. The air smelled of rust and old oil. Before him stood five men. They were not a uniform group. One was a hulking Serb with a broken nose and scarred knuckles. Another was a wiry, intense-looking Brit with the thousand-yard stare of a SAS operative. A Korean with a sleek, athletic build and cold eyes. A silent, mountainous Fijian. And an American with a deceptively easy smile that didn't reach his eyes.
They were Bauer's first recruits. The best of the best he could find in the mercenary and disgraced soldier underworld of Asia. They had been offered a simple, insane pitch: a fortune in cash and a guaranteed spot in a fortress for the end of the world. They had all taken the money. Now, they were about to meet the architect of their potential salvation.
The side door to the warehouse opened, and Luca Moretti stepped inside. He was dressed in black tactical trousers and a tight-fitting black shirt, despite the chill. He carried no weapon. He didn't need to. His presence was a weapon.
The men straightened up, their casual stances evaporating. They assessed him instantly. They saw the powerful build, the fluid, predatory grace of his movement, the absolute lack of fear in his ice-blue eyes. This was not a pampered financier. This was one of them. Something more.
Luca stopped in front of them, his gaze sweeping over each man, memorizing their faces, their tells, their weaknesses.
"Bauer tells me you're the best," Luca began, his voice echoing slightly in the cavernous space. It was quiet, yet it carried an undeniable weight. "He's either right, or he's a poor judge of character. We're about to find out."
He started to walk slowly down the line. "You've been paid a significant sum. You've been told a story that sounds like madness. You took the money. That makes you greedy, or desperate, or both. That's fine. I can work with that."
He stopped in front of the American. "What's your name?"
"Carson, sir."
"Why are you here, Carson?"
"The money was good. The story was better than guarding oil execs who can't keep their hands to themselves."
Luca didn't smile. "The story is true. Every word of it. In ten months, this city will be a graveyard. The strong will prey on the weak. The world you know will be gone." He turned to address them all. "The money I gave you is worthless. It's a test. It's paper that will burn. What I am really offering you is a place in the new world. A place at the top. But a place at my table must be earned."
He gestured to a series of heavy crates stacked against the far wall. "In those crates are the tools of our trade. Your first task is to inventory them. Then, you will clean them. Then, you will learn them inside and out. You will eat, sleep, and breathe these tools until they are extensions of your own bodies."
Bauer stepped forward and pried open a crate with a crowbar. Inside, packed in grease and straw, were brand new, deadly-looking KS-23 Russian shotguns.
Luca picked one up, the heavy metal seeming weightless in his hands. "This is not a weapon for fighting men. This is a weapon for clearing doorways and stopping things that should not be moving. It fires a 23mm shell. It will turn a zombie into pink mist. It will also turn a rival warlord into a memory."
He handed the shotgun to Carson. "Your first lesson starts now. Bauer?"
For the next four hours, the warehouse echoed with the sounds of clicking metal, Bauer's barked instructions, and the smell of gun oil. Luca did not leave. He watched. He observed. He saw how the men learned, who was a natural leader, who was a follower, who asked smart questions, who tried to cut corners.
The Brit, a man named Shaw, was the fastest at stripping and reassembling the KS-23 blindfolded. The Fijian, called Tavita, was immensely strong but careful and methodical. The Korean, Ji-hoon, was silent and efficient, his movements economical and precise.
During a break, as the men drank water, Luca approached the Serb, Vuk, who was struggling slightly with the complex firing mechanism.
"Your thumb is too far forward," Luca said quietly. "You're putting pressure on the sear. It will throw off your aim." He demonstrated the correct grip, his hands moving with an expert's certainty.
Vuk looked at him, surprised. "You know your way around a weapon, boss."
"I know my way around every tool of survival," Luca replied, his voice flat. "This is just the beginning. Next, you'll learn explosives. Then, communications. Then, field medicine. There will be no weak links. The price for failure is not being fired. It's being left outside the walls when the time comes. Do you understand?"
Vuk nodded, a new respect in his eyes. "I understand."
By the end of the session, the men were covered in grime and sweat, but the crates of shotguns were cleaned, oiled, and ready for action. They looked at Luca differently. The initial skepticism had been replaced by a dawning realization. The money was real. The weapons were real. The man in charge was lethally, terrifyingly real. His knowledge was not theoretical.
Luca gathered them again. "You have taken the first step. You are no longer mercenaries. You are the foundation of the Ghost Guard. You will be the shield that protects our future. The strong right arm of the new world. The work will be hard. The discipline will be absolute. The rewards…" He paused, letting the word hang in the air. "The rewards will be a life of power and security in a world of ash. You will want for nothing. You will fear nothing. Is that clear?"
A unified "Yes, sir!" echoed through the warehouse.
"Good. Bauer will give you your assignments. You are on duty now. You belong to me."
He turned and walked out, leaving them in the warehouse with their new purpose and their deadly new toys. He had given them more than a job; he had given them an identity, a tribe. He had forged the first link in a chain of loyalty that would be tested in fire and blood. They were his first true pawns, and he had just moved them onto the board.