Screech. Dominik gently applied the brakes, bringing the battered Hilux to a halt at the front of the queue.
The border toll plaza had been completely transformed into a small, forward-operating fortress. Originally, there were six lanes for commercial trucking and tourists, but now only the middle two were open. The others were barricaded by massive, earth-filled HESCO bastions. Behind the sandbags, Dominik could see the menacing, heavy barrels of M2 .50 caliber machine guns manned by tense gunners.
The soldiers manning the perimeter belonged to the Royal Thai Army. They were fully geared up for a warzone, wearing digital woodland camouflage, heavy plate carriers, and FAST helmets. They carried TAR-21 assault rifles, their fingers hovering dangerously close to the trigger guards.
There were no sci-fi holographic displays or wrist-computers here, just the grim, grounded reality of modern infantrymen sweating in the tropical heat, holding the line against an unimaginable threat.
As Dominik put the truck in park, a stern-faced officer—a Captain, judging by the insignia on his chest rig—slowly walked forward. He approached the driver's side window, his eyes immediately locking onto the scavenged Glock resting on the dashboard.
The Captain tapped the glass. Dominik rolled down the window.
The officer looked at Dominik, then scanned the exhausted faces of Quaid and the girls in the back. He frowned slightly. "Turn off the engine. Everyone step out of the vehicle for inspection."
"Alright. No sudden movements, guys," Dominik muttered to the passengers.
Dominik opened his door, keeping his hands clearly visible, and stepped out onto the hot asphalt. Quaid, Laura, Ashley, and Jean followed suit, shivering despite the heat as the heavily armed soldiers surrounded them.
The Captain waved his hand. Three soldiers jogged over.
"Check the vehicle. Check them for bites," the Captain ordered in Thai, which Dominik barely caught, but the intent was obvious.
"Yes, sir!"
One soldier began a rapid pat-down of Quaid and the girls, checking their arms and necklines for any signs of infection. Given the rapid onset of the virus, a visual check of exposed skin was usually enough; if they had been bitten recently, they'd already be turning.
Another soldier opened the rear doors of the Hilux and began tearing through their supplies.
The Captain stepped closer to Dominik, his hand resting on the grip of his holstered sidearm. "You are heavily armed for civilians. And you are coming from a quarantined hot zone. Who are you?"
Dominik kept his posture relaxed, though his heart was hammering. He forced a slight, confident smile. "I'm a private security contractor. I was hired to protect this Oxford University professor and his students."
Right on cue, Quaid stepped forward, pulling his laminated faculty ID and a sheaf of embossed university papers from his satchel.
"Hello, Captain," Quaid said, projecting his voice with practiced academic authority. "I am Professor Quaid Sears, Department of Antiquities at Oxford University. My students and I were conducting a sanctioned geological survey in the Shan State when the... troubles began. My university provided the funds to hire private security for our extraction."
At this point, Quaid's eyes reddened genuinely. He took a deep breath. "If it weren't for my contractor here, my students and I would be dead. We just want to go home."
The Captain took Quaid's identification, scrutinizing the Oxford crest and the British passports. He handed them back, his expression unreadable. He looked back at Dominik. "You have no affiliation with the Shan cartels? The Syndicate?"
"No, sir. Just doing a job," Dominik lied smoothly.
Just then, the soldier searching the Hilux emerged from the back seat. He was hauling the heavy black canvas duffel bag. He unzipped it in front of the Captain.
"Sir. No contraband. But we found this."
The Captain looked down. Inside the bag were stacks of banded US hundred-dollar bills. Over three hundred thousand dollars in Syndicate drug money.
The Captain's tightly furrowed brow suddenly relaxed. He looked at the cash, then looked up at Dominik, a new understanding—and a hint of greed—flashing in his dark eyes.
"This is a lot of operational funding for a university trip," the Captain noted dryly.
"Sir, you know how it is in our line of work," Dominik chuckled lightly, leaning into the mercenary persona. "Contractors operate in cash in the Golden Triangle. Wire transfers don't buy fuel or safe passage in a warzone."
"Indeed," the Captain said, pinching his chin. A cynical smirk touched his lips. "Mercenaries. You risk your lives for paper, and you only feel safe when the money is close."
Dominik didn't take the bait. He kept his smile easy. "You're the regular army, Captain. You hold the wall. We're just independent operators trying to get our clients out alive. If your men weren't holding this vital route, Bangkok would be overrun by tomorrow."
The flattery worked. The Captain straightened his posture, looking pleased with Dominik's assessment.
Dominik glanced casually toward the dense jungle canopy looming over the checkpoint. Somewhere up there, hidden in the shadows, Simon had his sights trained squarely on the Captain's head. If things went south, the officer's skull would shatter before he even heard the gunshot. Knowing Simon had his back gave Dominik the icy confidence he needed.
But Dominik didn't want a bloodbath. He wanted a quiet exit.
Seeing the Captain rub his thumb and index finger together in a universal gesture, Dominik moved. He walked over to the duffel bag, deliberately blocking the view of the other soldiers. He pulled out three thick stacks of hundreds—thirty thousand dollars.
Dominik turned back and discreetly pressed the bricks of cash against the Captain's clipboard.
"Look, Captain, your men are working hard in this heat. You're saving lives today," Dominik said quietly. "This is a hazard bonus. For you and your men to get something cold to drink when your shift ends. Now... about our transit clearance?"
The Captain smoothly slid the clipboard back, the thirty thousand disappearing into his tactical vest in one fluid motion. His cynical smirk morphed into a broad, welcoming smile. "Not bad. You PMCs aren't fools after all."
"Just trying to be cooperative," Dominik said. "We are cleared for Bangkok, then?"
"Of course." The Captain waved his hand to the soldiers. "Clear them! Get them a Priority Transit Pass!"
"Yes, sir!" A soldier ran toward the command tent.
Less than a minute later, the soldier returned, handing Dominik a stamped and laminated military document.
The Captain tapped the hood of the Hilux. "With this, you won't be stopped at the inner checkpoints. The road to Bangkok is smooth sailing. Your... cooperation... was appreciated."
"Thank you, Captain." Dominik returned the smile, then ushered everyone back into the vehicle.
Dominik climbed into the driver's seat, gave the Captain a final, polite nod, and drove the Hilux through the concrete barriers, officially crossing into Thailand.
He drove in silence for five miles, navigating the winding mountain road until he reached the designated rendezvous coordinates—an abandoned roadside fruit stand.
Dominik pulled over. The jungle rustled, and a second later, Simon emerged from the brush like a ghost, completely undetected. He opened the passenger door and slid in, pulling his skull mask down.
"Clean?" Simon asked.
Dominik threw the truck back into drive, his polite smile instantly replaced by a scowl of pure disgust. "Thirty grand in bribes. Hmph. If I ever build an army with this System, I'll deal with that kind of uniformed riff-raff myself."