The plane trembled as it cut through heavy clouds, engines roaring over the dark coastline below. Inside the dimly lit cabin, seven mercenaries sat strapped to their seats, faces unreadable.
A voice crackled through the intercom.
"We are now approaching the airspace of Nabutu Republic. Estimated landing in twenty minutes. Prepare for descent
Several heads lifted."
Beyond the small side windows, faint city lights shimmered in the distance.
Renji stood from his seat.
Tall, composed, and carrying the calm authority of a battlefield veteran, the Japanese contractor known by his callsign Eclipse looked across the team. The cabin noise faded under his presence.
"Listen up."
Every eye turned to him.
"You already know the situation in Zarakhanda."
He paced slowly between the rows.
"Before the nation of Zarakhanda was officially formed in 2005, three rival militia factions were tearing that land apart. They later united under one banner... under Commander Sefu... to overthrow the government."
His tone hardened.
"Now Sefu is dead. The country is burning again. And the zarakhanda President? We don't know if their president is still alive... or already hanging from a wall."
No one laughed.
"But we do know one thing."
He stopped in the center aisle.
"One of the hostages is archaeologist Dr. Jeanne. She is the priority target. She is the reason we are here."
He pointed around the cabin.
"Our mission is simple. Do the job. Get paid. Return to our countries with cash in our pockets and only minor wounds to our balls."
few dry chuckles broke the tension.
"Forget politics. Forget flags. Forget who is right or wrong. We are not there to save a nation."
His eyes sharpened.
"We are there to complete the contract."
Silence followed.
Then Elias, the broad-shouldered marksman known as Phantom, raised a hand.
"Sir."
Renji nodded.
"Can the contract be extended if needed?"
"Yes, but we should stick to the original three-month contract."
Then Dang, the Vietnamese tech specialist known as IronRaven, leaned forward.
"How do we enter Zarakhanda?"
Renji gave a slight smirk.
"Other details, including that, will be given once we arrive in Nabutu."
That answer was enough.
The plane began to descend harder now. Landing gear groaned beneath the fuselage.
One hour and thirty minutes later, the business plane touched down violently on the cracked runway of General Mbeka International Airport, Nabutu Republic.
As the rear ramp slowly lowered, hot African air rushed inside, tires screeching against the runway baked by African heat.
From the terminal windows, travelers watched luggage carts move, airport staff shouted across the tarmac, and customs lines slowly built under fluorescent lights.
But the seven men never saw any of it.
Instead of taxiing toward the public gate, the jet was directed to a remote service apron near the maintenance hangars—far from cameras, immigration booths, and curious eyes. A white fuel truck and two black SUVs were already waiting.
The cabin door opened.
Dry wind rushed inside.
One by one, the mercenaries stepped down the narrow stairs carrying plain duffel bags that hid far more than clothes. No uniforms. No insignias. No passports in hand.
Waiting beside the SUVs was a lean man in, khaki trousers, and a faded polo shirt. He looked more like a businessman than a state operative. Yet the way two armed men stood several meters behind him made his position obvious.
He stepped forward first and extended a hand.
"President Kamara sends his regards."
Nikola known as Thunder took the handshake without smiling. His grip was firm, unreadable.
The man nodded once. "I am Chief Bako. Internal Security."
He motioned toward the vehicles.
"Please. We should leave before anyone starts asking why a private aircraft landed with no manifest."
The team split between the two SUVs. Doors slammed shut, engines growled, and within seconds they were moving through a restricted service road that bypassed the main terminal entirely.
Outside the tinted windows, Mbeca spread across the evening haze—unfinished buildings, roadside markets, rusted billboards, military checkpoints, and children chasing each other barefoot through dust.
Chief Bako sat in the front passenger seat of the lead SUV, occasionally glancing back at the men behind him.
"You know," he said, voice casual, "it is rare to see Asian mercenaries in Africa."
No one answered." He smirked slightly.
"Usually it is white men. Former soldiers, contractors, adventurers."
"Because white guys are driven by greed," Nikola said flatly.
Then cabin fell silent.
Dang slowly turned his head toward him, eyes saying everything his mouth didn't.
Hey bro, shut the fuck up.
Then he added,
"You're white too."
Chief Bako let out a short laugh.
"Interesting answer."
The convoy left the paved highway and turned onto a dirt road lined with shipping yards and abandoned industrial lots. After another ten minutes, they slowed before a concrete perimeter wall topped with razor wire.
A steel watchtower stood over the entrance. Guards with rifles observed them from above.
Then the giant metal gate began to open.
Its hinges groaned like something ancient waking up.
Inside was a private warehouse compound—massive, discreet, and heavily guarded.
The SUVs rolled in.
As the engines died, the mercenaries stepped out and scanned the grounds automatically: guard placements, blind spots, exits, firing angles.
Inside the warehouse, rows of wooden crates were stacked three levels high. Some were stenciled with shipping codes. Others had markings scratched off.
One crate sat open.
M4 carbines wrapped in grease paper.
Another held optics, magazines, radios, night vision gear, mortar tubes, ammunition belts, and sealed cases of explosives.
Dang whistled under his breath.
Nikola walked past a rack of rifles like a man entering a familiar church.
Chief Bako turned to face them.
"Take a rest, guys."
He checked his watch, then looked each of them in the eye. "Briefing is set tomorrow"
- Meanwhile at Militia Camp
After being held by the militia under Commander Sefu for a week, Jeanne was finally able to move freely inside her cell. Her hands were no longer tied, following an order from Sefu after she made a deal to reveal the location of the site where her team had discovered ancient writings and artifacts for further study.
Outside the cell stood a militia guard. He was a big man, trusted by Sefu to watch over her.
She was sleeping on a blanket spread across the floor when three militiamen carrying AK-47s approached the cell, looking furious. The guard blocked their path. Because of his size, they had to look up at him.
"That woman is the reason why we are in chaos! She carries a curse!"
The man did not answer; he just stood there, blocking their way.
"Open the door!"
"No!"
They pointed their AK-47s right in his face.
"Or we will blow your head off!" one fighter shouted.
After a few tense seconds, the guard turned around, inserted the key into the lock, and opened the cell door.
Jeanne stood up abruptly as the three fighters entered. One of them grabbed her by the collar of her shirt.
"You witch!" the fighter snarled. Jeanne's face was filled with fear. He dragged her out, glancing back at his companions before stepping outside.
The fighter forced her against the wall as she pleaded for mercy. He pressed her face against the metal wall, pulled down her pants, and unzipped his own trousers. He moved her underwear aside and was about to force himself on her while she wept—when suddenly...
He stopped mid-action—
An arm snapped around his neck.
Tight.
Too tight.
He reacted instantly, wild with panic. His hands flew to his throat, fingers clawing desperately at the crushing arm, nails scraping and tearing at his own skin as he tried to pry even the smallest gap between his neck and that iron grip.
It didn't budge. If anything, it tightened harder.
He twisted violently, throwing his full weight backward, trying to slam his attacker into the wall or the floor. He missed. His elbow drove blindly behind him, smashing into something solid—but it wasn't enough.
Nothing was enough.
The air was gone. Completely cut off.
Panic detonated in his chest. His movements turned feral—thrashing, kicking, like a wild animal caught in a trap. His boots scraped uselessly against the floor as he scrambled for leverage, anything to break free.
His fingers slipped on sweat-slick skin. No grip. No hold.
A strangled, gurgling sound tore from his throat—half gasp, half death rattle.
His vision flickered. The edges of his sight bled into darkness, closing in fast.
Still, he fought. Even as his strength drained away. Even as his arms grew heavy and clumsy.
Weaker. Slower.
One last desperate, trembling grab—
Then nothing.
His body went limp, sagging forward like dead weight.
The arm stayed locked around his neck, still unyielding, holding him upright. No trust that it was over. Not yet.
Silence crashed down over the small cell.
Jeanne sat huddled on the floor, trembling violently, tears streaming down her face as she gasped for air.
Merced let the lifeless body slump to the ground. His chest heaved as he fought to catch his breath. Then he looked down at her.
This version keeps the intensity and short, punchy rhythm where it works, but flows more naturally and feels less robotic. The action feels tighter and more visceral too. Let me know if you want any parts adjusted!
His body went limp, sagging forward dead weight.
The arm stayed locked tight around his neck, holding him up, still unyielding. No trust he was done. Not yet.
Silence fell heavy over the small cell. Jeanne sat huddled on the floor, trembling uncontrollably, tears still streaming down her face, gasping for breath.
Merced let the lifeless body slump to the ground, chest heaving as he breathed hard from the struggle. He looked down at her.
"You are Jeanne, right?"
Jeanne could only nod.
"I'm sorry, but you better prepare yourself. What comes next will be worse."
"Wha-What do you mean?" Jeanne asked, her voice shaking.
"You are second on the list."
"What happen to the president?" Jeanne ask
"He's dead"
Merced walked towards the exit. The guard was standing by the door; Merced simply nodded at him. Lying on the ground outside were the bodies of the other two men, each with a single gunshot wound to the head. Slung across Merced's back was a Glock pistol fitted with a suppressor.
Then Jeanne was sitting, looking dazed and staring into space.
0910 Hours
Nabuto republic
-Private Warehouse Compound-
The warehouse had been transformed overnight.
Where crates of rifles and ammunition had dominated the room before, a long steel table now stood at the center. On it lay satellite photos, topographic maps with a photo of Dr. Jeanne pinned/attached to one of them, marked routes, and folders stamped with seals that meant nothing officially — and everything unofficially.
A large map of Zarakhanda was pinned to a plywood board.
Three men stood before it.
Chief Bako, still in plain clothes.
Beside him was a broad-shouldered officer in desert camouflage with the insignia of a senior Nabuto general stitched neatly on his chest. His face was stern, lined by years of command. Brigadier General Musa Dantala.
And at the center, holding a telescopic pointer like a teacher preparing a lesson in war, stood Renji.
The rest of the team gathered around the table.
No one joked. No one smoked. No one touched the coffee left untouched in metal cups.
Renji tapped the northern region of the map.
"Commander Malik," he said. "Controls the northern jungle corridor. Dense canopy, narrow roads, villages loyal through fear or blood ties."
He moved the pointer south.
"Commander Idriss. Mountain territories. Natural choke points, cave depots, high-ground advantage. Harder to assault. Easier to defend."
He paused, then pointed toward the central-western region where a river system branched into cracked earth and pale terrain.
"And this one... rising fast."
A red circle had been drawn near the river basin and the surrounding dry riverbed.
"Commander Faruq al-Hadid," Renji said. "Youngest of the three. Most aggressive. Expanding influence through recruitment, captured aid shipments, and religious messaging."
Chief Bako stepped forward.
"We have intelligence assets inside Moto wa Mapinduzi."
Several eyes lifted.
Nikola gave a faint smirk. "Spies."
Bako ignored him.
"Our source confirmed that Dr. Jeanne was transferred three nights ago."
He tapped the red circle.
"She is now inside Faruq's encampment."
Lee joon, the korean operator known as Falcon folded his arms.
"And how sure are you your source isn't feeding us garbage?"
Bako met his stare without blinking.
"Because he sent us a video of her wrists bound to a chair, with yesterday's newspaper beside her."
They then showed them the video on the tablet.
Silence settled heavily over the room.
"He has been inside for eleven months," Bako continued. "He has provided ammunition counts, fuel routes, names of executed deserters, and the location of two hidden mortar pits. Every report has been verified."
Lee joon nodded once. Fair enough.
Kamon, known as Wolf, the Thai fighter standing near the crates, spoke next.
"How many men does Faruq command?"
Renji answered.
"Estimated one hundred twenty fighters in total. Seventy combat-capable. The rest are teenagers, logistics runners, cooks, and forced recruits."
He slid another photo across the table—mud walls, technical trucks, sandbag nests.
"Thirty to forty armed at any given time inside the camp. Mostly AK-pattern rifles. A few PKM machine guns. Two RPG launchers confirmed."
Lee Joon glanced at the next note.
"Religious composition?"
General Dantala answered this time, voice low and clipped.
"Mostly Sunni. Hardline rural clerics attached to his faction. Not Shia. Not ideological scholars either—fighters using religion as discipline and legitimacy."
Nikola muttered, "Same disease, different packaging."
Renji continued.
"Evening prayers create routine. Outer sentries rotate. Weapons stacks shift indoors. Attention drops."
At that, several heads slowly turned toward Azlan.
The Malaysian sat on an ammunition crate, cleaning dirt from under one fingernail with a knife tip. Calm. Unbothered.
Renji asked, "Is it acceptable to strike during prayer?"
Azlan the Viper looked up.
Not offended. Not emotional.
Only precise.
"Acceptable is the wrong word."
He stood and walked to the map.
"In armed conflict, prayer does not grant immunity. A mosque, medic, child, surrendered man—those are protected under law and principle. Armed combatants maintaining an active hostile camp are not protected simply because they are praying."
He tapped the red circle once.
"If they keep rifles beside prayer mats, maintain guards during prayer, and hold a hostage during prayer—then it is a military window, not a sanctuary."
No one spoke.
Azlan stepped back.
"Emotion confuses rules. Facts do not."
Chief Bako nodded slowly.
"Alright, the next issue is entry" Renji look at the General.
General Dantala stepped forward and placed both hands on the steel table.
Renji moved aside as the general studied the map, then pointed toward the eastern frontier where the Nabuto border met the broken lands of Zarakhanda.
"A direct crossing through the highway checkpoint is impossible," Dantala said. "Too many eyes. Too many men willing to sell information."
He tapped a marked route south of the road.
"The forest trails are worse. Old minefields, smugglers, and militia scouts."
His finger then moved to a pale scar cutting across the map.
A dry riverbed.
"This is your best path."
Nikola leaned closer. "Why?"
"Because water created borders before men did," the general replied. "The river once divided patrol sectors. When it dried, both sides stopped caring."
He looked around the room.
"Technically it is still watched. In reality, no one wastes soldiers guarding dead water."
Kamon narrowed his eyes. "And now?"
Dantala allowed himself a thin smile.
"Now is the right timing."
He pointed deeper into Zarakhanda where several zones had been circled in red.
"Every faction inside is focused on internal chaos. Malik is pushing north villages into loyalty sweeps. Idris is dealing with desertions in the south mountains. Faruq is expanding too quickly and drawing attention from both."
Chief Bako continued for him.
"Their eyes are turned inward. Not outward."
Renji nodded slowly. "Meaning border security is thin."
"Meaning," said Dantala, "if seven armed foreigners cross tonight through the dry riverbed, no one important will notice until it is too late."
Dang glanced at the route.
"What about vehicles?"
"Two technical trucks will bring you to the edge," Bako said. "After that, on foot for six kilometers through the river channel. Low ground, natural concealment, multiple exits."
Lee Joon studied the terrain map.
"Ambush risk?"
"Always," Dantala answered. "But lower than any road."
Azlan folded his arms.
"And if we are compromised?"
The general's expression hardened.
"Then you are no longer in Nabuto."
Silence.
No rescue. No diplomatic protection. No flag to return to.
Renji rolled the map closed halfway.
"Departure time?"
Bako checked his watch.
"2200 hours."
Nikola smirked faintly.
"Good. I prefer entering failed states at night."
Dang muttered beside him, "One day, I swear I'll bury you myself."
No one laughed.
1930PM
After an hour of intense tactical talk, having lunch, and sharing personal stories while smoking cigarettes.
Inside the dim warehouse, the seven mercenaries prepared in silence.
Gone were the casual clothes from earlier. Now they wore tactical combat suits, body armor fitted tight, gloves secured, faces sharper and colder than before. The room echoed with the metallic language of war—clicking bolts, magazines locking in place, steel cases opening, suppressors twisting onto barrels.
Elias checked his M4 carbine, fitted with a tactical optic. Spare magazines lined the front of his vest.
Dang stood nearby, inspecting a modified M4A1, its rails loaded with attachments. Beside him, wires and a compact drone kit rested inside an open case.
Nikola grinned while slinging a MP7 submachine gun across his chest, patting the weapon like an old friend.
Lee Joon calmly assembled his sniper rifle, but beside it lay a compact HK416 short-barrel rifle for close quarters.
Kamon "Kao" preferred speed and violence. For rapid assault entry, he loaded a SIG MCX Spear LT SBR—short, compact, brutal in tight spaces.
Azlan, the strike specialist, checked a suppressed FN SCAR-SC with a sidearm strapped low on his thigh. Built for stealth kills and precision strikes.
Across the room, water dripped somewhere in the shadows.
Nikola glanced at Elias while inserting a fresh magazine.
"So… the Filipino woman. You still thinking about her?"
Elias smirked faintly without looking up.
"Honestly? I almost forgot where she's from. To me, she's just the objective."
Nikola laughed under his breath.
"Cold bastard."
At the next table, Lee Joon approached Renji.
Renji was seated, carefully threading a suppressor onto his rifle. His codename Eclipse fit him perfectly—calm, unreadable, dangerous.
Lee Joon spoke quietly.
"I don't trust the intel. Too clean. Too convenient."
Renji gave a slight nod.
"I know."
He checked the chamber, then looked up.
"Truth or deception won't matter once we cross the border. We adapt when reality shows itself."
Lee Joon studied him for a moment, then returned to his station.
Seconds later, headlights washed across the warehouse walls.
An engine rolled to a stop outside.
The steel door opened.
A black Toyota Land Cruiser 300 waited in the night—windows tinted, engine running.
No markings. No plates.
Their ride to Zarakhanda had arrived.
-Dry river
The black Toyota moved through the dead roads without headlights.
Inside the cabin, no one spoke.
Only the low growl of the engine and the occasional rattle of weapons broke the silence. Seven men sat in darkness, faces hidden behind gear, minds already inside the mission.
10:20 PM.
The vehicle slowed.
Then stopped.
The rear door opened to absolute black.
One by one, the mercenaries stepped out into the night.
Their boots sank lightly into dry earth. Night-vision lenses flickered green across their eyes, revealing the vast emptiness ahead—a massive dry river bed stretching like a scar through the land. Once a living waterway, now only dust, cracked stone, and silence remained.
The driver stayed behind the wheel, engine idling. He leaned slightly toward them.
"Good luck, guys."
Renji raised his right hand and gave a slight salute.
Then he shut the door.
Seconds later, the Toyota rolled away, lights still dead, swallowed by darkness.
The men were alone.
Around them lay a harsh landscape of dry terrain, broken by scattered shrubs, tall grass, and uneven stone ridges. Wind moved softly through the open basin.
Renji raised a fist.
They advanced.
For several kilometers they moved in disciplined silence, descending toward the edge of the river bed where thicker grass offered concealment.
There, the team halted.
Dang knelt and opened a compact case. Inside rested a palm-sized reconnaissance drone.
He fitted on his tactical goggles, powered the unit, and launched it upward.
The machine rose almost soundlessly into the sky.
Inside Dang's visor, a live aerial feed appeared. Thermal layers. Terrain mapping. Motion analysis. AI-assisted scans swept across the ground below.
Then shapes began appearing.
Blue markers.
Dozens of them.
Then hundreds.
Landmines.
Dang froze.
He zoomed out.
The blue indicators continued spreading farther and farther across the river bed.
Not a minefield.
A barrier.
Someone had sealed the entire crossing.
Dang slowly lifted the goggles from his eyes. The drone hovered silently above them.
He turned to Renji, voice low and controlled.
"The whole river bed is wired."
Renji stepped beside him and looked into the darkness ahead.
"This wasn't in the intel."
A Brief silence
"What should we do now?" Dang asked, eyes locked behind his goggles as the drone feed flickered across his visor.
Below them, the dead riverbed stretched wide and pale beneath the night sky—a silent graveyard of cracked earth and buried steel.
Renji stood at the edge of the ridge, staring into the darkness. His mind moved faster than his face showed, weighing routes, risks, timing, casualties. Another path would waste hours. Crossing now might cost lives.
"How far apart are the mines?" he asked calmly.
Dang adjusted the scan filters and checked the markers pulsing across his display.
"Approximately one meter apart."
A long pause followed. Wind dragged dust through the ravine.
Renji exhaled once. "Alright. Comms online."
One by one, the men tapped their headsets.
Soft clicks answered in the dark.
"Radio check."
"Clear."
"Clear."
"Good."
Renji's voice hardened.
"Listen carefully. We cross the riverbed now. Dang will guide every step. Nobody improvises. Nobody does anything stupid."
"Copy, sir."
"Copy."
"Understood."
"Wolf, take the lead," Renji ordered. "The rest of us follow in your footsteps."
Kamon rose without a word. Slinging his rifle high across his chest, he moved down the slope toward the riverbed. His boots slid over loose dirt before touching the cracked ground below.
The entire team watched in silence.
"What's next?" Kamon asked over comms.
Dang swallowed once. "Move forward. Count fourteen steps."
Kamon began walking. Slow. Measured. Each boot placed flat.
One.
Two.
Three.
Behind them, Nikola unfolded the tripod of his submachine gun and aimed across the far ridge, covering the opposite bank for enemy movement.
Seven.
Eight.
Dust drifted around Kamon's legs.
Twelve.
Thirteen.
"Stop!" Dang snapped.
Kamon froze mid-step.
"Mine directly in front of you," Dang said, voice tighter now. "Turn right. One step."
Kamon shifted carefully to the side.
"Good. Forward two steps."
Kamon obeyed.
"You're in a safe pocket," Dang said. "Control your breathing."
Kamon let out a slow breath.
"One step forward."
"Two right."
"One forward."
"One left."
The commands continued like surgery.
No one moved. No one blinked.
Then suddenly Kamon's heel sank slightly into soft ground.
Dang's blood turned cold.
"FREEZE!"
Every man on the ridge stiffened.
Kamon stopped instantly, body locked in place. Sweat ran down his temple.
Dang zoomed the drone feed, checking the soil pressure pattern. Seconds felt like hours.
Then he exhaled.
"Negative trigger. Just loose dirt."
No one laughed.
"Continue."
Step by step, Kamon moved deeper into the minefield until he reached the center of the riverbed.
Dang stared through the visor. Hundreds of mine signatures glowed around Kamon like stars surrounding a single man.
"Hold position," Dang ordered.
Kamon stood alone in the middle of death.
Dang spoke to Renji without taking his eyes off the screen.
"Sir... we have a path."
Renji nodded once.
"Move."
He stepped down first.
Then Elias, Lee Joon, Azlan followed
Then Nikola
One by one, they entered the graveyard—placing their boots inside the footprints of the man ahead, borrowing each step like borrowed time. Until they reached the far bank.
The last boot stepped onto the far bank.
Renji turned immediately. "Dang. Your turn."
Dang remained kneeling on the ridge, visor glowing in the dark. The drone hovered high above the riverbed, its camera locked downward like an unblinking eye.
Below, the narrow path of safe footprints cut through the minefield like a scar.
Dang removed one glove and wiped the sweat from his palm. Only now did he realize how hard his heart was pounding.
Nikola's voice came through comms. "Take your time, brother."
Dang gave no reply. He tightened the straps of his goggles and stood.
The others watched from across the riverbed, rifles raised, scanning the darkness. No one spoke.
Dang stepped down the slope alone.
Crunch.
His boots touched the cracked earth.
Inside the visor, he could see himself from above—one small figure surrounded by hundreds of glowing red markers. The drone feed tracked every movement in real time.
A man guiding himself through his own death map.
"Funny," Dang muttered. "I trust me the least."
Even Renji smirked faintly.
Dang inhaled.
"Starting crossing."
He placed his first step directly into Kamon's footprint.
Then the second.
Then the third.
Each movement precise. Each breath measured.
The wind rose suddenly, pushing dust across the riverbed and blurring the ground. Static flickered across the visor feed.
Dang stopped instantly.
"Drone stable," he said. "Hold position."
Above him, the drone corrected itself and steadied once more. The image cleared.
Red markers returned around him like teeth.
"Continue," Renji ordered calmly.
Dang moved again.
Halfway through, he glanced up.
From below, the drone looked like a lone star hanging over a graveyard.
Then his boot slipped slightly on loose dirt.
Nikola cursed over comms.
Dang froze.
No sound. No movement.
He slowly shifted his weight back and reset his footing.
"Still alive," Dang said dryly.
"Keep moving," Renji replied.
Step by step, he followed the invisible path until the far bank was only meters away.
"Three more steps," Kamon said quietly.
Dang smirked. "Now you guide me?"
"One more."
Dang climbed the bank and reached solid ground.
Nikola grabbed his arm and hauled him up the last meter.
Only then did the team breathe again.
Dang removed his goggles, sweat running down his face. His hands were shaking only now, when it was finally over.
Behind them, the drone still hovered over the riverbed—watching the trail they had borrowed from death. And they had not yet reached the worst of it.