The stench of burning oil still clung to the air, thick and suffocating, mixing with the ever-present cocktail of sweat, rust, and gunpowder that made up Bermuda Base’s atmosphere. The fortress, carved out of greed and brutality, stood defiant against the chaos of the outside world. But today, something was different. The usual hum of industry—the grinding of machines, the barking of orders, the clatter of chains—was laced with tension.

  Inside the command bunker, Dominic “Boss” Hayes sat at the center of it all, his fingers tapping against his Personal Development Device (P.D.D.). The screen flickered with numbers—credit earnings, supply lists, damage reports. Losses.

  The fire had cost them.

  His jaw tightened as he scrolled through the latest updates. They’d lost fuel, some shipments were delayed, and the fire had damaged one of their rigs. But the real problem wasn’t the infrastructure—it was the audacity. Someone had dared to strike at Bermuda PMC.

  Mikhail “Bear” Ivanov sat across from him, already halfway through a bottle of bootleg vodka, his massive frame hunched over like a resting bear in winter.

  "Repairs?" Dominic asked, voice flat.

  Bear exhaled, rubbing his temple with thick fingers. "Minimal. We lost some fuel, but the structure's intact. The real problem is we need another oil rig until this one’s fixed." He took another slow sip, then added, "The fire wasn’t natural, though. Someone set it."

  Dante “Riot” Quinn leaned against a rusted table, arms crossed, his sharp eyes scanning the bunker like he was already searching for the traitor. "Sabotage," he muttered. "Either someone inside got brave, or an outsider slipped in."

  Sophia “Blitz” Morales let out a dry chuckle from the side, absentmindedly running the edge of her knife across her palm. "If it's an inside job, we’ll find out soon enough. No one stays quiet under a hot blade."

  Silence followed her words. A heavy silence.

  Bermuda ruled by fear. And yet, someone had dared to challenge them.

  Boss finally set his P.D.D. down, his cold blue eyes locking onto each of them. "We tighten security. Double the patrols. No one comes in or out without my say-so."

  Then, he turned his gaze toward the slaves—newly acquired, standing in a line near the processing area, half-naked, dirty, trembling in the cold morning air.

  Business had to continue.

  "For now," Boss said, standing up, "let’s get back to work. The Black Market’s waiting."

  The Bermuda convoy returns with new slaves, and sorting begins. The weak are discarded, the strong are chosen for labor or pleasure. The crew indulges in their power, taking what they want without hesitation.

  Engines roared as the convoy rolled into Bermuda Base, kicking up dust and the acrid scent of oil. The five armored trucks came to a screeching halt near the processing area, their reinforced exteriors smeared with dried mud and blood. The back doors were unlatched, and within seconds, the contents spilled out.

  Slaves.

  Some were Renegades, caught in the latest raid. Others were Mutation Republic scum, their genetic enhancements making them both valuable and despised. All were bound in chains, faces tight with pain and exhaustion, their bodies filthy from the long journey.

  Towering floodlights bathed the base in an artificial glow, illuminating the sprawling fortress of industry and suffering. Oil rigs groaned in the distance, poppy fields stretched toward the horizon, and the underground black market churned with movement beneath it all.

  Dominic "Boss" Hayes stepped out first, lighting a cigar as he surveyed the new stock. His crew followed, stretching after the long trip, their eyes already picking through the human cargo.

  "Alright," Boss exhaled smoke. "Let’s get this shit moving."

  The sorting began immediately.

  The weak and useless were dragged toward a separate area, where they’d either be sold off in bulk, executed, or left to rot. The strong ones—muscular men, attractive women, fighters, and those with potential—were separated.

  Havoc was the first to step forward, grabbing a Renegade woman by the chin. Her golden skin was streaked with dried blood, her sharp eyes defiant despite her situation.

  “She’s mine,” he said, dragging her away before anyone could argue.

  Fang smirked, yanking a mutant slave forward by the collar. The man was tall, muscular, his veins pulsing with unnatural strength—likely drug-resistant, a useful trait.

  "Perfect toy," she murmured, leading him off.

  Shade and Blitz exchanged glances, both eyeing the same prize—a scarred but still-pretty ex-mercenary, his wrists raw from struggling against his restraints.

  "We can share," Shade purred, her gloved fingers tracing along his jaw before yanking him forward.

  Whisper, ever silent, made his choice without a word, disappearing into the shadows with his selection.

  One by one, Riot, Grim, Bear, and the rest of the crew followed, claiming their entertainment for the night.

  For some, the night would be pleasure.

  For others, it would be hell.

  While some of the crew indulges, others focus on business. Oil, drugs, and weapons flow through Bermuda Base, ensuring the PMC’s continued dominance. But control is an illusion—chaos is just around the corner.

  While the debauchery unfolded behind closed doors, business continued as usual.

  The heart of Bermuda Base never stopped beating.

  Riot and Bear oversaw the oil shipments, standing on the refinery’s metal catwalks as workers below labored in the heat. Giant storage tanks rumbled as crude oil was pumped, refined, and prepared for transport. Armed guards patrolled the perimeter, their rifles slung across their backs, their eyes scanning for anything suspicious.

  "How much did we lose in the fire?" Riot asked, flicking his cigarette over the railing.

  Bear took a slow drag from his flask before answering. "A few barrels. Nothing we can’t recover, but it’s a problem if it keeps happening."

  "It won’t," Riot muttered, watching the workers like a hawk. "We’ll handle it."

  Meanwhile, Blitz and Whisper patrolled the poppy fields, where dozens of slaves worked in silence, hands raw from cutting and sorting. The air was thick with the scent of chemicals, the constant hum of processing plants grinding in the background.

  A whip cracked.

  A slave flinched but kept working. Those who slowed down didn’t last long.

  "Quality control," Blitz mused, watching a batch of raw opium being packed into crates. "Everyone wants purity at seventy percent or higher. Anything less, they start asking questions."

  Whisper nodded but said nothing, his eyes focused elsewhere—always watching, always calculating.

  Near the weapons depot, Havoc and Grim counted crates of new shipments. Stacks of AKs, shotguns, explosives, and ammunition were piled high, ready to be moved.

  "Fifty new RPGs," Grim noted, flipping through the inventory list. "Shipment came in from the southern territories."

  Havoc ran a hand along the cold steel of a rifle, grinning. "Good. We’ll need ‘em."

  Above them all, Boss stood on an overhead balcony, looking down at his empire. His fingers drummed against the railing, his expression unreadable.

  Everything was under control.

  Until it wasn’t.

  The first explosion hit fast.

  A violent shockwave rolled through the compound, shaking the steel walls, sending a tremor through the ground. Then—

  BOOM.

  A second blast.

  Flames erupted from the eastern poppy fields, a hungry inferno swallowing the dry stalks in seconds. The fire spread like a living thing, leaping from plant to plant, fueled by the chemicals saturating the air. Thick, acrid smoke billowed into the night sky, turning the horizon into a sea of fire.

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  Blitz stumbled back as the heat licked at her skin. "What the fuck—?!"

  Alarms blared.

  Guards shouted.

  Panic spread.

  From the barracks, the crew poured out—some half-dressed, others high as hell, stumbling into the chaos with weapons drawn, looking for an enemy they couldn’t yet see.

  Riot ran toward the flames, barking orders. "Move! Get the goddamn extinguishers!"

  Bear grabbed his radio, his voice a snarl. "We got a fire near the east refinery! Everyone move!"

  On the catwalk, Boss stood still, his cigar forgotten in his hand as he watched the inferno consume acres of his product. His empire was burning.

  This wasn’t an accident.

  This was war.

  And someone was about to die for it.

  The fire raged for over an hour before the crew finally got it under control.

  Thick black smoke still choked the air, the ground covered in ash and burnt remnants of what had once been acres of high-grade poppy plants. The damage was undeniable. A massive chunk of their production was gone, reduced to smoldering ruin.

  Grim and Fang stood over a group of exhausted slaves, barking orders as they shoveled dirt over the last glowing embers. Any worker who hesitated—who moved too slow—was struck down without hesitation.

  Havoc and Shade drove water trucks in circles around the fields, dousing the remaining hotspots with high-powered hoses. The ground beneath them was soaked in mud, blood, and chemical runoff.

  Boss stood at the edge of the ruined fields, his jaw tight, fingers curled into fists. He said nothing at first, just watching the flickering glow of dying embers. Then, without turning, he spoke.

  "This wasn’t random."

  The crew stiffened.

  Whisper crouched near a section of burned debris, his fingers running along the charred remains of something metallic. He lifted it carefully, brushing away soot to reveal what lay underneath. A small, half-melted device.

  Explosives.

  He turned it in his palm, examining the details. Military-grade. Professionally placed. This wasn’t an accident. This was a hit.

  "Sabotage," Whisper confirmed, standing. "And whoever did it… knew exactly where to hit."

  Silence settled over the group. Tension thick as the smoke that still clung to the air.

  Boss exhaled slowly, running a hand through his hair. Then, in a voice calm and even, he gave the only order that mattered.

  "Find them."

  He turned to face his top killers—Riot, Blitz, Shade, Havoc.

  "Kill them."

  His cold blue eyes flicked toward the remaining slaves, the workers, the outsiders who had been brought in over the last few weeks.

  "Make a fucking example."

  Riot cracked his knuckles.

  Blitz smirked.

  Shade and Havoc exchanged a glance, their bloodlust rising.

  The fire might have been put out.

  But the real slaughter was just beginning.

  Slaves were dragged from their barracks, their chains rattling as they were forced into the open courtyard. Workers—engineers, laborers, even some lower-ranking guards—were lined up, kneeling in the dirt, their heads bowed. The air was thick with tension, the scent of blood and smoke clinging to every breath.

  Boss stood at the front, watching with cold detachment. Behind him, his executioners waited, eager for orders.

  Riot was already pacing, a cigar clamped between his teeth, his boots kicking up dust. His patience was razor-thin.

  Shade had her knife out, idly spinning it between her fingers, eyes flicking over the gathered prisoners like a predator selecting its meal.

  Blitz cracked her knuckles, grinning at the terrified faces in front of her.

  And Havoc? He was already working.

  A Renegade slave was on his knees, coughing blood, his face swollen and barely recognizable. His breathing was ragged, his body twitching from pain.

  "Who paid you?" Shade asked, crouching in front of him. Her voice was soft, almost gentle. It made the moment worse.

  The man spat blood onto the dirt, laughing weakly. "You’re already dead," he rasped. "You just don’t know it yet."

  Havoc didn’t hesitate. He drew a hunting knife and pressed it against the man’s cheek. "You wanna try that again?"

  No answer.

  The knife slid in, carving a slow, jagged path down the man's face. His scream ripped through the air.

  From the crowd, others flinched. Some closed their eyes. Some clenched their jaws, trying to remain strong.

  None of it mattered.

  One by one, the interrogations continued.

  Some broke quickly, babbling, begging, giving names that meant nothing. Others held out longer, forcing Blitz and Shade to get creative. Those who stayed silent suffered the worst.

  And when they were no longer useful?

  They were discarded like waste.

  After an hour, the ground was soaked in red.

  Blitz exhaled, wiping sweat from her brow. "Whoever did this… they planned it well."

  Boss lit another cigar, taking a slow drag as he looked over the carnage. Bodies lay sprawled, lifeless, but they still had no real answers. The saboteur was still out there.

  He stared into the distance, where the smoke from the burned poppy fields still lingered in the air.

  "We find them," he said. "And when we do—"

  His fingers tightened around the cigar, crushing it between his gloved hands.

  "We make an example."

  The sun hung low over Bermuda Base, casting long shadows over the wreckage. The fires had been put out. The blood had dried. But the damage ran deeper than scorched earth and missing slaves.

  Bermuda PMC had been hit where it hurt—its product, its people, its reputation.

  Inside the command bunker, Boss stood at the head of the war table, staring down at the flickering blue display of his P.D.D. Logistics reports, casualty lists, fuel shortages—it all piled up like a slow-building storm.

  Losses : 20,000,000 Credits

  Balance : 70,787,950 Credits

  The room was quiet. Tense. His top crew was gathered around him, waiting for his next move.

  "We lost thirty percent of our poppy fields," Bear said, breaking the silence. "That’s millions in product, gone. Even if we push double shifts, we won’t recover fast enough to meet demand."

  "Then we take what we need," Boss replied flatly, exhaling smoke from his cigar. His voice was calm. Too calm. "We hit that shipment Whisper told us about."

  The room shifted. Expressions hardened. That shipment—top-tier stock, trained slaves, valuable beyond measure—wasn’t just another cargo run. It was a game-changer.

  Riot leaned forward, elbows on the table. "If we hijack it, we don’t just recover our losses—we cripple whoever was planning to buy them."

  Blitz smirked. "Two birds, one bullet."

  Havoc cracked his knuckles. "We make them bleed for it."

  Boss took a final drag of his cigar, then crushed it against the metal table. The embers hissed and died.

  "Two days," he said. "Get ready and we are going to the black market right now start packing!."

  No one argued.

  As they left the bunker to prepare, the last remnants of smoke from the ruined poppy fields drifted into the sky, carried away by the wind.

  Far beyond Bermuda Base, hidden in the darkness, unseen eyes were still watching.

  Waiting.

  And smiling.

  Because the game wasn’t over.

  It had only just begun.

  Beyond the burned fields, beyond the fortress walls, beyond the screams and gunfire, two figures stood in the dense canopy of trees.

  They were motionless, blending into the darkness, their presence ghostlike. From this vantage point, Bermuda Base was a spectacle of violence—a fortress of greed and brutality now seething with paranoia.

  One of them adjusted a scope, scanning the compound below. The infrared display revealed chaos—bodies, fires, executions. The slaughter was still ongoing.

  "Looks like they took the bait," the first figure said, voice distorted through a helmet’s speaker.

  The other nodded. Their armor was matte black, unmarked except for a small insignia—a white cross, barely visible under the moonlight.

  "They’re turning on themselves," the second figure murmured. "Infighting. Fear. Exactly as planned."

  The first figure lowered the scope. "Phase two is in motion."

  A long silence stretched between them as they watched the carnage unfold.

  Then, without another word, they turned and melted into the forest, leaving Bermuda PMC to tear itself apart.

  The roads to the Black Market were littered with corpses.

  Some were old—half-rotted, picked apart by vultures and time. Others were fresh, their execution wounds still dark with drying blood. It was the price of business in this world. Trade disputes ended in gunfire, debts were paid in flesh, and the only law was who had the most firepower.

  Bermuda PMC had never lost a deal.

  Their convoy moved fast, the armored vehicles rolling through the ruins of an old city. The Black Market was hidden beneath it, buried in a maze of collapsed buildings and forgotten tunnels. There were no signs, no obvious entrances—only those who belonged knew where to look.

  The underground fortress buzzed with life.

  Guards stood watch over high-value merchandise. Merchants bartered in hushed voices. Drug labs churned out stims, combat enhancers, and painkillers in dimly lit corners. And among it all—bodies, both alive and dead, being dragged away.

  Bermuda PMC had VIP status.

  As they stepped inside, the familiar scent of sweat, blood, and credits filled the air.

  At the back of a secluded bar, in a private booth, sat Jarek

  He wasn’t a warlord. He wasn’t a killer.

  He was something far more dangerous—a dealer in secrets.

  Dressed in a ragged trench coat over a fine silk shirt, he looked like a contradiction. A man who thrived in filth but lived off wealth. His fingers tapped lazily against a glass filled with cheap amber liquid as Bermuda’s crew approached.

  A slow smirk spread across his lips.

  "Well, well… I was wondering when my favorite butchers would show up."

  Boss didn’t waste time. He slid into the seat across from him, placing his P.D.D. on the table.

  "Cut the shit, Jarek. What do you have for us?"

  Jarek leaned forward, his dark eyes glinting in the low light.

  "Plenty. But first…" He swirled his drink, savoring the moment. "Let’s talk price."

  Blitz pulled a combat knife from her belt, twirling it between her fingers. "How about you just talk, and we don’t gut you?"

  Jarek chuckled, completely unfazed. "Intimidation is cute, sweetheart, but I don’t bleed for free. Credits, or no deal."

  Boss sighed and tapped his P.D.D.,

  Transfer Complete : 100,000 Credits

  Balance : 70,687,950 Credits

  transferring a chunk of credits. Jarek glanced at his device, nodded, and leaned in closer.

  Jarek swirled the amber liquid in his glass, watching the way the light caught the edges. His smirk never faltered, but there was something sharper in his eyes now—something calculating.

  "I hear you’re having some trouble back at the base," he said, voice smooth, casual, but laced with something heavier. "Someone inside Bermuda is talking."

  Boss didn’t react, but the shift in the air was instant. Around the table, his crew tensed.

  Jarek leaned in slightly. "That fire? Not random. Someone is feeding intel to an outside party. Renegades? Mutation Republic? Maybe. Citadel? Possible." He took a slow sip of his drink, letting the tension settle into their bones. "Either way—" He exhaled through his teeth, setting the glass down with a soft clink.

  "You’ve got a rat."

  Silence.

  Then, Blitz leaned forward, eyes narrowed. "How the fuck is that?"

  Jarek shrugged, the very picture of a man who knew more than he was saying. "One of my rats overheard some drunk running his mouth. Said he caught wind that someone’s making moves against Bermuda." His lips curled slightly. "Didn’t say who. Yet."

  Boss’s expression remained unreadable, but the weight of his gaze was crushing.

  "You’ll find out," he said. It wasn’t a request.

  Jarek’s smirk widened. "Oh, I will. But in the meantime…" He gestured lazily toward the holding pens behind him. "Business as usual. I’ve got fresh stock. Top-tier meat. Since you’re in a rough spot, how about I cut you a deal?"

  Blitz scoffed, but Riot was already running the numbers in his head. More slaves meant replacing lost workers. Meant covering their backs while they hunted down whoever was betraying them.

  Boss glanced at the pens. Rows of new slaves—fighters, workers, the kind that didn’t break easy. He nodded once. "We’ll take them."

  Transfer Complete : 5,000,000 Credits

  Balance : 65,687,950 Credits

  Jarek’s grin was all teeth. "Pleasure doing business."

  The convoy rumbled through the wasteland, armored trucks kicking up dust beneath the darkening sky. The new slaves sat in silence, bound and hollow-eyed, staring out at the endless nothingness of the ruined world.

  Inside the lead vehicle, Boss sat in the passenger seat, fingers tapping absently against his knee. No one spoke. The weight of the Black Market deal, of Jarek’s warning, of the fire that had gutted their empire, pressed down on them all.

  They would find the traitor.

  They would make an example.

  And just like that, the fire spreads. Bermuda PMC is under siege, both from within and outside its walls. Who is behind the attacks? Will Boss and his crew find the traitor before it’s too late? And most importantly—who dares to challenge the most ruthless force in the wasteland?

  Let me know your thoughts! The next chapter is going to raise the stakes even higher, and trust me—you won’t see what’s coming next.