Raymond circled back around the bunker while the commotion drew the bandits' attention. The fire, the shouting, the scramble for the hose—all eyes pointed toward the garage.
He turned the corner.
The front yard spread before him—clear sightlines to every figure. The vice leader stood near the bunker entrance, back turned, watching his men work. The six lackeys clustered around the fire hydrant at the tower's base, two operating the valve while the others prepared to haul the hose toward the flames.
Raymond drew a sharp breath. He pressed his shoulder against the bunker's wall, staying behind the corner's edge. His hand moved—the mental command sent—and the Vector-7 materialized in his grip. Weight settled into his palm, familiar and immediate.
He leaned out, just enough to clear the corner.
His eyes swept the yard. Distance to targets—fifteen meters to the hydrant, twenty to the vice leader. The two men at the valve had their backs to him, focused on the mechanism. Perfect.
Raymond raised the handgun. His arm extended, sights aligning on the first target's head.
Bang!
The report cracked through the night, cutting above the roar of flames.
The first bandit's head snapped sideways. The bullet punched through his right temple. He dropped instantly, body going slack, collapsing onto the ground in a boneless heap.
The second man's body jerked—instinct responding to the gunshot before his mind could process what had happened. He started to turn, torso rotating toward the sound.
Bang!
The bullet caught him center mass. His chest. The impact drove him backward, legs folding. He hit the ground hard, arms splayed wide.
The sound of gunfire cut through the chaos.
The two men holding the fire hose dropped it immediately. They dove in opposite directions, scrambling across open ground—no cover, just desperate movement away from the shots.
The vice leader's body snapped into motion. He lunged sideways, making for the bunker's far corner—solid concrete between him and the shooter.
Raymond didn't pause.
Bang!
The third shot caught the first man mid-scramble. The bullet punched through his throat. His hands flew to his neck, fingers clutching at the wound. Blood sprayed between his fingers. He made a wet, choking sound—half gasp, half scream—and collapsed forward onto the dirt.
Bang!
The fourth bullet found the second man as he ran toward the warehouse. Right side. Kidney. The impact jerked his body sideways, spinning him off balance. His momentum carried him stumbling toward the garage's open bay. His scream tore through the night—high, ragged with pain—cut short as he pitched forward through the opening and disappeared into the flames.
Raymond's arm tracked right. The vice leader was almost there—two more steps to safety.
Bang!
The fifth shot split the air.
The vice leader's shoulder cleared the corner just as the bullet passed. The round sparked off concrete inches behind him, ricocheting into darkness.
He disappeared from view.
Raymond didn't hesitate.
He launched himself across the open ground, boots pounding dirt as he sprinted toward the fire hydrant. Three meters. Two. He dove, shoulder hitting the packed earth, momentum carrying him into a controlled roll behind the metal structure.
Concrete and steel—solid cover.
Gunfire erupted.
The corner where he'd been standing moments before exploded with impacts. Bullets hammered the bunker wall, chipping concrete, throwing dust and fragments into the air. The automatic rifle's distinct chatter filled the night—controlled bursts, disciplined fire, walking the shots across the area Raymond had just vacated.
Suppressive fire. Good thinking.
A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.
If I was really stupid enough to have stayed in the same place.
The gunfire continued. Raymond pressed his back against the hydrant, keeping low. His hand moved—mental command sent—and a fresh magazine materialized in his grip. He ejected the spent one from the Vector-7. Two rounds left. The magazine vanished into inventory as he slammed the new one home.
The rifle fire stopped.
Silence crashed back over the yard, broken only by the roar of flames from the garage.
Reload time.
Raymond exploded from cover.
He kept his stance low, legs driving him forward in a sprint. Twenty-five meters to the bunker corner. Fifteen. Ten.
The rifle barrel emerged from behind the wall.
Raymond's weight shifted backward.
His center of gravity dropped, legs extending forward as momentum carried him into a controlled slide. Dust kicked up around him, obscuring his form. His right hand moved—arm extending to the side, Vector-7 tracking toward the corner.
The world slowed.
He cleared the wall's edge. The vice leader stood there, rifle coming up, finger moving toward the trigger. Recognition hadn't hit yet—just the beginning of reaction, muscles tensing, eyes starting to widen.
Raymond fired.
Bang! Bang!
Two shots. Center mass. The bullets punched through the vice leader's chest in rapid succession—a tight grouping, no wasted rounds.
The impact drove the man backward. His spine hit the bunker wall with a dull thud. The rifle slipped from his fingers, clattering onto concrete.
Raymond's slide carried him past the corner before friction killed his momentum. He planted his feet and stood, dust settling around him.
He turned and walked back.
The vice leader hadn't fallen yet. His body leaned against the wall, slowly sliding downward as his legs gave out beneath him. Blood soaked through his shirt, spreading dark across the fabric. His eyes found Raymond—wide, bright with pain. Hatred burned there. Anger. And underneath both, the raw edge of fear that came when death arrived ahead of schedule.
His mouth worked. Words came out broken, barely audible.
"Who... are... you?"
Raymond's boot came forward. He kicked the rifle, sending it skittering across the concrete—well out of reach.
He didn't answer.
The vice leader's chest hitched. Once. Twice. Then stopped. His body finished its slide down the wall, settling into a slumped position. His eyes stayed open, staring at nothing.
Raymond exhaled slowly.
Text flickered at the corner of his vision—pale blue, familiar.
[ Combat Finished. Calculating rewards... ]
[ Total Kills: 6/(Tier 0) ]
[ Awarded 6 REP ]
Another line appeared beneath it.
[ Sub quest 'Eliminate Sand Rat Outpost' progress: 42.86% ]
So I am on the right track. This is the Sand Rat Outpost.
He knelt beside the vice leader's body and searched the pockets. His fingers found a keycard—plastic, worn edges, a magnetic strip running along one side. He slipped it into his own pocket and reached for the rifle lying nearby.
The information window materialized as his grip settled around the weapon.
[ Name: Sentinel-5 ]
[ Type: Automatic Rifle - Standard ]
[ Description: A robust, modular rifle designed as a reliable workhorse for standard engagements. Its durable composite frame and conventional gas-operated system ensure consistent performance in most hostile environments. ]
[ Ammo: 5.56mm (30x1) ]
Raymond dismissed the window and stored the rifle with a thought.
He moved across the yard, methodical. Two Sentinel-5s lay near the bodies by the hydrant. Another Raptor-9 sat abandoned near the warehouse entrance. He collected each weapon, storing them alongside their ammunition in his inventory.
Finally, he turned and walked back toward the warehouse's rear corner.
Chuck, the smoker lay where he'd fallen, still unconscious. Raymond crouched, gripped the man's arm, and hoisted him across his shoulders in a fireman's carry. The weight settled—not light, but manageable.
He made his way to the bunker entrance. The keycard slid through the reader with a soft beep. The lock disengaged. The door swung inward.
Raymond stepped inside.
Raymond stepped inside the bunker, the unconscious bandit's weight pressing against his shoulders.
The interior stretched before him—a corridor, dimly lit by overhead panels that cast pale yellow light across worn concrete. Doors lined both sides at regular intervals.
He moved forward, keeping his steps quiet despite the burden. His free hand reached for the first door on the right. The handle turned. He pushed it open.
An office. Small. A metal desk sat against one wall, papers scattered across its surface. A filing cabinet stood in the corner, one drawer hanging open. Nothing of immediate interest.
Raymond let the door swing shut and continued down the hall.
The next room held bunk beds—four of them stacked two high along opposite walls. Blankets lay rumpled, personal effects scattered on small shelves. The smell of stale sweat hung in the air.
He moved on.
A restroom. Toilet. Sink. Cracked mirror reflecting the corridor's dim light back at him.
The hallway ended at a final door. Different from the others. Heavier frame. A symbol painted on its surface—stairs, white against dark metal.
Raymond approached. A card reader sat mounted beside the frame, its indicator light glowing red.
He shifted Chuck's weight slightly, reached into his pocket, and pulled out the keycard. The magnetic strip slid through the reader with a soft sound.
The light turned green. A lock disengaged with a mechanical click.
Raymond pulled the door open.
Darkness waited beyond. A staircase descended into shadow, concrete steps disappearing below the reach of the corridor's light.
Raymond descended the stairs.
Motion sensors registered his presence. Overhead lights flickered on in sequence, illuminating the passage one section at a time. Cold white light replaced shadow, revealing the underground level's layout.
The space matched the floor above in length, but the design was different. One side held jail cells—metal bars dividing the area into separate partitions, each one large enough for a single occupant. The opposite side featured two rooms with solid walls and reinforced doors, each equipped with card readers.
Raymond's eyes swept the area, cataloguing everything. He moved to the nearest empty cell and pulled the door open. The hinges protested with a soft squeal. He stepped inside, lowered Chuck from his shoulders, and laid him on the concrete floor. The bandit's chest rose and fell in steady rhythm—still unconscious.
Raymond backed out and pulled the door shut. The lock engaged with a solid click.
He moved to the next cell.
A figure lay motionless inside—adult male, unconscious, breathing shallow but steady. The captive's clothes were torn, face bruised, but alive.
Raymond noted the position and turned his attention to the walled rooms.
The keycard slid through the first reader. The lock disengaged. He pushed the door open.
A personal quarters. The space was divided by a partial wall—two separate sleeping areas, each with a narrow bed. Personal effects scattered across surfaces. Clothes draped over a chair. The lived-in space of people who spent extended time underground.
Raymond closed the door and moved to the second room.
The keycard worked again. This door swung open to reveal a storeroom.
Shelves lined the walls, packed with supplies. Ammunition boxes stacked three high. Weapons racked along the back wall—rifles, handguns, spare magazines organized by caliber.
Raymond moved through the room systematically, storing everything. The mental commands came easily now—weapons vanishing from his hands, ammunition boxes disappearing as his fingers touched them.
Then his eyes caught on something different.
A large case sat on the floor near the back corner. Long. Rectangular. The size of a guitar case but with reinforced edges and heavy-duty latches.
His pulse quickened.
Raymond crossed to it and knelt. His fingers worked the latches—left side, right side. They popped open with satisfying clicks. He gripped the lid and flipped it upward.
A sniper rifle lay nestled in foam padding.
Raymond's hands moved to the grip. His fingers closed around the stock. He lifted the weapon free from its case.
Text materialized across his vision.
[ Name: Goshawk-AM2b ]
[ Type: Sniper Rifle - Heavy (Custom) ]
[ Description: A heavy-caliber rifle designed to disable light vehicles and heavily augmented targets. Its advanced composite stock and broad, multi-baffle muzzle are engineered to manage the heavy recoil. ]
[ Ammo: 12.7mm CTA (5x1) ]
The weight pressed against Raymond's arms—enormous for single-handed grip. His face split into a wide grin. Anti-material rifles like this were rare. Extremely rare. This one looked customized, properly maintained—nothing like the standard-issue weapons he'd collected earlier.
If combined with the inventory retrieval function, I might as well call myself God of Death.
A smug smile slid across his face before receding.
He stored the rifle with a thought and looked back into the case.
Two attachments lay secured in foam cutouts. Raymond pulled the first one free—a large, coffin-shaped cylinder. The interface window materialized.
[ Name: AM2b 'Coffin' Suppressor ]
[ Type: Attachments ]
[ Description: A large, coffin-shaped suppressor housing built from heat-dissipating ceramic composites. It is specifically engineered to manage the massive thermal signature and report of a 12.7mm round via a heavy-duty quick-lock mechanism. ]
[ Requirement: Goshawk-AM2b ]
He dismissed the window and reached for the second attachment—a wide, low-profile stand. The window appeared again.
[ Name: AM2b 'Jack' Stand ]
[ Type: Attachments ]
[ Description: A wide, low-profile 'jack' stand built from composite fiber, matching the rifle's stock. It clamps to a reinforced rail to provide a rock-solid, vibration-dampening base for the weapon's heavy front end. ]
[ Requirement: Goshawk-AM2b ]
Raymond stored both attachments with a thought.
So these can be stored inside the inventory? Good to know.
He nodded silently, giving one last look at the now-empty case before his gaze shifted to the back of the room.
A safe sat against the rear wall. Large. Heavy-duty construction. A combination lock dominated its face—mechanical dial, old-fashioned, nothing like the electronic security systems and card readers he'd encountered elsewhere in this world.
Without the right combination it would be difficult to open it.
A sigh escaped him.
I should not have killed their vice leader so quickly.
Raymond turned and walked toward the door. He paused at the threshold, glancing back over his shoulder. The safe sat there, locked, its contents unknown. Another reluctant look, then he stepped into the hallway.
He moved to the cell holding the captive.
The keycard worked. The door swung open. Raymond stepped inside.
The man lay on the concrete floor, motionless. His body showed the evidence of sustained beating—bruises covered his arms, his ribs, anywhere that wouldn't kill but would inflict maximum pain. His face was swollen, black and blue, features distorted by the damage.
But Raymond recognized him anyway.
"Sayeed."
A depressed sigh left his mouth.
He knelt, worked his arms beneath the mercenary's shoulders and legs, and lifted. The weight settled across his grip—heavier than Chuck, solid muscle even after the beating. Raymond carried him out of the cell and down the hallway to the personal quarters.
He pushed the door open with his shoulder and crossed to the nearest bed. He laid Sayeed on the cot, adjusting his position so he wouldn't roll off.
Raymond searched the quarters, opening drawers and checking cabinets. His hand found a case tucked beneath one of the beds—metal container, scratched surface, unmarked.
He pulled it out and flipped the lid open.
Basic medical supplies lined the interior. Bandages, gauze, antiseptic solution, antibiotic ointment, adhesive tape. Standard field supplies, nothing advanced but sufficient for immediate care.
Raymond carried the kit back to Sayeed's cot and knelt beside him.
He worked methodically. He cleaned the open wounds first—antiseptic solution splashed onto gauze, dabbed carefully across split skin and abraded flesh. The mercenary's breathing stayed shallow but steady, unconscious through the treatment. Raymond applied antibiotic ointment to each wound, a thin layer to prevent infection, then wrapped them in clean dressing. Gauze covered the worst areas. Tape secured the bandages in place.
When he finished, Raymond checked Sayeed's pulse one more time. Strong. Stable. The mercenary would live.
Raymond closed the case and set it aside. He crossed to the other bed and slumped down onto it, his back against the wall.
His mind turned to what came next.