Bruce X Vance Novels & Stories

Although Granite did not recognize the other party, he knew the man was an outsider. The man laughed and said, “You should find out more about Vance Cod of Breeze City.” Vance waved his fan triumphantly, smiling arrogantly. He believed that no one would not know this name. Sure enough, the people in line turned pale. Although they were not from Breeze City, they had clearly heard some rumors about Vance. Vance was domineering and violent, definitely not a guy to be trifled with. They did not expect to see Vance in Cosmo City.

Vance, my supervisor, I felt like prey. Vance was a man of fastidious habits. He smelled perpetually of strong peppermint, a sharp, medicinal scent that clung to the air and made my eyes water. He was always there, hovering, his hands tucked into his lab coat pockets, his smile tight and perpetually pleasant. He never seemed to sleep. He was the one who signed the discharge papers. He was the one who managed the keys. "Efficiency is the soul of this profession," he would say, his voice a dry rasp. "We must keep the flow moving."

Join us for the semi-formal social event at the Van Dyke Mansion on June 10th at eight o’clock. Bruce was cussing like a sailor by the time he brought his Bentley to a complete halt half an inch in front of the parking valet in front of the Van Dyke Mansion. The valet’s eyes widened like his life had flashed before his eyes. Bruce had driven the car long enough to know what it could do and what it couldn’t do. The valet was in no danger of getting hit.

I say. Before he can respond there's a light knock on the door and Dr. Austin comes in. She checks my eye response, and vitals and gives Zac a list of things to look for that would be the reason for concern. She tells me not to worry about my memory and that it will all work its way out. **** Zac walked me back to the packhouse, as we approach my room I let go of his hand, I didn’t even realize I’d been holding it this whole time.

Julian gasped, dropping the legal papers onto the floor as he stumbled backward. Before he could react, four heavily armed, tactical-clad security officers sprinted from the shadows of the surrounding shipping crates, flanking the perimeter with terrifying, military precision. The rear passenger door of the armored vehicle swung open smoothly. Alexander Vance stepped out. He looked immaculate in his charcoal suit, entirely unbothered by the concrete dust swirling in the air or the damp, salt-heavy draft flowing through the breached doorway. He walked forward slowly, his polished leather shoes clicking measuredly against the concrete, radiating an authority so heavy that even the air in the c

"Grant set up a demonstration down near the mill staging area." ‎"I'd like that," Kat agreed easily, offering him a sweet, relaxed smile. ‎Across the crowded square, standing near the heavy iron scales of the Vance Timber Mill display, Azriel Vance was hauling a massive oak beam off a flatbed trailer. He wore a dark canvas work jacket with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, revealing corded muscle and dusted wood shavings.

“This Bruce guy might be his ace card!” Both the followers of Hannah and Jude were similarly confused and baffled. Many of them had never heard of Bruce or known that he was the last of the six selected candidates for the match. Many of them started to search for his background. “Who is Bruce Payne?” Kaze asked Hannah. Hannah regained her composure and said softly, “Bruce Payne is the disciple of Guy Richer, the elder of West State Viper’s Den. He displayed amazing talents in martial arts since he was young.

By the time I tumbled over the metal lip of the helicopter’s open bay door, I collapsed onto the cold steel floor, shivering uncontrollably, my lungs gasping for warm air. The bay door slammed shut, cutting off the deafening roar of the storm and the helicopter rotors. Vance stood over us, holding a smoking rocket launcher, his tactical vest loaded with spare magazines. He was older than I remembered his thick beard streaked with silver, a long, jagged scar running from his left temple down to his jawline. But his dark, calculating eyes were unmistakably the same. "You look like hell, little bird," Vance grunted, tossing the empty launcher onto a rack and throwing two thick wool blankets ont

And there, standing on the slick concrete of the boarding ramp, was Vance. He wore a tailored cashmere coat that was currently soaked through by the storm, his grey hair plastered to his forehead in chaotic, un-styled strands. He was carrying a single, waterproof aluminum briefcase—his entire life, his remaining encrypted hard drives, and his liquid capital, reduced to a single piece of hand luggage. "Vance," I called out. My voice wasn't loud, but it carried across the concrete expanse with a flat, mechanical clarity that pierced through the roar of the wind and the drone of the ship's engines.

"He likes to crowd the outer rail and force the rookies into the composite dust." "He doesn't know how to run against a parallel line," Danica said, her voice dropping into that quiet, lethal tone that had rewritten the hierarchy back at the Harrison house. She stepped away from the window, her stride perfectly matching my own as we closed the distance to Vance's console. "He's used to hunting an anchor who leaves a trail. He's never had to look at a target vector that doesn't leave a single inch of daylight." Vance gave a single, tight nod, his fingers tapping the glass drive until the transfer confirmation lit up the entire room in a brilliant, unyielding green.