Dc Mercenary Novels & Stories

I did not say more than I needed to and I did not wait for those who were slow in returning. Chen was calling as we drove south, the waterfront a dark line on the horizon. "Eastern European mercenaries," she said. “Three confirmed identifications from warehouse footage. Private military history, no permanent employer, available labor.” A pause. “But no link back to whoever had placed them in that warehouse. The hire was clean." Ryker leaned forward from the back seat and placed his phone between the front seats. A picture of a tattoo on the left forearm of one of the deceased mercenaries, a design particular enough to be institutional.

Maybe two. Mercer heard the change in her breathing immediately through the earpiece. “Emily… easy,” he whispered. She didn’t move. “Remember your cover,” Mercer continued quietly. “Your file says you’re a civilian assistant. No combat training. If you hurt him right now, we’re going to have a very big problem.” Emily inhaled slowly through her nose. Across the table the Danish partner was still watching with a lazy smile, clearly enjoying the situation. “Emily,” Mercer murmured again, his voice calmer now but firm. “You could fold both of them in half before they even stand up. I know that. But they don’t know that. And Damien definitely doesn’t know that.”

"While I might be a new designer, but I'm not desperate to the point of selling my mechs to pirates." "Now hold on for a sec, Ves." Marcella held out her hand. "It's actually not a pirate we're selling our mechs to. The intermediary is a familiar face around Bentheim. He's serving as an agent for some of the shadier mercenary corps, but he has a good reputation in so far that he doesn't deal with gangs with active bounties on their heads.

Mercer said, his voice steady. He moved toward the window and stared outside for a moment, his expression thoughtful. “But I need to understand something about what happened out there. Your gift. Has this ever happened before? Have you ever been unable to read someone?” “Never,” I said quietly. “Scars is the first.” Mercer released a heavy breath and shook his head. “He’s full of surprises.” “Yeah, he is.” [That is the understatement of the century. This man has spent years making federal agencies look incompetent. Surprise is basically his personality.]

“Keep playing the game at the level you’ve been fighting—chasing after criminals, exposing corrupt officials, thinking you’re making a difference. Or…” He stepped closer. “You go after the real enemy.” Lena forced herself to remain still, to keep her voice calm, calculated. “And let me guess—you just happen to have a way in.” Mercer smirked. “You know me so well.” Jessica shifted uneasily. “This… this doesn’t make sense. Why would you help us?” “Because I like being alive,” Mercer replied simply. “And the way I see it, if I stay on my current path? I don’t stay that way for long.”

“Before the Houses demand blood, we will hear testimony. These mercenaries infiltrated our wards and spilled blood on the academy grounds. They did not act alone.” A ripple of unease passed through the crowd. I felt Caelum tense at my side, Lucien shift closer, Elias’s hand brush mine where no one could see. One of the mercenaries lifted his chin, lip split, but smile sharp. “You want truth?” he rasped. “Fine. We were hired. Paid in blood coin and dragonsteel.” His gaze swept the room before landing on three men I recognized instantly, though I had never stood so close to them. Alaric Hawthorne. Lord Gerrard Nerezza. Archmage Callum Everley.

In a natural limestone bowl sheltered from the worst of the wind, the council's hired mercenary camp buzzed with cold, calculating efficiency. Roughly twenty mercenaries—hardened veterans of the southern border wars, clad in mismatched tactical gear and heavy leather dusters—sat around a series of low-burning campfires. They weren't high council enforcers bound by protocol or uniform; they were apex predators-for-hire, answerable only to whoever paid the highest bounty in silver and gold.

Or a body. "Silas," I warned, my voice a growl. “I’m not lying,” Ivy cried out. “I was at The Abyss. I ran into the Mercer brothers. Are you happy now?” A long, chilling silence filled the speakers. “The Mercers?” Grant’s tone changed. It wasn't angry anymore. It was... calculating. “You were with Silas Mercer?” “I saw them. We talked. That’s it.” “They are worth billions,” Grant muttered, sounding like he was talking to himself. “And they have history with your family... they have a soft spot for the grieving sister...”

“Please, please spare me!” The human male screams as his body is slammed against the bark of a tree, miles far from the werehouse, hidden in a darkness, past the dirt roads. The man's hands were barely left with three fingers as Draven showed no mercy in his torture, leaving the human male in agony as he pleaded for mercy. “Who are you people?” He raged, “Tell me.” “Ok, ok please, I’ll talk,” he cries as Draven bobs his hands, reaching for his third finger. “We are mercenaries, human mercenaries working for Silas Carson, the hunter,” he mutters.

We ate our meagre soup in silence, the air thick with feigned despair. At eight o’clock, the heavy steel bolt on the door screeched open. A man I hadn’t seen before, mid-thirties, with dull brown hair and tired eyes, pushed the slop bucket inside. He was unremarkable, dressed in the same uniform as the others, but without the hard-edged military bearing. He was just a mercenary, a cog in Mia’s machine, clearly there for the money, not the cause. Perfect. He avoided our eyes, clearly uncomfortable with the silent, despairing tableau of women inside.