The CID agent, operating under the codename “Graham,” blended into the group of hired drivers and loaders with a practiced ease. He was a seasoned operative, used to working in the shadows, but something about this operation felt different. As the convoy rumbled through the twisting roads on the outskirts of the Duchy’s capital, he noticed something unsettling.

A pair of unmarked vehicles, sleek and dark, had been trailing them for the past hour. Graham's instincts screamed that something was off. He reached for his hidden earpiece and spoke in a low, controlled tone.

“Control, this is Graham. I’ve got a potential shadow on the convoy, two vehicles maintaining distance but matching our route.”

The voice on the other end crackled with static, then responded, “Roger that, Graham. Stay alert. Any identifying marks?”

“Negative,” Graham replied. “They’re keeping low-key, but this feels too deliberate to be a coincidence.”

His pulse quickened as he kept an eye on the trailing vehicles, trying to discern their intent. Just then, one of Alphonse’s men, a grizzled driver known as Rocco, sidled up to him.

“Seein’ ghosts, are we?” Rocco asked with a rough laugh, though there was a sharpness in his gaze.

“Just cautious,” Graham replied coolly. “We weren’t told to expect extra company on this route.”

Rocco shrugged, taking a long drag from his cigarette. “Those aren’t ghosts. That’s Johnson’s crew, keeping an eye on things. Just guards, making sure no one gets any funny ideas.” He spoke the words like they were obvious, as if Graham should have known.

Graham kept his expression neutral, but internally he was wary. *Johnson’s guards?* The explanation sounded plausible enough, but there was a hollowness to it. Graham knew that if Don Johnson was involved, things were never simple. The supposed “boss” was notoriously unpredictable, and his loyalties were as fluid as the black market prices he dictated.

“Guards, huh?” Graham asked, trying to sound casual. “Funny, I wasn’t briefed on that.”

Rocco chuckled darkly. “Well, Johnson likes to keep things close to the chest. I hear even Alphonse didn’t know about it until this morning. Guess the Don wanted to be extra sure the printers and the materials make it to the right hands.”

Graham’s mind raced as he processed this new information. If Johnson’s men were really here to provide protection, why hadn’t it been communicated through official channels? And more importantly, was this a genuine precaution, or was it part of a larger play?

The convoy hit a rough patch of road, causing the vehicles to jostle. Graham glanced out the window, watching the trailing cars adjust effortlessly. If they were guards, they were damn good at their job. But if they were something else—rivals, operatives from another faction, or even part of a double-cross—then the entire operation was at risk.

He leaned back, masking his concern with a nonchalant expression. “I suppose Johnson’s playing it safe,” he said to Rocco. “But I’ll keep my eyes open anyway. Never hurts.”

Rocco nodded approvingly. “Good attitude. You never know who’s watchin’ these days.”

Graham turned his gaze back to the road ahead, feeling the weight of the situation settling heavily on him. If things went south, he needed to be ready—ready to protect the Duchy’s interests, and ready to make hard decisions. He hadn’t come this far to let a mob boss’s meddling ruin the mission. As the convoy rolled onward, the agent silently steeled himself for whatever was coming next.

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In the back of his mind, one thought kept returning: Are they really Johnson’s men, or is this convoy walking straight into a trap?

***

“What do you mean you’re selling our contract?” Captain Jelal roared, towering over the smaller man he had mistakenly believed to be a simple go-between. His eyes burned with a mix of anger and betrayal, his hand twitching toward the holstered sidearm at his hip.

The man didn’t flinch, simply crossing his arms with a calm, almost patronizing demeanor. “That’s exactly what I said, Captain,” he replied evenly. “You’re mercenaries. While I may not need your services right now, my Duke does.”

Jelal’s face twisted with indignation. “I’ll contest this,” he growled. “Our deal was with *you*, not some noble. We agreed on terms, and you can’t just hand us over like—”

The man interrupted, his tone still infuriatingly polite. “Need I remind you, Captain, that the courts take a very *long* time, and I have many friends in the judiciary. By the time any ruling comes down, the contract will have run its course, and you’ll be left without compensation.”

Jelal's jaw clenched tightly, the muscles working visibly under his stubbled skin. He knew the man wasn’t bluffing; Alphonse had a reputation for making problems disappear in bureaucratic quicksand. He shot a glance at the line of mecha standing idle in the workshop, each one gleaming from recent repairs and upgrades. They had been remanufactured for Alphonse’s purposes, with new weapon systems and reinforced armor—an arsenal meant to be wielded under *his* orders.

“What’s the Duke paying for our services?” Jelal asked, his voice tight, barely reined in.

“Triple your usual rate,” the man replied smoothly. “Enough to keep the Jaguars well-equipped and well-paid. The Duke has more resources than I do, and he’s got a war to win. Your skills will be put to good use.”

Jelal’s eyes narrowed, anger giving way to calculation. He hated being maneuvered, but triple pay was nothing to scoff at, especially given the Jaguars’ heavy losses in recent skirmishes. Still, there was something about this deal that tasted sour. “And what’s your angle in all this? You don’t strike me as the type to do favors for the nobility.”

The man smiled, but there was no warmth in it. “My angle? Let’s just say I prefer my investments to yield long-term returns. The Duke’s success means stability for the Duchy, and stability is good for business.” He paused, then added, “And for someone in your position, Captain, it’s better to have the Duke as an ally than as an adversary.”

Jelal’s hand clenched into a fist, then slowly relaxed. He took a deep breath, weighing his options. “Fine,” he said at last, his voice low and grudging. “But make no mistake—this wasn’t my choice.”

“Understood,” the man said, nodding. “But that doesn’t mean it can’t be a profitable one.”

As Jelal turned to leave, Alphonse’s gaze shifted to the mecha in the workshop, their freshly painted hulls reflecting the dim light. He couldn’t help but feel a pang of regret, knowing the units he’d painstakingly remanufactured would now fight under someone else’s banner. But business was business, and in the world of crime, loyalty was a luxury few could afford.

Alphonse sat alone in his dimly lit office, the weight of recent events settling heavily on his shoulders. He absently swirled the amber liquid in his tumbler, lost in thought. His gaze drifted toward the row of freshly repaired mecha visible through the wide window. The designer he had hired to rebuild them—what had happened to him? Was he dead like so many others caught in this brutal conflict? Or perhaps he was a refugee, running from something that couldn't be outrun?

Alphonse frowned, the uncertainty gnawing at him. The designer had been efficient, methodical, but also distant, as if burdened by a past he never spoke of. In this business, anonymity was often a necessity, yet something about this one had seemed different, haunted even.

His eyes fell on a trid photograph resting on his cluttered desk. It was a worn, flickering image of a woman and two young children, their faces caught in a moment of laughter from some distant, happier time. He stared at it for a long moment, feeling the familiar ache of regret clawing its way back. Alphonse’s jaw tightened, and he took a deep, shaky breath.

“Damn it,” he muttered under his breath, the words raw and bitter.

With sudden anger, he hurled the tumbler across the room. It shattered against the wall, the sound echoing through the silence. He reached for the bottle instead, skipping the glass altogether. He drank straight from it, the burn in his throat feeling more honest than the false comfort of small sips.

The mecha stood silent in their bays, waiting to be deployed under new orders. Alphonse leaned back, bottle still in hand, and exhaled slowly. He knew he was losing more than just another business deal. In a world where alliances were fleeting and loyalties often for sale, some losses left deeper marks.

“Here’s to the survivors,” he murmured to himself, raising the bottle in a mock toast. "Wherever they are.”