The desert of the Namib was hard, between the tall dunes and the cracked ground there was nowhere to hide from the desert sandstorms, the beating sun, nor the long nights. We would've been in the north in Okarivier by now, holding the frontline, or maybe we would've regained Windecke, but God only knows because our radio is completely broken with all the movement that the attack in Windecke made.

  I was sitting right next to the noble who had the bright idea to run south, deeper into Zuidafrikaaner territory, because with APCs and Choppers, there wouldn't be any way that they'd stop for 5 measly soldiers. We coined him "Magellan" for having the bright idea, and being the secondary cause of us nearly starving to death.

  And we were captured. I saw the one in the front of it, alongside Saveiro, the general of the so called "Free N'gola", and Daniel Chipeira was with him too, overseeing us like fresh guinea pigs. The mercenary's fucked up face is an image I will always have engraved in my mind... Maybe most mercenaries just look like that? With all of these stitches running across, like a "how to dissect me" guide for when he drops dead? Or maybe he's just the "deluxe edition" you get if you also buy the dirty flannel, brown jeans and the assault rifle in his hands that would jam with the slightest bit of dust in it? Who knows, because I didn't, and I am not exactly thrilled to know either

  It was a funny joke, out of all of us, Magellan was the one who died that night. I witnessed it, in front of my eyes how they put a shotgun to the side of his face and gave him that "blooming flower" look I have, he bled out on the spot. I saw the camera then. I never knew I could hate something so much, yet I hated everything surrounding me, the shack in the middle of an abandoned town, Magellan's stupidity, and how due to it the rest of the team got tortured, the pair of mercenaries they hired to kill me, and how I was going to get killed, God knows I could nearly taste the cheap steel pressed against my head, smell the glass they put in the shell to cut costs on buckshot.

  As I turned, the man was gone, I looked at the other, Magellan's bleeding carcass was replaced by the rookie, who now that I think of it, eerily reminds me of Magellan in personality, Magellan was also easy to scare, never went out of his comfort zone, and only had long-term plans, and with the luck I've had, what else is there to expect than both of us dying the same way?

  Atop the bed was perched a knife, a Nail Head, disgraced with a rose gold coating and some fancy carving in Ancient Vitalian, and stabbed between it and the drywall, a letter, written in perfectly understandable and clean cursive. Which I take downstairs alongside the knife to read better, the letter is scented with a bouquet of all sorts of flowers, and is clearly not print paper, but pasteboard for some reason. The letter itself reads:

  "Dear Andreas Nachtnebel. (and the Blondie)

  My name is Daniel Martinez, better known as "Dani The Shotgun". I have been working with the Duport Mafia for 5 (five) years as an assassin. Due to a previous argument I had with Tobias Sharp (A.K.A. "FLA") and Fran?ois Duport, my promotion would be cancelled (which I otherwise would've achieved by killing both of you (my would-be last promotion mission)), and also my payment cut by 150K (150'000) UCD I could never recover. I have decided to turn against them and formally seek out your help in doing so, since I've personally witnessed the work you had made in the plantation and the gun store (with a clean getaway, weren't it for the fake letter we would be totally clueless) and I feel like with you both by my side, we can finally take over the Duport's empire (and recover the damn 150K they stole from me).

  Meet me today (5th of February 1988) at noon (12:00 P.M.), in the Storehouse seafood diner in West Marlon, the lakeside one, I'll be waiting for you patiently. - Sincerely, Daniel "Dani The Shotgun" Martinez

  P.S: Andreas, please close your eyes... or eye? When sleeping, it's very creepy."

  I didn't feel good about the letter, not because it's a lot to process, but because of four single words: Tobias Sharp, AKA FLA. The mercenary that captured me, the one who paraded me, Magellan and the team through the town of the capes and coloreds. He's here alongside whoever this Daniel fellow is, and suddenly, the letter becomes so much more agreeable, I don't know Dani, and I'm sure he knows me about as much as Mr Duport does, but the feud between me and Tobias the Filibuster ends in either me or him dead, and I'm going to do anything in my power to make sure the latter becomes truth.

  I heard a scream from upstairs, ran up as quickly as I could to make sure the rookie is alive and safe, and I find her exactly as before, except now she was adorned with eye bags and a messy hairdo that made her look like a crazy cat lady, sighing before telling me in a raspy voice

  - "Just... A nightmare, about those folk we killed at the plantation"

  - "Happens to the best of us, best you can do is just keep your chin up, think of them as coyotes" - I say, holding in front of her the letter I wrote - "I know you're groggy, and you just woke up, but so did I, and we need to discuss this letter."

  - "Huh, I see, hold on, let me get some water first, and a comb, and bath." - She said, rising before yawning and moving in her loose pajamas downstairs to the bathroom.

  While she's at it, I decide to check the clock, seeing it's the dead morning of 4 o'clock, where the Garrison would've been already up and ready for the daily roll call and exercise. Which reminds me of this house's ample backyard, fit to run some laps around before taking a bath and having some breakfast.

  After I'm done from my exercise, bathed and changed into the clothing I cleaned yesterday, I go meet Leslie, who's already caught the daily newspaper

  - "Look, Andreas, we're on the news" - She said, handing me over the newspaper - "They even got us in camera, but I don't think anyone could recognize it's us"

  I check the newspaper, KNOW Bayou Local News, in it had many headlines, from UNAGEN founding member Lê Hu?nh Xuan found dead in the Mediterranean, to a fight between two renowned wrestling stars, but the most concerning national affair for me was neither, it was that somehow, the press was able to snap a picture of us fleeing from the scene, and the burning mansion. No DNA was found, no suspects were linked, and the press totally believed that we were just gangsters having gang wars over religion. How did that man know that we were not only the real killers of Ganon, but also living here? Not only that, but also, the letter that we took from Ganon is gone from the table... If there was something wrong, it must surely have been with Ganon, maybe he sent a letter to the Duports and was writing the part 2, which was the one we caught?

  - "So, what do you think about the letter?" - I ask her, poking a potato and bringing it to my mouth - "Let's discuss before it becomes late"

  - "Well, what is there to discuss?" - She responds, splitting the meat along the fibers before eating it - "I think it may be a set-up"

  - "I don't think so, for the four years I've been here, I know that the Duports don't play with their food, when they want someone gone, that someone is gone." - I tell her, knowing from experience, the day that the wife and mother Giséle Duport appeared on the news, her body found the day after I overheard them arguing while I making groceries. - "Listen, we got an expert in our hands, that's no doubt, Francois wouldn't send a job like this to a measly soldier worth less than Ganon, and something must've gone really wrong for him to lose that much money"

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

  - "So, you think that it's best we meet up and gain a potential ally?" - She asks, already putting the plates in the counter for me to wash - "I hope you're right in your judgment, Andreas, I wouldn't want my family to know that I just came here and died because of my own Na?veté."

  - "Listen, I am not sure about the outcome, what I am sure is that we're most likely going to die, and this meeting will either speed up that process, or way more likely, at least slow it down by a few minutes" - I say, washing the plates and putting them in the rack - "Let's go and pay him a visit"

  And so, we head out, guns in holsters, and a smile in hand, the time was 11:50, and outside was breezy and warm like every day in Northern Bayou. The walk across the Pastor Noyce bridge was short, and right in front of it lay the Storehouse, which was usually just outside my price range, but knowing that I might just eat my last meal there, money is the least of my concerns.

  We ask the desk clerk, "Table for three, 12:00", and they guide us upstairs, therein lay a... Woman? Man? Whatever lays there is sipping on some expensive wine, and eating some shrimps, that person is surely stylistic, being the first in this scorching hellhole that wears a suit, and not any kind of suit, but a very silky red and gold suit, that reminded you of the Reman Empire

  - "So, you must be Andreas Nachtnebel, and..." - They said, pausing to look at Leslie, probably trying to remember her name - "Ah, fuck it, I don't remember. Anyways I'm Daniel, the county's street cleaner"

  - "It's... Leslie, Leslie K?nig" - She said, looking back at me, I don't blame him for forgetting her name, I have a hard time with names too - "So... Why are we sitting down?"

  - "Order yourself something nice, girl! Once the food arrives, the words will flow out" - He said in a melodic voice, right on the beat a waiter came in to serve us - "Order whatever, it's on the Shotgun"

  As I look into the menu, I spot one of my favorite drinks, Ovingundu. Which I thought was only sold in local villages when I was stationed in N'gola. And since I'm still quite full from the breakfast we had, I just decide to order a tall glass of that to go. The rookie ends up engrossed within the many options the Menu offers, and ends up settling with a fancy Frank wine with Chicken breast, and after a pretty short wait considering it's rush hour in the middle of a Tuesday.

  - "Listen, we first want to know your business" - I say, drinking from the alcohol honey - "How do you think we two can aid you with such a big mission?"

  - "I got my ways" - Says Dani, seeing our skittishness - "Let's just say, I have some allies from the other side of the border, and they've just so happened to come here for the upcoming Mardi Gras, and they also know how to use a gun"

  - "If so," - Says Leslie, who I can see is still a bit torn between believing him or not - "then why did you decide to help us both instead of letting your allies do the job?"

  Dani leaned over the table, resting his face over his thin fingers, the shadow cast over him making him look sinister.

  - "It's simple, first off, the more the people, the easier the task" - Says Dani, taking in a glance sideways to make sure that nobody was hearing him - "It's way more than just that, not only the two extra people, but also the rank and training of those people, as I've heard that Mr. Nachtnebel is a decorated war veteran, and sadly, I cannot yet confirm of your ability, Ms. Leslie, but we have time to train and see. And there's also the fact that by not killing you, I'm directly going against directives, which is a spit and a slap in the face according to any member of the Mafia, so we're methodically, metaphorically, and might I even say, Ideologically fucking with the mafia."

  I look at Leslie, who seems to have a growing ease, but still some skepticism.

  - "Okay, you've convinced me." - I say, finishing up my mead, then I look at Leslie, who had already eaten her food - "Your place, or ours?"

  - "Lead the way, we're going to your house" - he said, handing us a crumpled up piece of paper - "If you didn't know, Mr. Duport has one of these at home, Arcade was smarter than you thought."

  I knew it, Ganon did write another letter, and we couldn't intercept it in time while we were busy disguising ourselves from the news. You'd think a man as smart as him would be more than a burning, rotting corpse who once led poor and illiterate teenagers to do petty robberies in the poorest part of the county. But oh well, who am I to judge?

  Then, we left, Dani paying for everything and even leaving a generous tip behind. crossing the bridge and getting to Leslie's house. Dani sighed and threw his arms to the roof, turning to us before signaling too his empty bandolier

  - "Did I ever mention that they also stole my pair of shotguns? My precious Sebastián and Armando are in the Chateau, and the only weapon I had left was that flimsy knife I stabbed your wall with." - He said, even furrowing through his pockets to show us that there's nothing in there, before dramatically turning to me and striking a pose worthy of a fashion magazine - "So, I won't be of much use unless I have something to defend myself with. Speaking of which, don't you own like the biggest gunstore in the whole county?"

  - "Yes, I do. Why do you ask?" - I asked him, sure, I had a gun store, that was locked up and with better security than a bank vault, but was under the watchful gaze of that freak Sharon - "We can't go back there, if that's what you want, It's probably either locked down or someone already burned it down"

  - "Oh, don't jump to the worst case scenario yet, boy! No one cares about the gun store being closed, no one knows it was you, except Fat-cat Francois, Thunder-face Tobias, Stalking Sharon, and yours truly" - He said, opening the door and pulling out what looked like a 6x Magnitude sight from her pouch, squinting her eyes to see the gunstore just a street away - "See? No one's home, let's go and get armed up, I'm sure you got something to cover for the loss of Sebastián and Armando."

  And then, as soon as we were on Leslie's house, we had to leave, a short trip to the gun store, luckily I didn't forget my keys, and we could open the door. There were very clearly attempts to vandalize my store, what looked like low caliber bullet fire on the glass, grafitti, and all kinds of colorful messages calling me anything from slurs about my ideology, to the color of my skin, and even the religion I follow. But I paid no mind to the messages, not like they can say that to my face.

  Inside the shop are all my rifles, shotguns, pistols, all untainted. Dani made no waste of time by moving quickly to the "Shotgun" section, to the 12 gauge subsection, and picking up some beauties.

  There was a South Qinese copy from '72 of the good old Trench Sweeper he took a keen interest on. He took it, racked back the bolt, revealing some intricate Qinese symbols on the bolt, and decided to sling it across her back, before going to find some "Shotgun handgun" if that even makes sense.

  He avoided double barrels like the plague, and while I also don't find them very satisfactory considering how much a shipment of those costed me, and the less rounds they hold compared to a pump or a semi, I at least could grab them in a pinch, and in a pinch we were, but he took his sweet time

  eventually, he passed over and found a small beauty, a model that I stole off my dead squadmate after the whole Windecke Fiasco, a rifle which had been modified thoroughly, to stop firing 7.62x39, and start firing .366 TKM, or maybe it wasn't a modification, but a whole new model? I never could reallly tell after the many times I field stripped it.

  - "Yeah, this is my kind of gun" - He said, making sure the magazine and chamber are empty before aiming it, zeroing the sights before inspecting it and then shoving it into his satchel - "Grab me some ammo, we're storming the Chateau with this"

  I saw Leslie, not too far away, admiring every revolver I had in the "Civil war and after" boxes, shoving all of them in her bag, I guess I'll just have to carry ammunition of every kind of revolver, and take a very close inspection of which ammo she's using, so that she's not accidentally putting a cartridge of the wrong caliber into a revolver and either blowing the revolver up, or blowing her hands off, or maybe both.

  I myself head to the back of the counter, the gun I forgot to carry, and how could I? The rifle that has killed approximately 3% of the entirety of East Marlon the last 4 years. That being ~422 dead, or if I draw an average, about a thousand shots fired to kill, not counting those spent at ranges. I could count all of the notches in the stock, but I have far more pressing matters as of now. But I still need to add 3 notches more, for the three bastards I killed with it yesterday. My gun was beautiful, roller-delayed blowback, the original bayonet that made it look even more menacing, the flip up sight that was absent from newer models, my Heinrich & Karl Gewehr Model 1959 looked as beautiful as brand new. Save the notches, the nickname engraved on top of the frame, and the slight wear of the rifling. I need to replace the barrel later, or else it won't be too precise.