Chapter 7:Into the Lion's Den

Chapter 7: Into the Lion's Den

Logan leaned against the hood of his Stingray, his gaze fixed on the compound gates ahead of him. The air was thick with tension, and the weight of the next steps pressed heavily on his shoulders. The past few days had been a blur of preparation, strategizing, and making peace with the fact that his life as a soldier for Salvador's cartel was coming to an end.

George approached him from behind, carrying a black duffel bag that he tossed lightly onto the passenger seat of the Stingray. "There's ten grand in there. Use it wisely," George said, his voice steady, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of unease.

Logan turned to face his father, raising an eyebrow. "Generous. Thought Salvador would keep me on a tighter leash."

"That's not Salvador's money," George replied with a faint smirk. "It's mine. Consider it an investment... or insurance, depending on how things play out."

Logan nodded, appreciating the gesture but also understanding the unspoken message. His father was betting on him—on his survival, his ability to infiltrate the Valdez cartel, and his eventual return.

George continued, his tone more serious. "While you were out of commission, Salvador's been busy. The Valdez cartel is crumbling faster than anyone expected. We've taken out key warehouses, disrupted smuggling routes, and crippled their logistics. But don't let that fool you. They're desperate now, which makes them dangerous."

"Desperate enough to hire freelancers?" Logan asked, catching onto the thread of their earlier discussions.

"Exactly," George said. "They know they can't trust just anyone, but with the right credentials and a convincing enough story, you'll get in. Once you're inside, you can figure out how to dismantle what's left of them."

Logan ran a hand over the Stingray's sleek hood, his fingers tracing the faint scratches from his last mission. "And the car? Thought you'd be keeping this beauty locked away."

George chuckled. "It's yours now. Consider it a parting gift. But remember, it's not just a car—it's a symbol. You show up in this, you're sending a message. Confidence, capability, power. Play your cards right, and they'll respect you before you even say a word."

Logan smirked. "Or try to kill me for showing off."

"That too," George admitted.

The conversation grew quiet for a moment, the weight of what lay ahead settling between them. George broke the silence, his voice softer now. "Look, Logan, I know I haven't been the best father. Hell, I've dragged you into more messes than I can count. But you've got a chance here—a chance to carve out something for yourself, to be more than just another pawn in someone else's game."

Logan stared at his father, seeing the sincerity in his eyes. For all their shared history, for all the blood and betrayal, this moment felt... real.

"I'll be fine," Logan said finally, his voice steady. "This isn't just your fight anymore, Dad. It's mine too."

George nodded, his expression hardening again. "Good. Then get out there and show them what a Holt can do."

Logan slid into the driver's seat, the familiar hum of the engine roaring to life as he turned the key. The weight of the duffel bag on the seat beside him was a stark reminder of the task ahead.

As the gates opened and the Stingray rolled out onto the road, Logan's mind shifted to the challenges awaiting him. If the Valdez cartel thought they could survive by hiring mercenaries and espers, they were about to learn what it meant to face a Holt.

With the faint echo of his father's words in his mind, Logan tightened his grip on the wheel and pressed down on the accelerator.

It was time to begin.

The sun was barely rising when Logan drove out of Ciudad Juarez, the faint orange glow spilling across the horizon as he left behind the familiar chaos of Salvador's territory. The Stingray hummed steadily along the open highway, its sleek frame cutting through the desert air. A duffel bag stuffed with cash, essentials, and his weaponry sat on the passenger seat, a silent companion on this journey.

Logan's destination was Mexico City, where the remnants of the Valdez cartel were digging in, preparing for the inevitable assault from Salvador's forces. But first, he needed to make a stop in Maldares, Senoa—a smaller city known for its underground markets, mercenary hubs, and the kind of connections that could give him the edge he needed.

After hours of driving, Logan rolled into Maldares just as the streets were starting to bustle. He parked the Stingray near one of the less conspicuous lots and stepped out, adjusting his leather jacket to cover the bandages still wrapped around his left arm. The city was a hive of activity, filled with traders, mercenaries, and all manner of shady figures hustling to make a living.

Logan's destination was a squat, gray building marked only by a weathered sign reading "Mercenary Guild – Senoa Division" in faded letters. It wasn't flashy, but it didn't need to be. Everyone who mattered knew this was where mercenaries and freelancers came to get their credentials.

The inside of the guild was dimly lit, the air thick with the smell of cigarettes and alcohol. Mercenaries of all shapes and sizes lounged around, some chatting in hushed tones, others glaring suspiciously at new arrivals. Logan strode to the front desk, where a bored-looking woman sat behind a thick pane of bulletproof glass.

"Name?" she asked without looking up from her tablet.

"Logan Holt," he replied, sliding his ID under the glass.

The woman's eyebrows twitched slightly as she glanced at his name. "Holt? Any relation to George Holt?"

Logan's jaw tightened. "Just process my registration."

She shrugged, tapping a few keys on her tablet before sliding a small stack of papers and a pen through the slot. "Fill these out. Registration fee is 500 pesos. Once that's done, you'll need to take the evaluation to determine your Tier and grade."

Logan nodded, filling out the forms quickly. He paid the fee, then followed her directions to a back room where the evaluation would take place.

The evaluation chamber was stark and utilitarian, with reinforced walls and a series of holographic projectors. A burly man with a shaved head and cybernetic arms greeted Logan at the entrance.

"You're here for the test?" the man grunted.

Logan nodded.

"Alright," the evaluator said, cracking his neck. "The test measures your combat potential, power levels, and skill under pressure. You'll be graded on a scale from E to S, and your tier will reflect your overall capability. You ready?"

"Let's get this over with," Logan said, stepping into the chamber.

The holographic projectors flared to life, creating a simulated environment that shifted between urban landscapes, dense forests, and barren wastelands. Targets appeared at random intervals—some human-shaped, others representing monstrous entities. Logan wasted no time, drawing his daggers and activating his force field.

He moved through the simulation with precision, his telekinesis allowing him to dodge, flank, and strike with devastating accuracy. When a simulated titan charged at him, he used a concentrated burst of his force field to knock it off balance before delivering a killing blow with his dagger. Against a swarm of smaller enemies, he created a protective barrier around himself while firing his Desert Eagle, picking them off one by one.

The evaluator watched from the control room, nodding in approval as Logan demonstrated a combination of raw power, tactical thinking, and adaptability. By the time the test ended, Logan was breathing heavily, his injured arm throbbing but still functional.

The burly evaluator stepped into the chamber, a tablet in hand. "Impressive. You've got solid combat instincts and good control over your abilities. You've been ranked as an D-grade mercenary, You're also a Tier E 8. Not many people hit that on their first try."

Logan raised an eyebrow. "What's Grade A/S?"

"Top-grade" the man replied. "The best of the best. You've got potential, but you're not there yet."

Logan shrugged. "I'll take it."

The evaluator handed him a sleek black badge with his name and rank engraved on it. "Welcome to the guild, Logan Holt. You're officially a freelance triggerman/mercenary. Don't screw it up."

As Logan left the building, badge in hand, he allowed himself a small smirk. This was the first step in his new life, one that would take him straight into the heart of the Valdez cartel. With his Stingray waiting and his next move clear, Logan was ready to see just how far he could push himself.