Victory in the Congo brought us more than just money. It brought us a name. In the dark circles of power, where nations and corporations move their chess pieces, "Shadow Company" became a keyword. It was synonymous with impossible efficiency and absolute discretion. Our reputation was a double-edged sword: it attracted the attention of increasingly larger and more dangerous players. I had created a monster, and now the world wanted to see what it was capable of.
The routine at Base Echo had become that of a rapidly expanding corporation. Phillip Graves, in his role as Chief Operating Officer, was a force of nature. He handled logistics, new recruit training, and day-to-day management with a charisma and authority that freed my mind to focus on the bigger picture. Our relationship was professional, with an underlying mutual wariness. He was a shark I had released into my own aquarium; he was brilliant and effective, but I never forgot that sharks, sooner or later, smell blood.
With the nearly twenty million dollars we now had in the bank, the base expanded. Our R&D team, led by a summoned systems engineer who called himself "Daedalus," was beginning to reverse-engineer the technology of my invocations, trying to replicate the System's equipment with real-world resources. It was a long-term project, but necessary for our ultimate autonomy.
The next contract didn't come through shadowy channels or desperate corporations. It came with the unmistakable weight of the world's largest superpower. A formal request, encrypted with military-grade NSA protocols, for a face-to-face meeting at Ramstein Air Base, Germany.
"Uncle Sam's knocking," Graves said, looking over my shoulder in the command center. There was a greedy glint in his eyes. "This is the big prize, Kage. A contract with the Department of Defense... that's not just money, it's legitimacy. It's the ultimate stamp of approval."
"U.S. government legitimacy is often a prelude to betrayal," I replied, Kenji's caution tempering Alex's ambition. "They'll want control."
"Then we'll sell them the illusion of control," Graves smiled. "You go. Present yourself as the enigmatic leader. I'll stay here and be your eye in the sky. Oh, and take your masked boys. Nothing says 'don't mess with me' like a trio of special ops specters as an honor guard."
He was right. It was a power play. I accepted the meeting.
We landed at Ramstein in our newly acquired C-130, a cargo beast that gave Shadow Company global reach. As I descended the ramp, flanked by Marcus and Javier in their Ghost masks, the cold, clean German air was a jarring change from the dust of Tora Bora. We were met by an Air Force colonel who looked at us as if we were an apparition. He led us silently to a secure meeting room deep within the base.
Inside, a single man awaited us. He was tall, in his fifties, with short, graying hair and the build of someone who hadn't spent his career behind a desk. He exuded a quiet, dangerous authority. The name on his uniform read "VANCE." Brigadier General Marcus Vance, from the Joint Special Operations Command.
"Commander Kage," Vance said, without offering a handshake. His eyes lingered on my skull mask. "I've read the reports. They're quite... colorful."
"Color washes off easily, General. Results remain," I replied, my voice distorted by the mask's modulator.
"Indeed," Vance said, gesturing for us to sit. My Ghosts remained standing, motionless and silent behind me. "I'll cut to the chase. The United States has a problem in the Central African Republic. A problem called the Volkov Group."
The fictitious name didn't fool me. I knew exactly who he was talking about. Wagner.
"The Volkov Group mercenaries, backed by Moscow, are destabilizing the entire region," Vance continued. "They're propping up a corrupt dictator in exchange for rare earth mineral extraction rights. They're committing atrocities that make your company's exploits look like community service. And, more importantly, they're creating a strategic foothold for Russia in the heart of Africa. We can't intervene directly without risking escalation with Moscow. We need a third-party solution. A solution... like yours."
"You want a proxy army to fight a proxy war," I said bluntly.
"I want you to dismantle Volkov's operations in the CAR," Vance corrected. "It's not a single mission. It's a campaign. I want you to eliminate their regional commander, a former GRU colonel named Dmitri Volkov. I want you to destroy their main operating base at Bangui airport. I want you to cut their supply lines and break their influence over the local government. I want you to wipe them off the map of Africa."
The scope of the operation was immense. It was a declaration of war on a state-backed PMC.
"That will require significant intelligence support from your government," I said, "and a guarantee of no logistical interference."
"You'll have access to our satellite data and SIGINT. We can't give you direct air support, but we'll ensure the airspace is clear for your transports," Vance confirmed. "Now, let's talk about the cost of this campaign."
In my ear, Graves's voice was a quiet whisper. "Don't ask for a flat fee. Ask for a bleeding-edge retainer. Ask for objective bonuses that'll make us rich. Show him we understand the scale of this."
"The scope of this operation requires a full mobilization of my forces and a significant investment in new assets," I said, echoing Graves's logic. "My price is a fifty-million-dollar upfront retainer to cover deployment and acquisition costs. From there, we'll work on a bonus structure. Ten million for each Volkov forward operating base we dismantle. Twenty million for the destruction of their logistics hub. Fifty million for the confirmed elimination of Dmitri Volkov."
Vance didn't blink. "The total cost could exceed two hundred million dollars."
"The alternative is a Russian missile base in the heart of Africa within five years, General. My price is a bargain."
Vance stared at me for a long moment, the tension in the room palpable. Then, a slow smile spread across his face. "I like you, Commander. You don't mince words." He stood up. "You have your deal. The retainer funds will be in your account within 24 hours. Welcome to Uncle Sam's payroll, Shadow Company. Now, go hunt some bears for me."
Base Echo transformed into a hive of activity. Fifty million dollars could buy a lot of things. And under Graves's expert direction, we went shopping.
RECRUIT: 120 x SHADOW OPERATOR (-$6,000,000) RECRUIT: 20 x SHADOW SPECIALIST (Pilots, Mechanics, Intelligence Analysts) (-$2,000,000) PURCHASE: 3 x MI-24 HIND ATTACK HELICOPTER (-$9,000,000) PURCHASE: 8 x 'STRIKER' ARMORED COMBAT VEHICLE (-$16,000,000) UPGRADE: AIR FLEET - AVIONICS & COUNTERMEASURES UPGRADE (-$5,000,000)
In less than a week, Shadow Company transitioned from a special operations company to a light combined-arms battalion. We had infantry, armor, and our own air power. We were a true private army.
Graves was in his element, planning a multi-phase campaign with a brilliance that justified every penny of his exorbitant summoning cost. I focused on my team. The Ghost team was the tip of the spear, and they needed the best equipment money could buy. Our R&D team, using the new funds and System data, developed prototypes of adaptive camouflage and optics that integrated thermal and electromagnetic data. We were the most technologically advanced soldiers on the planet.
The first phase of Graves's plan was a decapitation strike. Not against Dmitri Volkov directly—that would be too difficult—but against his nervous system. U.S. intelligence had located a key Volkov Group communications center at an abandoned radio station on the outskirts of the capital. It was the nexus connecting all their forces in the country. Destroying it would leave them deaf and blind, giving us the initiative.
That mission was for the Ghosts.
Over the Central African Republic. 02:00 hours.
The cargo ramp of our C-130 opened to the night, revealing a sea of clouds ten thousand meters below. The wind howled.
"One minute to jump!" the loadmaster yelled.
My team and I stood up. The four Ghosts—I had promoted a promising Shadow Operator named "Rook" to be our fourth member—checked our gear one last time. We were dark silhouettes against the red light of the cargo bay, our masks hiding any emotion.
"Remember the plan," I said over the team comm. "HALO. We rendezvous at link-up point 'Charlie'. Advance to the objective, eliminate exterior resistance silently. Go inside, slaughter anyone inside, plant charges in their server room, and get to the extraction point. Quick and dirty."
"Just how I like it," Marcus grunted.
The light turned green. "Go, go, go!"
We plunged into the void. The sensation of freefall was exhilarating. We fell through the clouds into total darkness, a drop of thousands of meters. At the designated altitude, our parachutes deployed with a violent jerk. We landed in a coffee plantation, as silently as falling leaves.
The radio station compound was two kilometers away.
The combat was, as Graves had predicted, a peer-on-peer engagement. Volkov's mercenaries were professionals. They were alert, well-equipped, and fought with brutal tenacity. But we were better. We were faster, quieter, and our technology was superior.
We cleared the perimeter without raising the alarm. The real challenge was the main building.
"Breaching in three... two... one..." Marcus whispered.
The door exploded inward. We entered a whirlwind of controlled violence. The interior wasn't just a radio station; it was a concrete bunker filled with server racks and radio operators. Volkov's mercenaries returned fire instantly. Tracer rounds drew deadly lines in the dark corridors.
It was a deadly dance. I moved, fired, took cover. My mind processed angles, threats, and opportunities at the speed of thought. Marcus provided overwhelming suppressive fire with his light machine gun. Javier threw flashbangs and used his drone to mark enemy positions through walls. Rook, the new guy, proved his worth, covering our flanks with impressive calm.
We reached the central command room. The facility commander, a burly Russian with a thick beard, glared at us with hatred before my double-tap silenced him forever.
"Plant the charges," I ordered.
We placed the explosives on the main server racks and the transmission antenna. We set a five-minute timer and exited the compound. We ran through the jungle as the countdown reached zero.
The explosion was spectacular. A fireball rose into the night sky, consuming the radio station and the entire nervous system of the Volkov Group in the region. Mission accomplished.
Volkov Group Main Base, Bangui Airport.
Dmitri Volkov, a man with the face of a bear and the eyes of a shark, watched as every screen in his command center went black one by one. A silence of static filled the room.
"What happened?" he roared.
A terrified comms technician stammered, "Sir... we've lost contact with Hub-Seven. Completely."
Just then, Volkov's secure printer sprang to life. Slowly, it spat out a single sheet of paper. His aide brought it to him, his hand trembling.
Volkov snatched it. On the page was a high-resolution image, clearly taken from the battle site. It showed a figure in a skull mask, illuminated by the muzzle flash of a weapon, the mask's eyes seeming to stare directly into the camera. Beneath the image, a single line of text.
"We are here. Get out of Africa or be buried in it. - Shadow Company."
Dmitri Volkov crumpled the paper in his fist. A low, animal growl rumbled in his chest. The United States government was predictable. Local insurgents were weak. But this... this was different. This was a challenge. A declaration of war from an army of ghosts led by a man who called himself Shadow and wore the face of Death.
"Find them," Volkov hissed to his men. "I want that specter's head on my desk."
The war for Africa had begun. And we had just fired the first shot.