3. Mercenary Side Job (1)
"Kell, even if it's uncomfortable, you gotta stay quiet, yeah?"
I tied Kell's muzzle with a strap just in case, then carefully stuffed him into my backpack. He must've read the tension on my face, because he slipped inside without a peep. Looking up at me with those trusting, sparkling eyes, like he was saying I've got you. I lowered the flap over that eager gaze and crouched low to start climbing the hill.
As I reached the crest and flattened myself to crawl forward, a faint whiff of blood cut through the heavy smoke stinging my nose.
Could be they hunted something... but nah, fat chance.
I ramped up my caution, pausing repeatedly as I crept on. Beyond the treeline where hill met sky, black smoke—the very plume that had drawn me here—rose ominously from a campsite now in view.
Drip... drip...
A father impaled through the chest on a spear, blood droplets falling from his gaping mouth. Thud-thud-thud!
"This fucking bitch is totally checked out. Her cunt's loose as hell and she ain't even twitching."
His wife, getting raped right beside her dead husband's corpse, her life ebbing away. Splat! Thunk! Their teenage son, guts spilled on the ground, tied to a tree as target practice for the raiders. And finally...
"Ahh..."
The little girl, hands and feet bound, staring blankly with unfocused eyes at her family's violation.
Hell unleashed on one family by five bandits. The scene would've wrinkled anyone's nose, but instead of rage, I scanned the camp with cold precision.
In this shithole of a world, I'd seen this crap plenty. And getting pissed over strangers' misery? I was way past that.
Judging by their gear, these fuckers are a cut above the dawn trash I scrapped...
I sized them up from their equipment and the way they chucked daggers at corpses. Measuring the distance to my path versus the camp, debating a detour—then...
"Always get fucked at the end if we drag it out. Least we can use the brat..."
The bandit humping the middle-aged woman abruptly stood, heading toward the panicked little girl. As he lumbered over, half-dead cock flopping, reaching out—a man smoking on a crate nearby barked at him.
"Rick! Leave the kid alone! We're selling her—mess her up and the price drops!"
"Boss! Then what the fuck am I supposed to do? Can't even bust a nut like this?"
"Goddammit... Fine, use the mom's ass if you have to. But hands off the girl."
"Eh, her shithole stinks anyway... Tsk."
He scratched his head and shuffled back to the mother. But something nagged at me then.
Rick... Rings a bell. And that mug looks familiar...
As I squinted, a jagged memory shard clicked: Rick and his crew's identities snapped into focus.
These assholes are mercenaries.
...
Short version: Rick was a merc I'd shared a job with months back. Part of a small outfit then, but now it looked like he'd split off with four like-minded buddies.
On their way to another village like me, they'd spotted easy prey—this family of four. And now, they were running their Mercenary Side Job.
What's that, you ask? Hate to admit it as a fellow merc, but what Rick and his gang were doing? Straight-up standard side hustle for our kind.
To get it: Mercs do anything for coin. Contracts with nobles or guild quests are baseline. Dungeon dives if you're lucky. No gigs? Haul shit or farm.
So trading backbreaking labor for pennies with a few knife strokes for fat stacks? Obvious choice.
Risks? Piss off a lord, lose your head or rot in penal squads. But mercs don't quit over one-in-ten odds.
Hell, plenty go full-time bandit.
No wonder lords round up mercs every time something sticks.
...
Five minutes hugging dirt, watching. Neck stiffening, Kell fidgeting in the pack growing restless—then Rick, pounding away, finally shuddered to a halt.
Moments later. Squelch... He yanked his softened dick from the woman's ass, grabbed his sword reverse-grip, and slammed it into her chest.
Shunk!
"Guhk—"
She deflated with a final wheeze. The girl watched her mom's light fade with dead eyes, body twitching once—but nothing more.
Meanwhile, Rick buckled his belt and approached the boss.
"Whew~ Finally squeezed it out. So, boss, how much we make this time?"
"Decent haul. Cash alone's four gold, sell the brat and gear? Easy eight."
"That much? They didn't look rich."
"Maybe old money. Anyway, prep to move. Don't wanna hit a patrol."
"Got it."
They hooded the lone survivor—the girl—packed loot, and bailed from camp quick. Their slick efficiency screamed pros. My eyes locked on the boss's hefty shoulder sack, coins jingling even from afar.
Silver or not, that's a full gear refit easy...
Let 'em go or tail for extra coin? I chose the latter, shadowing at safe distance as they cut across fields into woods.
Smartly avoiding roads—dodging patrols, hiding the hooded kid.
These guys full-time bandits?
Their side-gig finesse bred doubt, but I refocused, padding silently through the forest.
Jerky for lunch, half a day trailing. Sky turned bloody red, a decent-sized village silhouette ahead—they halted.
"Ugh, I'm dying! Lugging this shit all day—my back's fucked."
"You're lucky, Rick. I got gear and the brat."
They dumped loads and groaned. Boss snapped at the sprawled crew.
"Don't flop around—set camp first. Rest after."
Expected pushback from these hotheads, but...
"Sure thing, boss. On it."
They jumped to it without bitching. Told me two things: solid chain of command. And...
Take out the boss first for easy cleanup.
...
Three hours at 20 meters, cloaked in night. Jerky dinner too—then opportunity knocked.
"Ugh... Gut's off... Hey, John."
"Yeah, boss?"
"Who cooked tonight?"
"James."
"James? That fucker again?"
"Probably."
"Figures... Been bubbling since earlier."
Barely asleep, boss sat up, called the watchman, grimaced, and rose.
"Boss looks tough as nails but gut's weak. Yell if shit hits the fan, heh."
"Shut it. Stand watch."
Brushed off the joke, grabbed a dagger, headed into the dark woods.
Once beyond firelight, I rose slow, stroking Kell first—he'd stayed silent the whole damn time.
Not one bark this long... Kell, you a spirit or what?