In the Shadow of the Rings by Frank Kennedy (grave mercy .txt) 📕

Port of Pinchon. They’d arrive after midnight in swift boats running silent to deliver human cargo unloaded from a competitor’s ship thirty kilometers out. Ronin used to be a popular staging area, but Green Sun shut it down months earlier with a pair of massacres. Intel said a new outfit was running this show,

likely a crew out of New Seoul. Lan Chua dispatched two captains –

Kai and Ryllen – along with each man’s four lieutenants.

Instructions were clear: No survivors except the Hotai exec.

Stand him up before a flowcam and extract a confession then shoot him in the head. Throw al bodies into the swift boats and set automated controls to lay in a reverse course.

Ryllen saw one flaw in the plan. He related it to Kai as they traveled west in Ryllen’s rifter.

“How do we know those boats wil make it back to the dropship?”

“We don’t,” Kai said. “But they’l only have enough fuel to reach the Mid-Sea shipping lanes. If the dropship isn’t waiting, they’l drift.

Bound to be seen by somebody within a day, give or take. Doesn’t matter who records it. The byte wil be al over the Global Wave.

We’l pair it with the confession. Hotai wil be in a universe of hurt.

They’l won’t be celebrating at Nantou, either. They’l be rooting out traitors in their own nest.”

“But this won’t undermine the seamasters, wil it? Most of the people we’re protecting work for them.”

“No. Just a few weeks of rough-and-tumble politics in the big houses. They’l squeeze out the cancer, which is al we’re asking.”

The Ronin Swal ows bordered the Mootau Botanical Gardens, one of the few unpopulated sectors of the giant island city. This worked to Green Sun’s advantage, giving them more room to maneuver without fear of witnesses. It was also the darkest sector of the island, though the great glass towers of the corporate cluster loomed over the immediate horizon.

Ryllen parked the rifter beneath the single largest bul abast tree on the island. He and Kai met their teams shortly thereafter. The sea echoed nearby, waves crashing against the Swal ows.

An hour until midnight. The tide was rising.

“Any final questions about logistics?” Kai asked. When al heads nodded, he tapped his bicomm. The profile of a wel -groomed man with a thin mustache rose six inches above his wrist. “Shin Wain.

Kil them al , including his security, but not this cudfruck. If he’s armed and tries anything, go for the legs. We need this garbage to talk.”

They descended toward the Swal ows, guided by a night-vision prosthetic as thin as reading glasses and kept in touch by an audio shel in one ear. They bore three weapons each: A Goodboy, a modified blast rifle, and a foot-long trifetta knife designed for gutting F’heldabeast. Ryllen mastered proper trifetta technique but knew if he ever required it, he and his team were in serious trouble.

They dispersed to their designated locations, covering the entrance to the Swal ows from every angle. The waiting would be the hardest.

Intel said to expect the swift boats “after midnight,” which left open a window of several hours. This wasn’t their first ambush where patience and discipline were essential skil s.

Ryllen took point and stationed himself in an awkward crevice just inside the opening. As waves rapped against the limestone, he felt an odd sense of tranquility. He wondered how many centuries of rising tides helped to carve out this cavern. He also realized this slow, natural rhythm would continue long after he and his generation died off – long after their crusade became a buried footnote in history. He was about to slaughter people he did not know, and the greater forces of Hokkaido didn’t care at al .

From time to time, Kai checked in with the teams and offered brief but reassuring updates. At one point more than an hour into the mission, he relayed intel from one of their spotters in the city: Shin Wain left his high-rise suite with a security detail of four.

“Remember,” Kai said, “we need Shin alive for the byte.”

A few minutes later, Ryllen heard the sweet hum of swift boat engines. He ducked out of position to get a better look. As intel predicted: Two boats, slowing as they approached the Swallows.

“They’re coming,” he whispered for the shel . “Take position. Guns ready. No survivors.”

The boats throttled back and glided inside the Swal ows largely on the rush of the tide. They entered the narrow cavern one at a time.

From his perch, Ryllen saw their backs.

He counted. Seven on boat one. Courier, plus six. Same for boat two. Intel pegged it precisely.

The courier stood with confidence behind the steering arm, while the six immos sat near the stern, black shirts, three abreast, their

heads down.

Fodder for target practice.

The enemy needed to be kil