Hello to all who enjoyed this story the first time it was posted. Due to some technical problems, I was forced to delete and re-post this story. All chapters that I had posted up to this point will remain as they were for simplicity's sake, but I strive to bring better quality to the table in future updates.
Disclaimer: I do not own Black Lagoon. This is not canon in any way, shape, or form.
Another Disclaimer: I do not view my Original Character, Drake Winters, to be a reflection of myself or my personality. He is merely a character concept I created for the fun of it. So whenever the inevitable flames for him come my way, please note the following:
I don't give a fuck. I'm having fun writing this.
Using the term 'self-insert' is inaccurate since the character is intentionally written to not reflect me.
Now with all that out of the way, enjoy!
A soldier lay flat on his stomach, concealed beneath a thick brush. With a pair of night-vision goggles, he scopes out the area directly beneath the hillside in which he hides, the area where the enemy has set up camp. What were they calling themselves again? Esparda Ardiente? Yes, that was it! It translated to 'the Flaming Sword', or so one of the other members of his employer's private army had told him.
The good thing about fighting it out in this kind of terrain was the abundance of good hiding spots from which to scout the enemy. The bad thing about it was the blistering summer heat. Why couldn't this employer of his approached him for this job six months ago? Colombian warlords always had the most atrocious timing for such things. Oh well, thankfully he had been assigned this task at night, so the heat wasn't as great of a factor. Still though, it was a little too steamy for his liking.
The man is pulled away from his thoughts by motion in the enemy camp. He takes a moment to wipe the sweat away from the lenses of his goggles before checking it out. An officer is moving throughout the camp, barking orders out to the soldiers that cannot be heard from this distance. He sees men rushing around, gathering up their weapons and heading into their tents, presumably to slip into their combat gear. Several of them are putting out the fires. So they mean to make this their last assault, eh? It figures that would be the enemy's next course of action. After all, nearly every battle up to this point had ended in a pretty decisive defeat for them. That is, up until this past afternoon, when the enemy had managed to completely overwhelm the army by calling in reinforcements in ridiculous numbers mid-fight. The army had been forced to retreat, but they lost over half their force in the process. It was only logical that after wiping out so many of the army's numbers at once, the Flaming Sword would try to capitalize on their first great victory in several months by launching an all-or-nothing offensive. Historically, a failure to properly capitalize on a victory had led to long strings of harsh defeats for them.
That huge defeat had been the reason for the emergency squad transfer. The soldier's employer decided his expertise would be best put to use in stifling any further advances from the Flaming Sword in this region.
The soldier whipped out his cell phone and made a call to the phone that he knew would be sitting on the table in the conference room back at base. The head officer of this particular squad preferred the use of a cell phone to communicate, as they were much safer from eavesdroppers than walkies. The man at the head of the table answered it and put it on speaker.
"Go ahead, Mr. Drake." said the officer.
"I've got movement from the enemy camp," the soldier began in a hushed tone. "They're taking down their tents and putting out their fires. They mean to stage one final assault on our camp; all or nothing. They want to capitalize on their huge win from earlier today."
"Thank you very much. Return to camp now; I'll need your expertise in trying to set up a proper defense with our limited numbers."
"On my way." Drake hung up and carefully crawled out from under the brush and made his way back to camp under cover of the night.
Upon his return to camp, Drake beelined to the tent in which the officer was waiting for him to discuss strategy.
"Ah, Drake, there you are." the officer began. He beckoned Drake's attention to a map of the compound he had laid out on the table. "Now, I was thinking that we should set up a defensive line here and place snipers in-"
"No," interjected Drake. "Defending this place successfully is completely hopeless with the numbers they now have over us. We need to abandon this camp and head into the forest. We can ambush them there."
"Are you fucking mental?!" the officer shouted. "This location has entirely too much strategic value to abandon just like that!"
"The 'strategic value' of this camp makes no difference any longer. Either way this goes, this will be the final battle between us and them for control of this whole region. Like I said before, they're preparing for an all-or-nothing assault. Logistically, we still have several hours on them. Organizing such huge numbers takes a lot of time. We need to head into the woods there there's more cover and a greater chance of taking them by surprise. They think they have the element of surprise on us right now, so we need to use that to our advantage."
After a few moments to ponder Drake's words, the officer conceded. "I suppose you're right. Standing our ground here would get us all fucking killed. Well, maybe all of us except you. From what the stories say, you've survived far more fucked up situations."
"I can safely say I've managed to get myself out of a bind or two. But I don't like to talk about my past achievements."
"Yes, but it's those achievements that earn you the big bucks. How much are you getting paid for this job again? Three hundred and fifty thousand U.S. dollars, wasn't it?"
"You know it's against my personal policy to talk about my pay rate while on the job."
The officer chuckled lightly. "Yes, I forgot. Sorry. Anyways, we should get the men up and at it. We have a war to win."
After a few more minutes discussing the details of the plan, Drake and the officer proceeded to rouse the soldiers from their slumber and get them organized, with Drake returning to his tent to grab his trusty CQB rifle, the G36C. Within thirty minutes, the entire squad had geared up, loaded their guns, and left the camp to take up positions in the thick woods. Drake stressed the importance of them leaving footprints behind so as to lure the enemy towards their ambush. On the way into the woods, Drake and the officer briefed the troops on the plan of attack. Once the men were deep enough into the forest, Drake had them fan out in twenty-man teams and take up positions of cover in the thick brush.
Roughly three hours later, the sound of the Flaming Sword arriving at the empty camp echoed throughout the area. It wouldn't be long now.
Several minutes later, a small team of Flaming Sword troops happened upon one of the army's teams. A small firefight broke out, and the remainder of the Flaming Sword rushed in to offer aid. The army, however, stayed put for just a moment. Every team waited until the gunfire comletely died out and then moved in. The plan worked perfectly. The Flaming Sword outnumbered the army three to one, and yet they found themselves surrounded by the smaller force. It was a massacre. Pinned down, the Flaming Sword struggled in vain to break free of the stranglehold imposed on them by the army. While the enemy did manage to once again cut the enemy force down in numbers by half, they were almost entirely wiped out in the process. By the time Flaming Sword surrendered, there were but thirty men left to the army's two hundred. The prisoners were then tied up and lined up in front of the army. The officer asked Drake what they should do with the prisoners, to which Drake replied,
"What prisoners?" He then pulled his Beretta M9 from its holster and fired one round into each of their heads, stopping exactly halfway through to reload his gun with another 15-round clip.
"That was hard to watch, even for me." the officer told him.
Drake simply shrugged. "Well, taking no prisoners is what earns me the big bucks, as you say. Besides, those limpdick fuckwits had it coming to them for letting themselves get beaten so easily."
"Yes, I suppose that's also how you earned your legendary nickname; The God of Mercs."
Over the course of the next several months, Drake's affinity for battle strategy and merciless demeanor won his employer's private army many important victories, and before too long, the Esparda Ardiente was no more. Having fulfilled his end of the contract, Drake approached his employer at the man's personal compound for his payment of three hundred and fifty thousand US dollars. When the Colombian drug lord refused, Drake embedded a Ka Bar into his skull and mercilessly slaughtered all of his soldiers and servants within the compound. He then proceeded to blow open the late drug lord's safe and stuff his duffel bag with five hundred thousand dollars. He would have taken more, but the bag became too full. The God of Mercs then took his leave, heading straight to the airport in his dead boss's Rolls Royce.
Several hours later, he was back home in Miami, Florida. Three months passed without incident.
Drake was sitting at home, cleaning out his M9 when the phone rang. He put down his gun and went to answer it.
"Hello?"
"Hello," a voice replied on the other end. "Am I speaking to Drake Winters?"
"Depends on who's asking." Drake replied. The voice sounded eerily familiar, but he couldn't quite place it.
"This is Chang of the Triad. Ring any bells?"
So that was it! "Long time no talk. To what do I owe the pleasure of a direct phone call from Mr. Chang himself?"
"I got a job for you. Remember Balalaika?"
"The Ivan from Hotel Moscow? Yeah, what about her?"
"Well, she's been trying to stir up trouble here in Roanapur. I think she's trying to mess with the balance of power here and I won't have it."
"So you want me to go against Hotel Moscow for you?"
"Not necessarily, I just want you to come here to Roanapur and be on call in case she does something... drastic."
"I suppose that wouldn't be so bad, Mr. Chang. I haven't been to Roanapur in over a decade; it might be nice to come back, at least for a little while."
"Good to hear. Now, about your payment..."
"Well, Mr. Chang, as you know, the services of a god don't come cheap. Normally I'd ask for at least two hundred thousand up front for something like this, but for you, I'll do it for half that."
"A hundred grand? Gee, I dunno, Drake, let me check my piggy bank."
"A real wisecracker, as always. So do we have a deal?"
"Absolutely. We'll discuss the details once you get here. Thanks a million, Drake. You're really doing me a favor here."
"Nah, favors don't get you paid, Mr. Chang. I'll talk to a buddy of mine, see if I can't get a flight arranged."
"No need, my boy, I've already got that covered."
"Oho, so you were expecting me to accept this job, then?"
"Given our history, I was sure hoping so."
"Alright then, just tell me where to be so I don't miss my ride."
"Head to the dock where we used to meet up at night back when I operated out of Miami. Tomorrow night at midnight, there'll be a plane waiting for you there."
"Got it. I'll see you in a bit, Mr. Chang. I'm gonna go pack now."
Drake hung up. He smiled. This was going to be fun, he could already tell.
After a few minutes of packing, Drake headed towards the front door of his apartment, stopping only for a brief look at a photograph from twelve years prior. Depicted was his twenty-seven year old self in his combat gear, smiling alongside a young girl of fifteen years with plum-colored hair and a freshly inked tribal tattoo on her right shoulder.
