The Retired Mercenary's Great Retaliation

I was a retired mercenary.

A middle-aged man like me, without any ‘proper’ skills, could only work as a stockkeeper at a private company.

On my first day at work, the warehouse lost an important item, and I was accused of stealing it.

My new colleagues scoffed. "Hand over what you stole, you penniless loser! This warehouse hasn't lost anything for eight years. If you hand over the stolen item, we'll submit an appeal letter on your behalf when you get arrested by the police."

I stepped forward to look at a mark left behind in the corner. "I can find what was stolen."

The entire warehouse fell silent.

When my boss arrived after hearing the news, he scrutinized me condescendingly. "If you can find the stolen item, I'll give you half of the company shares. If you fail, you'll have to pay with your life!"

The workshop was hot and stuffy, like a sealed can. The heat on the machines lingered, while the air was filled with the smell of machinery, oil, and rust. There was even the smell of burning from welding work.

A gigantic fan turned slowly on the high ceiling, but it did nothing to take away the heat. At the end of the workshop, there was a half-opened roller shutter to a door leading to the warehouse, which was filled with rows of metal boxes containing spare parts.

Some of the boxes had been pried open. The metal chains had fallen to the ground, and the seals on the boxes had been shredded into pieces. A core asset worth over three million was gone, and every person in the workshop had been summoned.

Dozens of eyes fell onto me with looks of curiosity, suspicion, and even gloating.

The boss, Tony Chapman, was in his forties and had a big belly. He walked out of the crowd with his gold-rimmed glasses to look me up and down. There were daggers in his eyes as he scrutinized my old worker's outfit, which had lost its color from being overwashed, and the oily canvas shoes I was wearing. His gaze paused at my hands, which were filled with calluses and small cuts.

"You?" He scoffed at me, his tone full of sarcasm. "You're Jason Leigh, right? Human resources informed me that you're only a high school graduate. Do you really understand all this?"

"I used to be a mercenary," I corrected him in a calm but clear voice.

Tony was taken aback, but he quickly laughed out loud. His laugh was so loud that it echoed throughout the workshop. The people standing next to him laughed along.

"What's a mercenary doing here as a stockkeeper? Who would believe you, Leigh?"

"I'm not joking," I replied calmly to Tony, looking at him. "I can find the man who stole from the warehouse." I looked past Tony toward the entrance of the warehouse. There were several marks on the ground indicating something had been dragged away. Several faint footprints were found by the metal boxes that had been pried open, along with a metal net that had been bent under pressure.

Tony eventually stopped laughing. The fat on his cheeks jiggled as the look in his eyes turned dark. "All right. Good for you." He clapped his hands. "I've checked the security footage and the door entry records. Even the police were here, but no one found anything." Tony approached me, and his short, thick fingers almost touched my nose. "You're just the new stockkeeper, yet you claim you can find the thief?"

"Yes, I can." I did not back away. "Anyone who enters and exits this place will definitely leave a trace."

There was silence in the workshop as Tony stared at me for a few seconds before sneering. "Fine." He suddenly waved his hand. "Let's make a bet."

The crowd started to get excited as Tony spoke slowly. "A crucial spare part worth $3.6 million was lost. If you can find the thief in three days and get back the stolen item, I'll give you a reward of $1 million."

Everyone inhaled sharply. $1 million was a lot of money for a stockkeeper.

Tony's expression suddenly turned dark. "But if you can't find the thief and the item…"