Chapter Thirteen #3
“Eliminated,” I wheeze, still struggling for breath.
The Enforcer shoves off me with unnecessary force, standing to his full height and looking down at me with what I can only imagine is contempt. “Lucky shot,” he mutters, then extends a hand for me.
I ignore it.
Instead, I roll to my side and push to my feet like the independent woman I am. Muscles scream in protest—each one convulsing, my face throbbing where it was ground into the street. But I won’t show weakness. Not to him—or any of them.
I’m brushing mud from my uniform when he speaks again. “You didn’t cut your hair before coming here?”
My body freezes, ice shooting through my veins. My hand shifts to my head on instinct and I feel nothing but horror that my hair partially escaped its tight bun, now hanging in wet strands around the edge of my mask.
It’s okay. This isn’t damning…I just need to remain calm.
“Yep,” I respond, forcing my tone to be neutral, trying to sound masculine despite the fear constricting my throat.
“Stupid,” he mutters, spinning to leave.
I stand motionless, struggling to decide whether tucking my hair back would draw more attention than leaving it.
Ultimately, I choose to leave it—adjusting it now might suggest I’m self-conscious about it, which could trigger suspicion.
Better to act like it’s normal, like I don’t care that it’s fallen out.
Retrieving my weapon, I continue northward, more caution in my steps now. My body throbs from the encounter, and my bladder screams, pounding against my abdomen after having that Enforcer’s weight bearing down on it. I clench my muscles, refusing to give in to the discomfort.
Truthfully, I’m surprised it hasn’t burst yet.
The rain eases a bit, transitioning from torrential to merely heavy. It’s enough of a change that I hear better—distant gunshots and shouting echo through the city streets.
I approach the northernmost building, a four-story structure with most of its windows intact.
Logic suggests the objective might be hidden at the furthest point from the entrance, forcing teams to navigate the entire city.
The building is dark, its interior a maze of collapsed walls and shredded debris.
I navigate in silence, inspecting each room and discovering nothing but more dust. The sense of being watched prickles at the back of my neck, but I see no one.
Reaching the top floor, I’m about to declare the building clear when a faint scraping catches my attention. It’s coming from above—the roof access must be nearby.
After a few minutes, I locate a ladder built into the wall, leading to a trapdoor in the ceiling. The sound is definitely coming from there. Someone’s on the roof.
Climbing one-handed, ensuring my weapon remains ready, I edge the trapdoor open just enough to peer out. Rain immediately streams through the gap, but I can make out a figure silhouetted against the dark sky, standing with their back to me.
Guiding the trapdoor open further, wincing as it creaks, I haul myself onto the roof.
The figure doesn’t turn. Either they didn’t hear or they’re pretending not to notice, hoping to draw me into the open.
My body remains crouched, weapon trained on the Enforcer’s back.
Standard procedure would be to announce myself and demand surrender, but this isn’t a real engagement—it’s a test. And I need to pass it.
The Commander is watching.
I advance at a neutral pace, shifting from cover to cover—air conditioning units, ventilation shafts, more piles of debris—until I’m within striking distance. The Enforcer remains facing away, seemingly unaware of my presence. It’s too easy.
That’s when I notice they’re guarding something—a small metal container identical to the one the other teams recovered. The objective. Right there for the taking.
Without further hesitation, I lunge forward, aiming to grab both the flag and the container in one swift move. But the Enforcer reacts with inhuman speed, whirling to block my attack with ease. They’re good—better than the one I encountered earlier.
We grapple, exchanging blows that the training center’s combat instructors would find laughable. I’m still new at this—my form sloppy, my strikes lacking helpful force.
But what I lack in technique, I will always make up for in desperation.
I manage to land a solid hit to a shoulder, unbalancing him. My fingers brush against the flag on his back, but before I can grab it, something stops me.
The flag is a different shade of orange.
It’s subtle—a deeper, more reddish hue than the standard flags. And this Enforcer was guarding the objective directly.
This isn’t just another Enforcer…no, this is their lead.
In a real mission, killing him might end the engagement, but it would also eliminate a valuable intelligence asset. Someone who might have information about other hostiles, their plans, and locations.
Decision time. Eliminate or capture?
I pause long enough for the man to recover, then make my choice. Instead of going for the flag, I swing my weapon in an arc, connecting with the side of his head—not hard enough to cause real damage, but enough to stun him.
While he’s disoriented, I snatch the flag I took from the first Enforcer and use it to secure this one’s wrists, tying them in a butterfly knot. My father taught me knot-tying as a child, one of the only ‘masculine’ skills he thought might be useful regardless of gender.
“Don’t move,” I order, my voice low and steady in an effort to sound authoritative despite my internal shakiness. I secure the metal container, clutching it under one arm while keeping my weapon trained on my captive with the other hand.
The Enforcer glares at me through the eye slit of his mask, saying nothing.
I nod behind him before commanding, “Get up. You’re coming with me.”
He remains seated. Defiant.
Unlucky for him, my patience is already stretched thin by pain and the increasingly urgent demands of my bladder, and snaps. I kick him in the side—hard enough to make my point.
“I said get up,” I repeat, pressing the barrel of my weapon against his temple. “Or I’ll shoot you in the head until the simulated force actually causes damage.”
The words stun me…they’re cruel and callous, nothing like the person I think of myself being. But I know these men would show no such restraint if our positions were reversed.
The thought hardens my resolve.
“Move.” The gun jabs his spine as he finally stands. We descend from the roof to the street level in tense silence. My weapon remains pressed between his shoulder blades, my finger near—but not on—the trigger. It would be embarrassing to accidentally shoot my hostage.
We begin the trek back to the main entrance, more careful now that I’m hampered by a prisoner and the objective.
About halfway there, another Enforcer steps out from an alleyway, weapon raised in our direction. My prisoner tenses, but makes no attempt to break free.
The newcomer hesitates, clearly caught off guard by the situation. “Cap, what do I do?” he calls to my prisoner. “We weren’t briefed on a hostage situation.”
The man in front of me grumbles something under his breath—likely cursing his subordinate for giving away his position. I was right, this is their leader.
I’m about to raise my weapon when a shot rings out from somewhere to my right. The new Enforcer jerks as the fake bullet impacts his side, then crumples to the ground. Killian emerges from the shadows, rushing forward to rip the flag from the fallen Enforcer’s back.
“Ashford,” he acknowledges with a nod, glancing between me and my prisoner. “How many flags have you collected?”
My reply is swift. “One.” I nod toward the flag securing my prisoner’s wrist before patting his shoulder. “Plus this one. You?”
“Nine,” he answers, satisfaction evident in his voice. “That leaves four unaccounted for.”
I do a quick mental count. Fifteen Enforcers total, minus the ones Killian has eliminated, minus my one kill and one capture…yes, four remaining.
“Take point, I’ll bring up the rear with our guest.” Killian isn’t so happy about that plan.
After a brief argument—he wants to go back and find Pax—he reluctantly agrees, leading the way as we navigate back through the rain-slick streets.
Our progress is slow, each intersection requiring careful clearing before we proceed.
The rain and thunder continue to mask most sounds, making it difficult to locate approaching enemies until they’re practically on top of us.
When we reach the entrance after a long, painful walk, Killian drags my prisoner out into the open area where Kellen, Arayik, Elias, and the other recruits wait. I hang back, scanning the assembled group, searching for Pax. No sign of him.
“Where’s the rest of your team?” the Commander demands, stalking toward me with the predatory grace I’ve come to associate with him.
I glance at the city, then to the surveillance screen Kellen set up. The cameras flick between empty streets and buildings—no sign of movement. Pax should have found us by now if he was able.
“One member is unaccounted for, along with four enemies,” I report. Look at me, using proper terminology. How quickly the language of oppression becomes natural when you’re surrounded by it. “Permission to search for them?”
Arayik’s eyes bore into mine. Even without his expression, his posture emanates disappointment. Next to him, Elias studies me with what looks like interest rather than judgment. Kellen remains unreadable as always, arms crossed, observing without comment.
No one speaks, and I take their silence as tacit approval, raising my weapon once more and preparing to re-enter the simulation.
I’ve only taken a few steps when a sound catches my attention—something high-pitched and repetitive, like knuckles against glass. I search upper levels for the source and finally spot movement in a third floor window of a building facing west.