The steady rumble of the Humvee was oddly soothing, almost lulling him to sleep as it traveled the cracked highway. Etrius leaned his head against the window, staring at the endless desert stretching out in all directions. The setting sun bathed the dunes in shades of orange and gold, making the harsh landscape look almost beautiful. Almost.
His body ached from weeks of unrelenting fatigue, and his head still throbbed from the morning’s round of medication. He shifted uncomfortably, adjusting the strap of his duffel bag resting against his leg. Inside it were all his belongings: a few uniforms, his discharge papers, and the envelope containing the scans and reports that had changed his life forever.
The convoy was small but well-armed: five vehicles, including his Humvee near the rear. Ahead of them, an armored personnel carrier carried a handful of other soldiers being rotated out. The convoy's mission was routine—escort him to the airport where a military transport would take him back to the States.
Back home to Sophie. To Emma and Ryan.
He reached into his pocket, pulling out Emma’s crayon drawing of their family—a stick-figure mom, dad, and two kids holding hands under a blazing yellow sun. It was a little worn around the edges, but he’d kept it close since the day Sophie mailed it to him. It was his anchor, a reminder of what waited for him on the other side of this nightmare.
He folded the paper carefully and returned it to his pocket. His eyes shifted to the road ahead. It was too quiet out here, he thought. Too empty.
The soldier in the driver’s seat glanced over. “You good, Sarge?”
Etrius nodded absently. “Yeah. Just thinking.”
“Won’t be long now. Few hours, tops.”
Etrius grunted in response, but his unease lingered. Something about this stretch of highway felt wrong. The terrain was perfect for an ambush: ridges on either side, the horizon broken only by the occasional clump of rocks.
His hand instinctively drifted to his sidearm.
As the sun dipped lower, the convoy continued its trek through the desert, the shadows growing longer with every passing mile.
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The ambush team lay motionless atop the ridgeline, faces painted to blend with the rocky terrain. Each member moved with calculated precision, speaking only when necessary and communicating primarily through hand signals. They were seasoned operatives, veterans of countless missions like this one, and they knew the value of silence.
The convoy rolled into view below, its formation tight and disciplined. The lead vehicle, a heavily armored Humvee, crept forward with deliberate caution, scanning the road ahead for threats. Behind it, an armored personnel carrier followed closely, its turret sweeping the ridges. The other vehicles fanned out in a protective diamond, escorting their primary target near the rear: Etrius vanRandr.
The leader of the ambush team, Voron, watched through high-powered binoculars. His sharp blue eyes tracked the convoy’s every move, his demeanor cold and methodical. He spoke softly into his radio, his voice a low growl.
“Target is confirmed in rear vehicle. Maintain positions. Sniper, prepare for shot.”
Beside him, the sniper, Shchit, adjusted the scope of his Vykhlop anti-materiel rifle. The weapon was a monster, designed for long-range precision and packed with custom sedative rounds. Each shot was engineered to incapacitate without killing, delivering a potent neurotoxin that could bring down the toughest of men.
“Range?” Shchit whispered, his voice steady despite the adrenaline pumping through his veins.
“Seven hundred meters,” Voron replied, his binoculars never leaving the target. “Wind is negligible. Adjust for elevation and wait for my command.”
Further down the line, other operatives prepared their roles in the attack. Two teams armed with RPGs lay hidden among the rocks, their launchers aimed squarely at the lead and rear vehicles. Another group, equipped with automatic weapons and smoke grenades, waited near a cluster of boulders closer to the road. They would provide suppressing fire once the convoy was immobilized. A fourth team, led by Voron himself, was positioned for the extraction. Their task was to secure the target and ensure his capture.
Voron glanced at his watch. The convoy was right on schedule. He keyed his radio again.
“Team One, confirm readiness.”
“Ready,” a voice crackled back, calm and composed.
“Team Two, status?”
“In position,” came the response.
“Shchit, final check.”
“Target locked. Awaiting orders.”
Voron lowered his binoculars and took a deep breath, his gloved fingers gripping the radio tightly. Timing was everything. The first strike had to be precise, coordinated, and overwhelming. The convoy had no idea what was coming.
“Team One, fire on lead vehicle,” he ordered.
The first explosion tore through the lead Humvee in a deafening blast of fire and metal. The vehicle lifted off the ground before crashing back down in a mangled heap, flames licking at the sky. The shockwave rippled down the convoy, and the armored personnel carrier immediately veered left, its turret swiveling to locate the source of the attack.
“Go loud,” Voron commanded.
Team Two’s RPG fired almost simultaneously, striking the rear Humvee. The blast wasn’t intended to destroy but to disable, and it worked perfectly. The vehicle’s tires shredded, and it skidded to a halt, smoke pouring from the engine.
Automatic gunfire erupted from the ridgeline, the operatives pouring rounds into the remaining vehicles to keep the convoy pinned. Smoke grenades followed, billowing clouds of white and gray obscuring the battlefield.
Amid the chaos, Shchit remained calm, his finger hovering over the trigger. The scope's crosshairs rested on Etrius, who had just exited the rear Humvee and taken cover behind its smoldering remains. Despite the haze of smoke, Shchit’s target was clear.
“Permission to fire?” Shchit asked, his tone devoid of emotion.
Voron watched through his binoculars, ensuring the timing was perfect. The target was exposed but distracted, focused on the unfolding chaos rather than the sniper lying in wait.
“Fire,” Voron said.
--------
Etrius rubbed his temples, trying to shake the nagging tension building in his chest. The convoy crawled forward under the dimming light of the desert evening. His instincts gnawed at him. Something about the landscape felt wrong, like it was watching them. The sudden silence from the convoy chatter in his earpiece didn’t help.
He glanced at the driver again, trying to quell his unease. “Hey, how much longer?”
“Hour, maybe less. Why? You in a hurry to—”
The driver’s words cut off as an earsplitting explosion erupted ahead of them. The lead Humvee disappeared in a fireball, a shockwave shaking the entire convoy. Dust and shrapnel rained down, pinging against the Humvee’s armored plating.
“CONTACT!” someone yelled over the radio. The driver cursed, slamming the brakes as the vehicle swerved to a stop.
Etrius’s training kicked in. His hands moved automatically, unbuckling his seatbelt and grabbing his sidearm. Years of muscle memory pushed the rising fear aside as he scanned the chaos outside. The lead vehicle was obliterated, reduced to a flaming wreck. Smoke billowed into the sky, obscuring their view of the road ahead.
Before he could bark an order, a second explosion rocked the convoy. The rear Humvee was hit, its tires blown apart. The sound of the blast was deafening, and the acrid smell of burning rubber and oil filled the air.
“MOVE! OUT OF THE VEHICLE!” Etrius shouted, shoving the door open and tumbling out into the dirt. He hit the ground hard but rolled to his feet, his pistol drawn. The heat from the explosions was oppressive, waves of it radiating across the battlefield.
Gunfire erupted from the ridges above. Short, controlled bursts rained down on the convoy, targeting anyone who exposed themselves. The attackers were well-coordinated, their suppressing fire pinning down the soldiers below.
Etrius sprinted to the side of the vehicle, ducking low to avoid the hail of bullets. Adrenaline surged through his veins, sharpening his senses. Every instinct screamed at him to find cover and assess the situation, but the sheer chaos made it nearly impossible.
“RPGs! They’ve got RPGs!” someone shouted.
Another explosion followed, this time hitting the personnel carrier. The vehicle rocked violently, its turret going silent. The convoy was boxed in, pinned between the attackers’ firepower and the narrow road.
“Where the hell is our air support?!” another soldier screamed into his radio, his voice panicked.
Etrius scanned the ridgeline, trying to locate the source of the attack. His eyes darted from shadow to shadow, searching for movement. Whoever they were, they were professionals. They knew exactly where to position themselves, taking full advantage of the terrain.
A bullet whizzed past his head, snapping him out of his thoughts. He ducked lower, pressing himself against the vehicle for cover. The situation was deteriorating fast, and every second counted.
As he turned to assess another angle, a sharp impact struck his side. It wasn’t the searing pain he expected from a bullet—it was cold, almost numb. He stumbled, his hand instinctively going to his ribs. His fingers found a small dart embedded in his body, its tip glinting faintly in the smoky light.
“What the…” he muttered, pulling the dart out. A wave of dizziness hit him almost immediately. His legs felt heavy, his vision blurring at the edges.
Etrius staggered, leaning against the Humvee for support. The sounds of the battle around him seemed to dull, like they were coming from far away. He tried to focus, to fight through the haze, but his body wasn’t responding.
He collapsed to one knee, his pistol slipping from his grasp. His breathing slowed, each inhale feeling like an enormous effort.
In the distance, through the swirling smoke, he saw figures approaching. They moved with purpose, their shapes distorted by his failing vision. He tried to raise his head, to get a better look, but the sedative coursing through his veins was too strong.
The last thing he saw before the darkness took him was a pair of boots stopping inches from his face.
The extraction team reached Etrius’s position within minutes. He was still conscious but barely, his head lolling as the sedative took full effect. Two operatives hoisted him onto a stretcher, securing his arms and legs with thick restraints.
Voron knelt beside the stretcher, inspecting their prize. Etrius’s eyes fluttered open, his gaze unfocused but defiant.
“You’ll be fine,” Voron said in accented English, his tone almost mocking. “Just sleep.”
With that, he signaled for the team to fall back. The extraction truck roared to life, its engine echoing through the canyon as the operatives loaded Etrius inside.
“Mission complete,” Voron muttered, climbing into the passenger seat. He glanced at the rear compartment, where their captive lay motionless. “Let’s move.”
As the convoy’s fires burned behind them, the attackers vanished into the desert, leaving nothing but destruction in their wake.
Etrius’s consciousness swam in a dark, turbulent sea. Every so often, he clawed his way to the surface, his awareness flickering like a failing bulb. His senses registered fragments of the world around him—voices, vibrations, smells—but the drugs in his system kept him from piecing them together.
The first time he stirred, his body was crammed into a cold metal box. The sharp tang of diesel fuel and sweat filled his nostrils. His arms were bound tightly behind him, the pressure biting into his wrists. He tried to shift, testing the restraints, but his strength failed him. The movement caught someone’s attention.
“He’s waking up,” a voice said in Russian.
Etrius forced his eyes open, the dim light of the cargo hold stinging them. Two men sat nearby, rifles slung over their shoulders. One reached for a syringe, his expression calm and practiced.
“Not for long,” the man muttered as he injected something into Etrius’s neck.
The cold liquid spread quickly, dragging him back under.
The next time he woke, the environment had changed. The roar of a plane’s engines surrounded him, the vibrations thrumming through the metal floor beneath him. Etrius blinked, his vision swimming as he tried to make sense of his surroundings. He was lying on his side, his body strapped down to a makeshift gurney.
The hold was dark, save for a few dim red lights illuminating rows of crates and equipment. The air was frigid, biting against his exposed skin. He shivered involuntarily, his breaths coming in shallow gasps.
A shadow moved into his field of vision—a soldier, heavily armed and wearing a black balaclava. The man crouched beside him, studying him like a predator sizing up wounded prey.
“You’re a big one,” the soldier said, his English thick with a Russian accent.
Etrius wanted to respond, to curse at him, to say anything. But his tongue felt like lead, his throat dry and uncooperative. All he could manage was a low groan.
The soldier chuckled, rising to his feet. “Don’t worry. You’ll sleep most of the way.”
As if on cue, another needle was plunged into his arm. Etrius felt the icy wave of sedative spreading through his veins once more, pulling him back into oblivion.
The next stretch of awareness came with the rumble of tires on rough terrain. Etrius’s head lolled to the side, his cheek pressed against cold steel. He realized he was in the back of a truck, his body swaying with each bump in the road.
Muted voices filtered through the haze, their tones sharp and efficient. He recognized bits of Russian—commands, maybe directions—but he couldn’t focus long enough to decipher them.
Etrius forced his eyes open, his vision blurring before stabilizing. The truck was packed with equipment, its walls lined with crates marked with Cyrillic lettering. A single dim bulb hung from the ceiling, casting flickering shadows across the space.
He tried to move, to sit up, but his body refused to cooperate. His muscles were sluggish, his limbs unresponsive. The sedatives still coursed through his system, keeping him docile.
A sudden jolt sent pain shooting through his shoulder as the truck hit a particularly rough patch. The sharp discomfort cleared his mind for a brief moment, and he became acutely aware of his situation.
He wasn’t just being transported—he was being smuggled.
The journey stretched on. Time became meaningless, broken into fragments of consciousness and darkness. Each moment of awareness brought new sensations: the icy chill of a northern climate, the suffocating confines of the transport vehicles, the ever-present hum of machinery.
At one point, Etrius woke to find himself being dragged through a dimly lit corridor. Two soldiers gripped his arms, their faces set in stoic determination. His feet scraped against the floor, his legs too weak to support him.
The hallway smelled of oil and metal, the air heavy with an industrial tang. Etrius’s head lolled to the side, his gaze catching glimpses of rusted pipes and peeling paint. The place felt old, decrepit, yet functional.
The soldiers stopped in front of a heavy steel door. One of them punched a code into a keypad, the sound of beeping echoing faintly. The door hissed open, revealing another dark chamber.
“Put him here,” one of the soldiers said in Russian.
Etrius was unceremoniously dropped onto a cold, hard surface. His body protested the impact, but he was too weak to react.
“Check his restraints,” another voice said.
Hands gripped his arms and legs, ensuring the bindings were secure. Satisfied, the soldiers stepped back, their boots clanging against the floor as they exited the room.
Etrius lay there, his mind racing despite his body’s betrayal. He was alive, but for what purpose? His captors had gone to great lengths to keep him subdued, yet unharmed. That could only mean they had plans for him—plans he wouldn’t like.
As the door sealed shut, plunging the room into darkness, Etrius’s thoughts spiraled. He vowed, somewhere deep within the fog of his mind, that he would find a way to escape.
But for now, all he could do was wait.
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