Marcus appeared to be calm, too calm. On the surface, he was composed and motionless, but beneath that mask, his mind raced. He was cycling through scenarios in his mind, analyzing threats. His pistol was already drawn, resting steadily in his grip.
Outside the compartment, he could hear the muffled voices of soldiers barking commands, and boots thudding against the metallic ground as they scrambled to understand the power loss.
Then came the soft hiss of the coach door sliding open.
A narrow beam of light pierced the darkness, sweeping across the cabin before settling on the seat Marcus had just vacated.
"Sir?" The soldier called out cautiously.
But he received no answer.
The beam then wavered slightly as the soldier approached the seat.
"Sir?" He repeated.
Just as he reached the empty space, ready to turn, he froze. The cold kiss of a gun barrel against the back of his neck stopped him in place.
"Move too much and I'll shoot," Marcus said in a low voice. "Speak without being told to and I'll shoot. If you want to live, nod your head."
The soldier nodded, slow and stiff.
"What are you doing here?" Marcus asked with a voice sharp enough to cut.
"I—I came to report, Sir—" The muzzle pressed harder into the soldier's neck.
"I swear! That's all I came here to do, Sir!
Marcus's eyes flickered to the soldier's shoulder patch: a Linesman, barely a notch above a recruit, foot soldier.
"Drop your weapons… one wrong twitch and you'll need a coffin."
The soldier obeyed in a hurry. First, a regulation sidearm clattered to the floor, followed by a combat knife. The soldier's hands rose with his fingers spread wide—an unspoken surrender.
Marcus let the moment breathe, as his mind began to calm down a bit. The soldier wasn't resisting, and his posture was tense but honest. "What is it that you came to report to me?"
"An EMP," the soldier stammered. "Fried the train's brain box. That's what they said. The engineers—they think they can fix it in an hour at the soonest."
Hearing this, his eyes narrowed and his grip on the gun relaxed slightly.
An EMP? Who would be careless with that?
His gaze dropped to the dial on his wristband. Three hours left. That should have been reassuring, but it wasn't.
An EMP going off in the middle of a high-speed military transit? No drills, no warning, no protocol… something was wrong.
And if this was a coincidence, it was one hell of a dangerous one.
Looking at the Linesman soldier again, Marcus couldn't help but wonder if the man was slow. Sure it could be that an EMP went off in the train, but who set it off?
With a scoff he slammed the butt of his pistol at the back of the soldier's head, knocking him out. He didn't trust the soldier, and at the same time, he didn't want to wrongfully take a life. As the man slumped to the ground, Marcus snatched his torchlight and turned it off.
Just as he did that, he heard several footsteps rushing toward his coach. Not from the inside, but from outside his coach.
"Intel says that there are five Iron Marshals in charge of transporting the shipment. We take them out first before searching for the item. Don't get distracted. The Boss doesn't care if we waste the lives of those on the train. All that matters is that we succeed." A voice from the outside said.
Though it was a bit hard to hear what this person was saying, Marcus could discern a bit.
Five Iron Marshals? Does that include me? No, I wasn't given any details to guard anything, so I'm not the target here… the TOP SECRET that is being transported probably is.
A frown appeared on his face as he looked at the soldier whom he had knocked out. The pieces in his mind began to align, not neatly, but close enough to raise deeper suspicion. But he stayed put.
There was no way to alert the rest of the soldiers on the train about the incoming attack without exposing himself. Especially when he didn't know who could be trusted. For all he knew, the voices outside could be a distraction… just a convenient cover for his execution.
A classic setup. Killed in line of duty, blame it on a cartel or some ghost syndicate, wrap it in a flag, and then bury the truth. He thought coldly.
Still, something about the entire situation felt excessive—too elaborate and calculated for him to be the real target.
And yet, Marcus had no intention of staying put. He wasn't going to wait to be proven right or wrong while being surrounded by so much uncertainty.
He turned to the window and scanned what little the moonlight revealed. The train had stalled in the middle of nowhere, flanked on both sides by tall, wild weeds with thick stalks that towered higher than the train itself.
He crouched and began untying his boots, slipping them off one at a time and tying them safely to his waist. Marcus moved as quickly and quietly as possible.
Whatever this was, he wasn't about to be caught in it.
His plan was simple now, get off the train, melt into the bush, and disappear without alerting anyone. If he wasn't the target, the chaos would pass over him. And if he was… well at least out there he would have a better fighting chance.
As he moved towards the exit of his coach, Marcus heard the sound of an automatic rifle go off. The sudden gunshot made him pause.
It was as though the entire night went still for a few seconds. Then came the sudden bursts of gunfire erupting across the train.
"Shit!"
Moving faster than before, stealth no longer mattered as much as Marcus ran towards the exit.
If they are shooting at each other, then I'm not the only target on this train!
"Guard the cargo! Quickly, take the Titan Drafts!"
Marcus had already pried open the train's door and stepped onto the gravel below when he heard the shout. Iron Marshals.
That single command confirmed it for him, he wasn't the primary target. Perhaps he hadn't been a target in the first place. The chaos wasn't for him.
But the thought of this didn't bring relief to his mind, it brought conflict.
If he stayed hidden and the battle unfolded without him, it could be deemed as insubordination. A court-martial offense. And while Marcus held no deep loyalty to the Empire or its military, he understood duty.
Not by patriotism, but by the fact that his actions could affect the fate of his family.
"Damn it!" He gritted his teeth.
If they need MGPs just to deal with the attackers, I'll be at a disadvantage out there if I decide to join them.
Military-Grade Performance Enhancers, commonly known as MGPs, are strength-enhancing pills developed by the Empire to push soldiers past human limits. Temporary superhuman strength, reflexes, and endurance.
It was a miracle in combat, but also a gamble in the bloodstream as they came with serious side effects that were unpredictable.
But they weren't handed out like candy. Only soldiers in the Iron Marshal rank and above were permitted access to the pills. Even then, the dosages were limited. The drugs weren't just powerful, it was dangerous. A single wrong reaction could shut down vital organs or trigger violent psychological breaks.
Despite Marcus's rank qualifying him, he had been sent off without one. His superiors had deemed it "too risky" until he reported to the Second Ring barracks.
It was another leash they placed on him. And now, here he was at a disadvantage and expected to make the right call.
While weighing his options, Marcus caught the faint rustle of movement in the grass, one that was too deliberate to be just grass dancing to the tune of the wind.