Raymond's eyes snapped open to nothing but darkness.
His body lurched forward against restraints—wrists, ankles, chest—all secured tight to what felt like a metal chair. The world shook violently beneath him, a rhythmic juddering that rattled his teeth and sent vibrations through his spine.
He blinked hard. Once. Twice. The blackness didn't shift.
Dream.
Had to be. The last thing he'd clocked was the flight attendant's smile as she'd topped up his whisky, the soft leather of the first-class seat cradling him thirty thousand feet above the Channel. Air France 147. Amsterdam to London. Job done, payment confirmed, three days of actual sleep waiting for him in his Kensington flat.
He tested the restraints. Industrial zip ties, by the feel—thick ones, the kind that required bolt cutters. His fingers brushed cold metal armrests. The shaking continued, irregular now, accompanied by a low mechanical groan that seemed to come from everywhere at once.
Raymond's jaw tightened.
Twelve years in the SAS. Eight more since then, as a private contractor. He'd walked out of Syrian black sites, Argentine interrogation rooms, a Chechen basement that still gave him the occasional nightmare. Nobody got the drop on him. Nobody. Not without a fight, not without him clocking at least one detail—a face, a smell, the prick of a needle.
But there was nothing. Just the whisky warming his chest, the hum of jet engines, and then... this.
The chair bucked hard to the left. His shoulder slammed against something solid. Pain flared bright and real.
Not a dream, then.
The world tilted.
Gravity wrenched sideways, and Raymond went with it, the chair tipping as the floor became a wall. His shoulder cracked against the metal paneling. The restraints bit deeper into his wrists as his full weight hung against them.
A deafening crash erupted somewhere close—metal on metal, the shriek of torn steel, then the hollow boom of something massive hitting the ground.
Container.
Had to be. Shipping container, cargo hold, something enclosed and transportable. The dimensions felt right—narrow, confined, the kind of space you could stack and move without anyone asking questions.
He twisted hard against the zip ties, feeling them dig into skin. The chair had toppled with him but remained bolted to what was now the left wall. His fingers scrabbled for purchase, searching for an edge, a seam, anything—
Gunfire.
Distant but unmistakable. The sharp crack of automatic weapons, multiple sources, overlapped in a rhythm he'd heard in a dozen war zones. Not handguns. Rifles. Military grade.
His breathing quickened. Blood rushed in his ears as he yanked against the restraints, ignoring the burn, the slick warmth that meant he'd broken skin.
Then he heard it.
Dang.
Heavy. Deliberate. Metal striking asphalt with the weight of something that shouldn't move.
Dang.
Closer now. Each footfall resonated through the container's walls like a hammer on an anvil.
Dang.
Raymond went still. Every instinct screamed wrong. Nothing human moved like that—too heavy, too rhythmic, too much impact per step.
Dang.
His pulse hammered against his throat as the footsteps drew nearer, accompanied now by a mechanical whir beneath each thunderous impact.
The footsteps stopped.
Silence pressed against Raymond's eardrums, broken only by his own ragged breathing and the distant pop of gunfire.
Then light exploded through the darkness.
A blade—glowing fierce orange, radiating heat he could feel even from meters away—punched through the container wall. Metal screamed as the blade dragged downward, then curved, carving a rough oval. Molten sparks fountained inward, hissing as they scattered across the floor.
The blade completed its circuit and withdrew.
Thump.
Something struck the cut section from outside.
Bang.
A fist—massive, segmented metal joints gleaming dull grey—smashed through. The oval panel crashed inward with a clang that reverberated through Raymond's bones.
Daylight flooded in.
He squinted hard against the sudden brightness, his vision swimming with afterimages. But not before he saw it clearly—the fist that had punched through. Easily twice the size of any human hand, mechanical fingers as thick as his forearms.
His eyes watered, adjusting to the light. A shadow moved across the opening.
Something flew in.
Small. Cylindrical. Spinning as it hit the container floor with a metallic tink-tink-tink.
Raymond's vision cleared enough to see it properly.
A grenade. Not standard issue—no pin, no spoon. Smooth black casing with angular ridges and a pulsing blue seam that ran its circumference.
His stomach dropped.
The device detonated.
No shrapnel. No fire. Just a wave—invisible, crushing—that slammed outward in all directions. The concussive force hit Raymond like a lorry. A high-pitched whine drowned out everything, piercing straight through his skull. Pressure built inside his head, squeezing, compressing. His brain felt like it was melting, liquefying against the inside of his cranium.
He clamped his eyes shut. Pain whitened out thought.
Through the haze of agony, a voice cut through—flat, mechanical, with an underlying distortion that sounded half-human, half-machine.
"One male found. Identity unknown. Proceeding to load him on the locomotive."
The words barely registered. Raymond's consciousness slipped, the world folding into itself.
Then nothing.
Raymond woke to the taste of copper and sand.
His head throbbed—a deep, pulsing ache that started at the base of his skull and radiated forward. He cracked his eyes open, wincing as even the filtered daylight sent spikes of pain through his temples.
No restraints this time.
He lay on his side against cold metal, his cheek pressed to a grated floor. Slowly, he pushed himself up onto his forearms, blinking through the fog in his vision.
Steel bars. Welded at rough angles, some of the joins still showing scorch marks from hasty construction. A cage. Three meters square, maybe less.
Beyond the bars, the world moved.
Endless desert rolled past in waves of ochre and burnt sienna, the horizon shimmering with heat distortion. Dunes rose and fell like a frozen sea. The movement was steady, rhythmic—not the bounce of a truck but the smooth glide of something on rails.
A train, then.
Raymond pulled himself into a sitting position, pressing his palm against his temple. The pressure helped, barely. His mouth felt stuffed with cotton, his tongue thick and useless.
He narrowed his eyes against the brightness and the pain, scanning what he could see.
Another cage sat a few paces away, identical to his own. A man occupied it—older, maybe forty-five, with shoulders that strained against a torn shirt. Blood had dried in dark streaks down one arm, and his knuckles were split and swollen. But the way he sat, even unconscious, spoke of someone who'd taken worse and kept standing.
The man's head rested against the bars, tilted at an awkward angle. A thick moustache connected to a neat goatee, both trembling slightly with each vibration that ran through the train's chassis.
Sleeping. Or passed out.
Raymond's gaze drifted past him, searching for more details, more prisoners, more answers.
Raymond found nothing useful from where he sat.
He pushed himself to his feet, swaying slightly as his vision greyed at the edges. Steadying himself against the bars, he moved methodically around the cage's perimeter. His fingers tested each weld, each joint, searching for weakness. The lock was crude but solid—a heavy bolt mechanism on the outside, well beyond arm's reach.
The metallic clanking of his attempts echoed through the carriage.
"Don't bother."
Raymond's head snapped towards the other cage.
The prisoner hadn't moved, head still resting against the bars, but his eyes were open now. Dark. Watchful. A wry sneer tugged at one corner of his mouth.
Raymond stared at him, silent, waiting.
"Even if you do escape..." The man's gaze drifted sideways towards the passing desert. "The hounds will get you. If you're not careful."
He lifted his bloodied hand, turning it so the light caught the wound properly. Three parallel gashes ran from just below his knuckles to halfway down his forearm—deep, clean-edged, symmetrical. The tissue around them had swollen purple.
Raymond's mind went to coyotes first. Wrong climate, but possible. Except the spacing was too precise, the depth too uniform. Whatever had made those marks had driven claws in with mechanical consistency.
He crossed to the nearest wall of his cage, gripping the bars.
"Where are we?"
The man's eyes tracked the horizon again, where the evening sun had begun its descent, staining the dunes rust-red.
"Probably in the Serenity Desert," he said. "On the way to Cyber City."
Raymond's grip tightened on the bars.
Cyber City?
Serenity Desert?
The names meant nothing. Absolutely nothing. He'd operated on four continents, memorized maps from Mogadishu to Moscow, and never once encountered either designation. His head still pounded from whatever that grenade had done to him, thoughts swimming through the treacle, but he was certain—those weren't real places.
His face contorted in confusion.
The prisoner caught it—the furrowed brow, the tightness around Raymond's eyes. He shifted his weight against the bars, wincing, and something like understanding settled across his features. Not sympathy. Recognition.
He mistakenly thought of Raymond's confusion as despair.
Now the kid gets it, the man thought, studying Raymond's expression. Finally understands how deep the trouble runs.
"Where are you from?"
The question came quiet, edged with pity.
Raymond's mind still churned through the impossible names—Cyber City, Serenity Desert—trying to slot them into any framework that made sense. His mouth opened, muscle memory pulling up one of his standard covers. Logistics contractor. Security consultant. Depends on the audience.
The vehicle lurched.
Brakes screamed. Raymond pitched forward, throwing his hands up just before his face would've smashed into the bars. His palms slammed against cold steel, absorbing the impact. The train shuddered beneath them, momentum dying in sharp, violent stages.
Across from him, the prisoner's entire demeanor changed.
He pushed himself upright despite the pain, blood-slicked hand gripping the bars for support. His eyes widened—not with fear but something sharper. Hope. Raw and desperate. He craned his neck, trying to see beyond the edges of their carriage.
Gunfire erupted.
Sharp cracks, rapid succession. Automatic weapons. Close. The distinctive bark of assault rifles overlapping with deeper, heavier reports that Raymond couldn't immediately place.
The prisoner's jaw tightened. His knuckles went white against the bars.
The carriage door slammed open.
Two figures burst in, silhouetted against the fading light. They moved with trained efficiency, weapons raised—rifles, but wrong. The barrels were too short, the stocks angular and segmented, with glowing panels set into the housing that pulsed a faint blue.
They swept their aim across both cages, searching.
When their eyes landed on the injured man, one of them lowered his weapon.
"Leader!" The excitement cracked through his voice. "We found you!"
Both rushed to the man's cage. The first produced a heavy tool from his belt—some kind of mechanical cutter—and clamped it onto the lock. Sparks flew. Metal groaned. The second slung his rifle across his back and reached through the bars, already positioning himself to support the injured man's weight.
The lock shattered.
The cage door swung open. Hands reached in, careful but urgent, helping the man to his feet. He grimaced, favoring his wounded arm, but moved without hesitation.
Not once did either of them glance at Raymond.
They guided the injured man towards the carriage opening, voices low and urgent. Just before descending, the man leaned close to one of his rescuers, whispering something Raymond couldn't catch.
The rescuer's head turned. His eyes found Raymond.
A nod.
The others disappeared through the door. The remaining man crossed to Raymond's cage, unslinging the mechanical cutter from his belt. He clamped it onto the lock without a word.
Raymond watched the sparks fly, pieces clicking into place.
Militia. Had to be. The injured man—leader—held rank. This was an extraction, planned and executed. And now, apparently, it included him.
"Thanks."
The man didn't respond. The lock shattered under the cutter's jaw. He turned immediately, dropping back through the carriage opening and hitting the sand at a run. His silhouette merged with the others, all of them moving fast across the dunes towards the sound of sustained gunfire.
Raymond stepped out onto the sand.
Heat radiated up through his boots despite the setting sun. He glanced at the retreating figures, then turned and ran in the opposite direction.
Staying with them means a gunfight. And they're not handing me a weapon.
The logic was clean. He had no stake in their battle, no intel on who they were fighting, and no guarantee they'd keep him alive once the shooting stopped. Better odds alone.
The gunfire faded behind him as he pushed across the desert. His legs burned, feet sinking into sand with each stride. The wind picked up as the sun dropped lower, carrying a surprising chill that cut through his shirt.
A rocky outcrop rose from the dunes ahead—small, maybe ten meters high, but studded with dark crevices and overhangs. Natural cover.
Raymond altered his course, lungs working hard in the thin air. He reached the base and started climbing, fingers finding holds in the weathered stone. The rock was still warm from the day's heat, rough against his palms.
Near the top, a crevice opened into a shallow cave—just deep enough for a man to tuck himself into shadow. He squeezed inside, pressing his back against stone, and went still.
The desert wind whispered across the entrance.
Thirty minutes passed in silence.
The gunfire had stopped—no echoes, no distant pops, nothing. Raymond's breathing had steadied; his heartbeat no longer hammered against his ribs. He scanned the darkening desert through the crevice opening, watching for movement, listening for pursuit.
Nothing.
He exhaled, tension bleeding from his shoulders.
Then something appeared in front of his face.
A pale blue rectangle, translucent and hovering in mid-air. No screen, no projector—just light forming words in bright red text that hung there, impossible and undeniable.
Raymond's breath caught in his throat. He blinked hard. Once. Twice. The display remained, floating exactly where his focus landed, tracking with his gaze.
Stress. Dehydration. That grenade scrambled something in my head.
Raymond stared at the floating text, his mind a white roar of incomprehension.
What the fuck is going on?
The question screamed through his skull, loud and desperate, but no sound left his lips. Just his own ragged breathing and the whisper of desert wind across stone.