by V T Bonds
Checkpoint Five complete.
The others have already moved on to their next objective. Two teams of two, with a prisoner each, on different routes.
Down and down I push myself, the pressure of the water constricting my lungs. I smirk. The darkness down here is complete. All consuming, just like me.
I level out onto the ocean floor and aim toward my specified coordinates. Even after several miles, I do not slow my strokes. I swim and swim, reveling in the darkness and enjoying the thrill of the mission. Covert ops are always my favorite. I love the added danger.
I reach my destination and crawl up the beach. The prisoners are now free, their restraints removed. They lay unconscious on the rocks, just above the high tide mark. Kwame and Jumoke fasten the gear used on the inmates back into their suits.
As a unit, the five of us disappear into the ocean, clearing our footsteps behind us. Not a trace of our presence remains.
Mission complete.
Chapter Two
Her - Unknown
I can sum my life into one word: chores. One ends, another begins. Washing, scrubbing, sweeping, cooking—all kinds of menial tasks. That’s what I do, all day long. Every. Day.
Ever since someone abandoned me at the Chieftain’s doorstep, he’s filled my days with misery and work. I dread waking in the morning but cannot stop my return to this wretched place. I hate my role in this world, but there’s nowhere else for me to go. The Chieftain’s punishments are far more preferable than roaming the streets unprotected. I’ve seen what the world is like and have no wish to wander alone.
The Chieftain is exact in his expectations of his servants, and despite my efforts to please him, I’ve received more corrections than I can recall. The punishment depends on the infraction, and I’ve always gained more attention from him than the other servants of the house. Now that the kitchen maid has disappeared, he allows me even less respite.
I used to sleep at the maid’s feet, but since she disappeared a few months ago, I’ve been ‘promoted.’ The bed is mine, for what little good it does me. I hardly have time to use it since her tasks have been added to mine.
This morning is much the same as every morning.
My eyes open, knowing it’s time to wake. I no longer need an alarm; it only took one harsh correction to ensure I always serve breakfast on time. Now my internal clock awakens me at the proper time, self-preservation winning out over exhaustion.
The room is dark, with the stars causing a faint glow through the murky window—not enough to cause shadows, but enough to make the misshapen windowpane visible amidst the blackness of the room. I curb my urge to light a lamp. My eyes struggle in the dark, even if I know the room well. Every nook and cranny in this space is etched into my mind—I’ve scrubbed every inch of this dilapidated kitchen for years—and I know where to step so I don’t trip on the uneven floor, but I hate thinking someone could be nearby and I wouldn’t know.
I drag my sore body from the lumpy, threadbare mattress. No pillow. No blanket. Not even a sheet. But it is as clean as I can manage. It’s a work in progress. Every chance I get, I sweep and scrub it. I cannot stand to sleep in filth—even if it means less sleep, I will labor over my bed. Before the maid disappeared, my corner of floor was the cleanest in the whole house. Along with that, my torn and stained dress is cleaner than most people’s clothing, besides the Chieftain and those of his status. I wash it and my body every night, unwilling to transfer the mess of my day onto my sleeping pad.
I stand and stretch with caution, my bruised and overworked body complaining with every gesture. The backs of my legs sting from yesterday’s punishment—the switch left marks. Every muscle in my body protests my movements, so I use gentle pressure to massage the worst ones, beginning with my arms. As I grimace through the routine, I think of this depressing room I’ve grown up in.
A large, ugly island fills the center of the room. The chipped surface has a large crack down the middle, but every centimeter sparkles with a shine that only manic scrubbing can attain.
On the other side of the island, a polished water pump juts out of the old, peeling floor. Water is a rare commodity, so my wardens are very strict with the upkeep of the spigot.
The opposite wall sports rickety cabinets, the original hardware missing. Holes gape in their place since the materials were repurposed years before I arrived. Wrapping around to cover most of the left wall, these cabinets hold cooking gear, cleaning supplies, and a few odds and ends. To my left is a slim opening, my cot so close that the door cannot open all the way. The door leads to a servant’s courtyard, where laundry and tasks too dangerous for indoors occur. Every night, after the last meal, the Chieftain comes and locks this door. He unlocks it when my outdoor chores are to begin. I used to wish he’d leave it unlocked so I could see the stars, but now I’m glad for the barrier between me and those awake at night.
To my right is a large adobe fireplace, it’s facade crumbling. Beyond that, completing the four walls of the room, uneven shelves contain the household’s pantry. Either the Chieftain or his wife, the Chieftess, check the precious contents four times a day. Because of their attention and rigid organization of the food, not even a crumb goes missing.
My joints creak as I lean down and work my fingertips into my sore thighs. Everything hurts. I rub my legs for a few seconds, then straighten up.
With a pinched expression, I raise my hands to my hair and drag my fingers through my unruly mass of loose curls. I’ve never owned a hairbrush and have only used one once. When I was younger and had lice, the kitchen maid tried to comb them out. My hair turned into a frizzy, chaotic fuzz. Never again. I pull my hair to the back of my head and secure it with a bit of scrap material.
I step forward a few paces and use my sense of touch to find the match, strike it on the edge of the counter, and light the oil lamp. The flame flickers as I replace the chipped shield.
For now, my hands are clean. Light, shallow scars line the back of them, most from hard work, but a few from punishments. According to the Chieftain, pain is a strong motivator, but he needs me capable of working, so he rarely targets such fragile areas.
My fingers look too slim, my wrists look too thin, and my hands look too delicate to perform the tasks I complete every day. How have I not broken every bone in these fragile looking hands?
My arms aren't much better. I have lean, toned muscles, but no weight to me. They feed me enough, knowing that I can’t prepare their food if I don't get the bare minimum.
But the thin white scars along my arms attest to my suppressed life.
I shake off my musings and turn from my inspection. Too much to do and continuing that depressing line of thought will make the day too hard to handle.
With no more introspection, I head to the water pump. Breakfast chores await.
Chapter Three
Seeck
I'm smirking. I know I shouldn't be, but I am. This is the first fun I've had in three weeks, even if it is just knocking around a few soldiers. These Alphas are grunt soldiers, trained for filling in the ranks and overpowering by sheer numbers. Don’t get me wrong, they aren’t anything to sneeze at… unless you’re me. Then you sneeze as obnoxiously as possible into their fresh glass of beer.
I don't do well sitting and waiting. Not if I'm off mission. None of my team does.
Command knows this. They know that keeping us out of the field for longer than a week is only acceptable once a year, and that's for everyone else's sake. When we Rut, no one wants us loose in society. During that week-long process, it's only logical to keep us grounded. Over the years, the whole team has synced—we each have ours within three weeks of the first Rut beginning.
And then we need a day or two to replenish our bodies. But four weeks, from start to finish, is still almost too long to keep us mission-less.
And this hiatus hasn't had the fun of the Rut to break up the monotony.
I need this outlet, and Command knows better than to leave us to our
own devices. This is the longest our unit has been without a mission in two years, besides our Ruts. Any negative outcome from my actions are their fault.
My teammate Jumoke sits at the far end of the room, slouching in a booth and looking like he belongs. I swear, if he comes over and ruins my fun, I’ll beat the shit out of him. Maybe not, but we’d have a good brawl anyway.
These idiots think they’ll best me because of their numbers.
Wrong.
Four burly Alpha males surround me, taking offense to my drunken act, even though ninety percent of the patrons here are drunk.
The first guy swings, but I dodge his meaty fist. Not that he's slow. Or untrained. Or weak. It's just that I'm faster and stronger than all except for my teammates.
I drop low into my stance and strike upward with my right hand. The flat of my fingers slash his tricep before he can reset from his attempt to punch me. He bellows in a mixture of anger and humiliation, more embarrassed than hurt, and it shows in his deep red cheeks and wild eyes.
The fool tries to backhand me. I grab his pinky as it travels two full inches away from my face, and his own momentum makes it snap.
True pain fills his eyes and an enraged howl emerges from his throat.
Two more men converge on me and a delighted grin stretches my lips. I kick my leg backward, sending another to the ground, his knee inverted. Flinging my arm over my shoulder, I duck and flip the injured male into my new assailant. They crunch as they meet midair, and the floor vibrates as they crash into it.
Yup, I'm still smirking. Maybe bigger than a few moments ago.
The last Alpha is so furious for his companions he doesn’t recognize how much of a threat I am. He squares off with me and jabs his fist towards my chest.
I don’t dodge. This is too much fun. I meet him head on. Pain radiates through my breastbone and I cannot stop smiling, even as my knuckles smash into his throat. A few more swings and quick movements, and he's flying. The look of shock and pain he gives soothes the beast inside me.
He smashes onto the bar top. Even dazed from the landing and ridiculously drunk, he keeps trying to fight me. He pulls his knees to his chest then flings his legs to kick me.
He would have too, if I hadn't expected his move. I'm already a foot to the side, out of his aim. Before he pulls his feet back to him, I grab both of his ankles. Using my hidden strength and his momentum, I pull him off the bar.
On his way down, he bounces off a barstool and twists to an odd angle. I let go and watch as he lands on his shoulder. A pop and crunch accompanies his meeting with the floor.
He screams.
I hope my fun isn't over—I’ve barely begun!
I step closer, grab his bicep, and lift him to his feet. He stumbles and tries to push me away. I slap his hand down like he's a child. He stands stunned for a moment but then fury covers his features. With spittle forming on the edges of his lips, he flings profanities at me.
My smirk turns to a full-blown smile. I can't help it. This soldier is proving to be fantastic entertainment, if pathetic and hilarious. He needs more training. More discipline. A flash of pale skin and darkness in my peripheral catches my attention and I know my time of fun is running short.
The soldier in front of me swings, ready for more, but my fist punches forward and hits him square in the nose. Blood pours down his chin, his shirt catching the stream. Before he rebounds from the punch, my next blow hits him straight in the gut. He doubles over in pain, unable to breathe; his diaphragm seized.
I throw my leg forward and use my shin to sweep his legs out from under him.
“Interrupting, Vander? Again?” I growl, even before the large male crashes onto the floorboards.
“The last time was to help you. That female was too sturdy for you—she needed a stronger male. You’d have bored her to tears,” the salt and pepper haired Alpha responds. He leans against the bar a few feet away, looking nonchalant and bored. His gray tee and black pants fit the surroundings of this crowded, less than favorable bar. He’s dressed to disappear into a crowd, same as me.
The smirk and lethal knowledge in his eyes are obvious to me, but only because we’ve spent the last twenty years relying on each other. The boredom he expresses is no act; he’s as restless as I.
“Fuck you, ass-wipe. Command prefers me over you. That’s why they send me the better females. My stats are better too, so fuck off,” I toss back at him.
He throws his head back and laughs. The soldiers on the deck groan in pain. Vander straightens to his full height, wipes pretend tears off his cheeks, and steps in my direction.
“C’mon, Seeck, time to report. New mission in our inbox.”
Relief pours into me. Time to roll out. Finally.
Another smirk twists Vander’s lips as one alpha attempts to get up. As he saunters by the beaten male, he kicks the man’s wrist, causing him to face plant back to the deck.
Knowing that Jumoke could hear our discussion, we both merge into the crowd and head in separate directions. Our skills and intuition won’t allow us to travel the same route together. Even here, on base, we act as wraiths, unnoticed and unmemorable.
We’re the predators no one sees; the deadly force very few know exist; the threat that strikes before those threatened realize they’re in danger. We are weapons.
∆∆∆
Deep in the belly of the military compound, I lean against a white cement wall, my right foot propped on it behind me. My left boot holds my weight on a spotless, white floor. The clinical feel of the hallway is complete with bright, fluorescent lights and stark white ceilings. This hallway is narrower than the others, an offshoot of a more prominent passage. The floor plan in this section of the facility is purposefully misleading; any unsuspecting personnel would get lost in the maze. Clearance to this area is difficult to get, and for good reason.
Nightmares lurk here. Experiments and weapons.
He makes almost no noise, but I pick up on soft footfalls down a nearby hall. I’ve been statue still for the last forty minutes, but he knows I’m here, just like I know he’s there. I’m standing next to a hidden door. It looks like a solid wall, but a latch hides near the roof. On the other side are five sleep pods, a kitchen pod, and a large room we call our common room.
The encapsulated rooms behind me could be compared to a bank vault, but in reality they’re more like an armory. A safe place where top secret weapons are kept. Because it is. We are.
I can feel people moving around inside the rooms, even though there's about four feet of concrete and a sound proofing barrier. It's about as unbreakable as a set of rooms can be, but with my heightened senses, I can tell that there are two individuals moving within.
The Alpha Elite down the hallway has approached the other side of the corner, hidden from my view. For a moment I can't decipher which of my team members it is, but then a slight snick of a boot-heel whispers through the air. It’s just enough of something unique that I recognize who's beyond my sight.
Jumoke. His jokester punk ass is always trying to get the jump on me. None of his attempts have worked, although he's come close a handful of times.
He edges closer to the corner then stands just out of sight. He is silent, barely breathing, a veritable statue in this bleak maze. Off in the distance, someone’s footsteps pound through the corridor. Their brisk pace echoes with self-importance. Jumoke tracks them with me. It’d be hard not to since they stomp through the halls, continuing on their journey until they retreat from our hearing.
In a sudden burst of movement, Jumoke rounds the corner and flings a knife toward the center of my chest as the ceiling tile above me explodes downward. Bits and pieces of particle board, cement, and insulation rain down.
But not a single bit of it touches me.
The unidirectional explosive device in Dirk’s hands gave a soft click before it detonated, giving me enough warning to lunge out of the way.
I snatch Jumoke’s blade out of the air.
Th
e visual of Dirk’s huge body bursting from the ceiling would look humorous if he wasn’t so dangerous. Jumoke barrels closer, his eyes shining with glee as he closes in on me. I grin at him, enjoying this game. At the last moment, I jump. His shoulder collides against my hips. He loses traction and we both end up on the ground, but quickly surge up and face off.
“You poor young bastard. You’re always trying to get closer to me. Not interested in the females anymore?” I taunt him.
“Whatever, you old fuck. I had you on your back under m-” “Then why wasn't your dick in my ass?” I interrupt.
“Because you're not my type,” he goads back.
A large forearm circles around my neck as Jumoke smiles at me in delight.
Before Dirk can squeeze and cut off my air supply, I drop and jerk him over my shoulder. Anyone else his size would have no choice but to slam to the solid white floor, but he doesn’t. He lands with a grace odd for a man so large, rolling with his momentum to pop onto his feet. Within a half second, he’s in Jumoke’s space, wrapping his arms around his waist. He lifts him, continuing with his forward force. He drives Jumoke into the wall and the whole hallway shakes.
The door to our quarters slides open with a quiet swish.
Vander rolls his eyes. “C’mon, you clowns, get your asses in here.”
Leaving the hallway in disarray, we enter the room with satisfied expressions. The door slides closed behind me.
No locks click as it hides our living quarters. That would be redundant. We don't need locks. No lock will keep us in, and anyone stupid enough to sneak into our den would meet their end before they could blink.
The living pods along the right wall are stacked; three sit on top, three on bottom. Large cut outs in the walls serve as ladders to the upper level rooms. The bottom right pod is a kitchen.
All five of us congregate in the common room. It contains a table and a few large, white couches. Projections cover the walls, depicting news from every sector. The white walls, floor, furniture, and sparse decor seem less harsh in here because of the dim lighting. We keep the lights tempered, making the projections more visible.
