Allan's eyes snapped open.
He found himself staring up at a blank silver ceiling of dull metal. For a long moment, he didn't move, as he was utterly bewildered. There was tension in him, adrenaline singing through his veins, but he had literally no idea where he was or why he was there, only that he ached, a lot. Some places hurt more than others, but his whole body throbbed dully in pain. He swallowed and found his mouth and throat dry.
Allan closed his eyes, trying to clear his head. What was the last thing he remembered? His squad, dying. It was the first thing that came to mind. Only-no, his second squad dying. The outpost. The distress call. The killer. The chaos. The death. Allan's eyes opened again and he sat up abruptly and groaned as the world swam, his equilibrium thrown wretchedly out of balance. He laid back down, unable to remain upright, and closed his eyes once more. For another long moment, he simply lay there, waiting for the dizziness to pass.
The memories slowed, settled, ordered themselves. Once more, he opened his eyes. It was then that he realized he was still in his armor. Slowly, cautiously, Allan sat up. His view tilted slightly, but not enough to cause any real problems. He sorted through his memories as he climbed to his feet. He remembered the killer, and the men in black armor with their guns that shot electrically charged bolts. For a moment, he felt hope spear him.
There was something that could take this jerkoff down.
Unfortunately, they'd also nabbed him and the other two in the process. What was the last thing he'd heard? The very last thing...
Take them to Obsidian Station.
So this was Obsidian Station. Allan turned in a slow circle, feeling like he'd just woken up from a ten-day binge. He was in an almost totally bare cell of metal. A single strip of light lit the room from overhead. The pallid white luminosity fell on the single slab of metal meant to serve as a bed that occupied one corner and the toilet that occupied the other. That was it. There was nothing else in the room with him.
No window, a pair of very small ventilation grilles and a single door that was barely discernible from the wall around it, separated only by a razor thin dark line in the metal. There was no way to open it from the inside. Allan walked over to the 'bed', his legs feeling something close to stilts, and sat down heavily.
He searched his mind for any clues that might shed some light on his current situation but could think of nothing concrete. Lindholm was a backwater colony world, barely more than a couple million people across the entire planet. Nothing happened there. That was kind of the point, the whole reason he'd sought it out.
So what the fuck was all this?
Allan's head continued to clear. How was he going to get out of this? He still had his suit of armor. Allan began checking all his pockets and pouches, anywhere he might have any kind of gear left on him. After several moments, he realized that he'd been stripped of literally everything but his uniform and his armor. He didn't have a bullet to his name. So what did that leave him with? Barely anything. Just his armor and...
He turned it on and found that it still worked. Dialing into the team's frequency, he hoped that Lucy still had the tiny radio they'd given her. Nestled in her ear, it might have gone unnoticed by their captors.
"Banks, can you hear me?"
There was a lengthy pause, then, "Yes."
"Are you okay?"
"I guess so...I'm not hurt, well, I feel hurt, but I think I'm actually okay." She paused. "They electrocuted me."
"Yeah...do you know where we are?"
YOU ARE READING
The fifth novel in The Shadow Wars. Sergeant Allan Gray has just suffered the worst defeat in his fourteen years as a member of Security-Investigations, a branch of the government that offers protection to both the colonies and isolated outposts of...