Commissioned Stories (Commissioner wish to not be named)
Chapter 1 : Retirement Money
The air conditioning in Hale’s antique shop was set just low enough to make the sweat on Alex’s collarbones evaporate into nothingness. She leaned against the counter, fingertips idly tracing the grain of the wood—old mahogany, probably salvaged from some shipwreck—while Hale eyeballed her like she was a piece he was trying to appraise. At 5’9”, she wasn’t towering, but the way she carried herself made men either step back or lean in too close. Today, she wore a black tank top that clung to the hard lines of her torso, the fabric stretched tight over C-cups that had saved her ass more than once when blending into civilian life. White jeans, snug enough to outline the muscle in her thighs from years of forced marches and crouching in hides, completed the look.
Behind Hale, rifles hung on the wall like museum relics, each one tagged with a handwritten note. A Lee-Enfield No. 4 Mk I, its stock dark with oil and time, sat beside a pristine Dragunov SVD. The glass case beneath them held revolvers with ivory grips—one still had flecks of what looked like dried blood in the engravings. Nothing in this place was for sale, not really. Every piece was a ledger entry, a conversation starter, or a favor waiting to be called in. Hale himself was the most ordinary-looking relic of all: silver-haired, soft around the middle, the kind of guy who’d blend into a Denny’s at 3 AM. But his hands were steady when he slid the envelope across the counter, and his voice didn’t waver when he named the price.
"Two million? That’s generous," Alex said, flipping the envelope’s edge with her thumb. The paper smelled faintly of ink and something metallic—probably the blood money’s fingerprints.
Hale exhaled through his nose, the way a man does when he’s about to explain why you’re already fucked. "Generous? Sure. But this is the mission, Red. Local warlord operating in the mountainous ass-end of Chechnya and Georgia, where the only law comes from whoever’s holding the biggest gun that week. He’s paranoid, ex-military, runs surveillance like he’s guarding the Kremlin. Drugs, weapons, girls—you name it, he moves it. And someone up there wants him erased so bad they’re willing to pay double the going rate." He tapped the envelope. "Half now. Half when you send proof."
Alex didn’t blink. "Proof being?"
Hale’s chuckle was dry, like the sound of a bolt sliding home. "The client would know if he’s dead. You don’t need up-close pictures on this one." He leaned back, fingers drumming the counter where the wood was worn smooth by a hundred nervous hands. "Handler? Gear?"
"Passport’s in there," Hale said, nodding at the envelope. "Local currency, too—small denominations, nothing traceable. Every grid coordinate, patrol schedule, and blind spot you’ll need." His smirk widened, the kind of look a wolf gives before pouncing. "Your local contact’s Olena. Ukrainian SSO. Nice girl. Careful, though—she’s into women, and you’d fit right in."
Alex palmed the envelope, tucking it into her waistband where the heat of her skin would keep it safe. "Intel better be solid," she muttered, glancing toward the shop’s tinted front window where sunlight glinted off parked cars. "Two million doesn’t buy trust."
Hale’s laughter followed her to the door, low and knowing. "No, Red. But it buys silence." He swiped his thumb across the burner phone’s screen and slid it toward her. "No names. No calls. Just coordinates and a timer. And Alex?" His voice dropped, suddenly serious. "Don’t miss."
Outside, the midday heat hit like a slap. Alex adjusted her sunglasses, scanning the street—too many blind spots, too many angles. A black SUV idled half a block down, windows tinted dark enough to hide an entire hit squad. She exhaled, slow and controlled, and let her fingers brush the Glock tucked into the small of her back. One last job. One last bullet. Then she’d be gone before Hale—or whoever really held the leash—could decide she knew too much. The thought tasted bitter, like gunpowder and betrayal. She walked faster.
Something nagged at her, though—something Hale didn’t say. Two million was too clean, too easy. And men who paid that much never risked loose ends. By the time she hit the corner, she’d already rewritten her exit plan twice. First rule of the game: assume everyone’s lying. Second rule? Be ready to prove them wrong.
Chapter 2 : Dishonorably Discharged
Alex twisted the shower knob with more force than necessary, cutting off the scalding water. Steam curled around her naked body as she stepped onto the tile, droplets tracing paths down the hard angles of her shoulders, the ridge of her collarbone, the swell of her breasts—still flushed pink from the heat. Her reflection in the fogged mirror was a ghost of the woman who’d stood in Hale’s shop hours earlier: damp red hair plastered to her neck, lips parted just enough to show the faintest edge of teeth. The shower hadn’t washed away the memory gnawing at her—the tribunal, the way the Marines’ polished boots had gleamed under fluorescent lights as they read the verdict. Dishonorable discharge for insubordination. Not for missing a shot—Alex didn’t miss—but for refusing to take it. The bride’s laugh, high and girlish, still echoed in her dreams some nights.
She grabbed a towel and scrubbed it over her torso, the rough fabric dragging across the scar below her ribs where a bullet had punched through in Fallujah. Her hands slowed as they reached her hips, fingertips brushing the twin tattoos there—coordinates inked in stark black: one for the desert where she’d earned that scar, another for the mountains where she’d lost her career. The water dripped from her thighs onto the floor, pooling around her bare feet.
In the bedroom, her go-bag lay open on the bed, contents meticulously arranged—passport, cash, fake id. The envelope from Hale rested atop the pile, its crisp edges already softening from the humidity. Alex exhaled through her nose and reached for the Glock on the nightstand, her fingers finding the grip without looking. The metal was cool against her palm, grounding.
She pulled out the photo of Olena again. The Ukrainian woman stared back at her with that unnerving stillness special ops personnel carried—like she'd seen everything twice and still found the world wanting. Alex traced the curve of Olena's jawline with her thumb, imagining the tightness of muscles beneath skin, the way they'd tense before a kill. Something coiled low in her stomach—anticipation or wariness, she couldn't tell. The dossier suggested Olena was good. Too good for this kind of work unless she had her own skeletons.
Outside, a car door slammed. Alex's head snapped up, her body already shifting toward the window before conscious thought caught up. She lowered the Glock, forcing her shoulders to relax. Paranoia was good—kept you breathing—but this was LA, not Luhansk. Still, she checked the Sig Sauer under her pillow out of habit, the weight familiar as an old lover.
The mattress dipped as she lay down, her spine aligning with the memory of a hundred shitty bivouacs. Sleep came swift and heavy as artillery smoke. No dreams tonight—just the blessed dark before the storm.
Chapter 3 : Olena
Chechnya’s winter light was pale as bone when Alex found the apartment—a Soviet-era box with chipped paint and a balcony sagging under the weight of rust. She knocked three times, sharp and spaced like rifle reports. The door cracked open on a chain, revealing one ice-blue eye and the muzzle of a Makarov before Olena exhaled in recognition. "Ah... you must be Alex," she said, swinging the door wider, her voice smoother than the dossier suggested. The Ukrainian stood barefoot in faded jeans and a men’s undershirt, the fabric thin enough to outline the wiry muscle beneath. Her hair, blonde as fresh straw, was twisted into a messy knot held by what looked like a rifle cleaning rod. She stepped back, gesturing to the cramped kitchen where a pot of water boiled violently on a gas burner. "Take off boots. I have vodka or tea, but vodka is better."
Alex shrugged off her pack, eyeing the apartment—bare walls, a couch with stuffing bleeding through one arm, a single framed photo of an older woman by a sunflower field. She chose vodka, neat, the burn familiar as old pain. Olena leaned against the counter, rolling the glass between her palms like she was warming a wounded bird. "Safe house is clean," she said, nodding to a signal jammer humming on the fridge. "No bugs, no tails. You eat now or after?" Alex watched the steam curl from the pot, smelled garlic and something earthy—homemade pasta, the kind her mother used to make before deployments ate up those memories. "After," she said, unpacking her tablet to overlay grid coordinates.
Dinner came late, served on chipped plates that might’ve survived the Siege of Leningrad. Olena moved with the economical grace of someone who’d spent years conserving energy between bursts of violence, her fingers deft as she twirled pasta around a fork. "You don’t talk much," she observed, pushing a plate toward Alex. "Bad for cover story—lovers should whisper, yes?" Alex snorted, twirling a too-large bite. The pasta was perfect, chewy and salted just enough to remind her she was alive. "You cook like someone who’s had a life outside this shit," she said, and Olena’s smile flickered—real, for half a second. "Mother taught me. Before Donetsk burned."
The balcony was barely wide enough for two stools, but they smoked there anyway, passing a cigarette back and forth like a shared secret. Below, the village slept under a crust of frost; above, the stars were bright as tracer fire. Olena exhaled smoke through her nose, gaze fixed on the horizon. "After this, I buy land near Lviv. No men, no war—just bees and quiet." Alex studied the ash trembling at the cigarette’s tip, thinking of an island without flags or salutes. "Sounds peaceful," she lied. The cigarette glowed between them, a tiny, temporary sun.
Olena laughed suddenly, sharp and bright—the sound of someone remembering joy. "Once, in Donbas, I told a Russian captain his wife sucked cock better than his troops shot. He chased me three kilometers in his underwear." Alex grinned, flicking ash into the abyss. "In Fallujah, I pissed in an insurgent’s boots while he slept. Left a note: Allah doesn’t love ugly feet." They traded stories like that for hours, each one a knife-throw of absurdity and survival, until the night softened around them like an old wound.
Dawn stained the sky when Alex finally stretched, her spine cracking like a rifle bolt. "How do we play this?" she asked, nodding toward the garage where their gear waited. Olena stubbed out the last cigarette, her eyes reflecting the coming light. "Jeeps, ghillies, PSG-1 with fresh bedding. SMGs under the seats—Vityaz, good for close work." She leaned in, close enough for Alex to smell the gun oil and garlic on her skin. "We ride at dawn. Fifty klicks to the foothills, then five more on foot. You still fit, amerykanka?"
Alex rolled her shoulders, feeling the old aches and the newer hunger. "Fit enough to watch you eat my dust," she said, and Olena’s smirk was all the challenge she needed. The mountains loomed in the distance, their peaks sharp as the teeth of a waiting trap.
Back inside, Olena tossed a rolled-up sleeping bag at her. "Sleep," she ordered, nodding to the couch. "The bed’s clean, and don’t worry—you’re not my type." Her smirk widened, eyes glinting with the kind of mischief that came from knowing her reputation as a lesbian far preceded her. Alex caught the sleeping bag one-handed and shrugged, unfazed. "Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve disappointed a beautiful woman," she deadpanned, and Olena’s laugh was sharp, bright—like glass breaking in an empty room.
The couch groaned under Alex’s weight as she stretched out, the leather cold against her bare arms. Olena disappeared into the bedroom, leaving the door cracked just enough for the dim glow of a lamp to spill into the hallway. Alex stared at the ceiling, counting the cracks in the plaster like they were seconds ticking down to dawn. Somewhere outside, a dog barked, the sound carrying on the thin mountain air like a warning.
She closed her eyes, but sleep was a fickle ally tonight. The mission hummed under her skin, a live wire of anticipation and old ghosts. Tomorrow, they’d move into the kill zone, and all the banter in the world wouldn’t change the calculus of a single bullet. Somewhere in the dark, Olena shifted in her bed, the faint rustle of sheets the only sound in the apartment. Alex exhaled slowly, forcing her muscles to uncoil. The mountains could wait. The shot could wait. For now, there was only the quiet, and the weight of a promise yet to be kept.
Chapter 4 : The Gear Up
The Jeep's headlights carved through the predawn gloom like twin sabers, throwing long shadows across the pitted dirt road. Olena drove with the windows down, her forearm resting on the doorframe, fingers tapping the rhythm of some Ukrainian folk song Alex didn't recognize. The cold air smelled of pine resin and diesel, sharp enough to make Alex's nostrils flare. She watched the way Olena's jaw tightened every time they hit a pothole—not from pain, but anticipation, the same coiled energy Alex felt humming in her own veins.
They ditched the Jeep two klicks from the foothills, shoving it into a thicket of juniper bushes until the branches scraped paint off the hood. Olena killed the engine, and for a moment, the silence was absolute—no birds, no wind, just the creak of cooling metal. Alex stripped down to her sports bra and panties right there, the cold biting at her skin as she shrugged into the thermal base layer. She caught Olena's gaze lingering—not on her breasts or the curve of her hips, but on the scars: the puckered bullet wound below her ribs, the knife slash across her thigh that never quite healed right. Alex pretended not to notice, but her pulse kicked up anyway.
Gear check was ritual. Alex's fingers moved with muscle memory as she racked the PSG-1's bolt, tested the suppressor's threading, and loaded five-round mags with match-grade 7.62mm—each bullet kissed with graphite for smoother flight. The MP5's folding stock snapped into place with a satisfying click; she thumbed the selector to semi-auto out of habit. Olena, meanwhile, laid out her spotting scope like a priest preparing sacraments, adjusting the parallax until the reticle swam into perfect clarity. Her knives—a wicked Karambit and a utilitarian SEAL pup—got a drop of oil on each hinge.
"Five hours to the hide," Olena murmured, cinching her ghillie hood tight until only her eyes glittered in the gloom. Alex nodded, slinging the rifle case across her back. The weight settled against her spine like an old lover's hand. Somewhere above them, the first hint of dawn stained the eastern sky the color of a bruise.
The climb was a bastard—forty-degree inclines slick with frost, air so thin each breath felt like inhaling through gauze. Alex's thighs burned, her calves trembling under the relentless ascent, but she matched Olena step for step. The Ukrainian moved like a wraith, her boots finding purchase where there was none, her breath coming in controlled puffs that barely fogged the air. Below them, the valley sprawled like a wound, the compound squatting in its center—a fortress of concrete and steel, its glass balcony glinting smugly in the growing light.
At 1,180 meters, they dropped prone. Alex unzipped the rifle case with numb fingers, the PSG-1's cold metal biting into her palms. She assembled it by feel—barrel, bolt, bipod—while Olena set up the spotting scope with surgical precision. The wind was a fickle bitch here, swirling off the mountain faces in unpredictable gusts. Alex dialed the elevation turret, her mind calculating the bullet's arc—1,200 meters, subsonic round, but Kovalenko's balcony glass would be military-grade. They'd need velocity over stealth.
Snowflakes settled on the rifle's suppressor like tiny white flags. Olena exhaled, her breath misting the scope's eyepiece. "Wind holding at 0.2 left... humidity's fucking us," she whispered. Alex's cheek welded to the stock, her right eye narrowing through the scope. Kovalenko's silhouette bloomed in the crosshairs—broad shoulders, cigar glowing like a distant star. Her finger hovered over the trigger, the pad of her index finger memorizing the curve of metal. One shot. Always one shot.
Somewhere in the mountains, a raven cawed. The sound bounced between peaks, disorienting. Alex adjusted her grip, the rifle's weight shifting infinitesimally. Kovalenko turned his head—for a heartbeat, his temple aligned perfectly with the reticle. Olena's hand touched her ankle, a silent pulse of pressure. Send it.
The suppressor coughed. The round left the barrel at 2,550 feet per second. Alex knew the math before the glass shattered—exactly 1.87 seconds of flight time, the bullet yawing slightly as it punched through the balcony door. Kovalenko's head snapped sideways, his cigar tumbling end-over-end into the void below. No sound reached them—just the sudden slackness of a body no longer animated by a brain. Olena was already collapsing the tripod, her movements quick and silent. "Clean," she breathed. Then the world exploded in white light.
Chapter 5 : The Chase
The compound erupted like a kicked hornet’s nest—floodlights searing the snow into blinding whiteness, klaxons wailing in jagged bursts, boots pounding concrete in disciplined chaos. Alex’s gut clenched. Too fast. No way regular security mobilized this fast unless they’d rehearsed the drill. She watched through the scope as a technical with a mounted PKM fishtailed out of the main gate, its headlights already sweeping toward their ridge. "Drones," Olena hissed, pointing southwest where a black dot circled against the dawn—no thermal signature, just a silent observer waiting for the shot.
Alex slammed the bolt home, ejecting the spent casing with a violence that matched the adrenaline spiking her veins. "They knew." The words tasted like gunpowder betrayal. Olena was already shrugging into her pack, her ice-blue eyes reflecting the first tracer rounds stitching the sky. "Move or die, amerykanka." The Ukrainian didn’t wait—she lunged downhill in a controlled slide, ghillie shredding on jagged rocks. Alex followed, the PSG-1’s barrel burning her palm as she gripped it like a lifeline.
The snow betrayed them, bootprints sinking deep as screams.
The chopper's spotlight carved through the predawn gloom like a scalpel, its rotor wash kicking up ghosts of powder that hung in the air like suspended breath. Alex counted seconds between sweeps—three, always three—as she pressed flat against a boulder, the cold seeping through her ghillie suit like a lover's betrayal. Olena's breath fogged against her neck, rapid but controlled, their bodies tangled in the scant cover of a wind-gnarled pine. Below, three technicals fishtailed up the switchback, headlights strobing through the trees in perfect intervals. Too coordinated. This wasn't reaction—this was a goddamn symphony.
A dog barked, the sound ricocheting off the granite faces with unnatural clarity. Olena's fingers dug into Alex's forearm—*northwest, fifty meters*—as the German shepherd's nose lifted from their trail, ears pricked toward the decoy scent patch they'd left on a spruce branch. The chopper banked hard, its spotlight catching the glint of the discarded foil just long enough for Alex to roll left, dragging Olena into the shadow of a snowdrift. The pack's radio crackled in Russian: "Alpha team, converge grid seven-niner. They're herding us toward the ravine."
Alex's pulse thundered in her ears, louder than the approaching engines. She palmed Olena's Karambit, the curved blade biting into her palm as she calculated angles—not to kill the dogs, but to slice their harnesses. One mistake, one whiff of sweat on the wind, and the hounds would turn this hunt into a slaughter. The chopper's search pattern tightened overhead, its downdraft shaking loose a curtain of snow that glittered like falling knives in the artificial light. Somewhere in the maelstrom, a voice shouted coordinates. Alex mouth went dry. Those weren't guesses. Someone was reading their GPS.
The first trailbike skidded into view, its rider leaning so low his elbow scraped ice. Olena's MP5 stuttered—three rounds, controlled pairs—but the rider twisted sideways, letting his momentum carry him into a roll that ended behind a birch trunk. Bullets chewed bark where his skull had been. Too good. These weren't conscripts. Alex pivoted, firing her own suppressed bursts into the treeline where muzzle flashes betrayed the circling team. Two figures crumpled mid-sprint, their blood black against the snow. The remaining pursuers scattered like cockroaches under a light.
500 meters became 400 in a blur of adrenaline and frozen breath. Olena grabbed Alex's harness, yanking her sideways as a grenade arced overhead—not fragmentation, but gas. The warning hiss sent them sprinting uphill, lungs searing, toward the one terrain feature the intercept team wouldn't expect: the sheer rock face where thermal imaging failed. The dogs closed to fifty meters, their handlers lagging behind, radios squawking static-laced orders. Alex chanced a look back. The lead German shepherd's lips curled over teeth still pink with someone else's blood.
Then the forest exploded. A tripwire flare detonated twenty meters upslope—their own decoy, rigged hours earlier—flooding the ravine with magnesium-bright fury. Alex rolled behind a fallen log as the dogs faltered, momentarily blinded. Olena didn't hesitate. Her pistol coughed twice, dropping the trailing handlers with shots so precise their skulls snapped back in unison. The chopper banked hard, its spotlight locking onto their position just as the first armored personnel carrier ground into view from the east. Alex's stomach dropped. The exfil point glowed tauntingly on her HUD—3.2 km away through a gauntlet that just thickened by thirty professional killers.
Her fingers found the mag release by instinct. Two rounds left in the MP5, eleven in the Glock, and the PSG-1's bolt frozen solid from snowmelt refreezing in the action. Olena crouched beside her, ejecting her own spent mag with a grimace. The Ukrainian's hands shook—not from fear but exhaustion, her pupils dilated to black pools in the flare's dying light. Without speaking, she passed Alex her last full AK-12 mag. "No," Alex hissed, shoving it back. Olena's smile was a razor-cut of resignation. "You're the better shot." Above them, the circling drone's infrared laser painted a red dot between Alex's shoulder blades, steady as a sniper's breath before the squeeze.
The Russians fanned out in textbook envelopment—suppressive fire chewing the log apart above their heads, flashbangs arcing into the killing zone. Olena's thigh bloomed scarlet where a ricochet tore through her ghillie like paper. Alex's Glock barked three times, dropping a grenadier mid-throw. The blast cooked off in his rig, spraying shrapnel that sent two more men sprawling. A momentary lull. Alex jammed the AK mag into Olena's chest. "We're not dying in this shithole," she snarled. Olena's fingers closed around the steel. "Then promise me," she breathed, pressing her forehead to Alex's. "No prisoners."
The words hung there—an oath heavier than blood—when the clink of metal on stone made Alex's spine lock. The canister rolled into their hollow like a drunk at a funeral, its fuse already spitting sparks. "Flash—!" Alex's warning died in her teeth as magnesium detonated inches from Olena's face. The blast punched Alex's eardrums flat, white heat searing her retinas even through clenched lids. She tasted copper, felt her jaw crack against the ground as the concussion flipped her onto her back. Somewhere beyond the ringing, boots crunched snow in disciplined pairs—professional killers moving in while their prey clawed at ruined eyes.
Alex's fingertips found Olena's wrist—pulse hammering, sticky with blood—just as the first rifle butt smashed into her ribs. The second blow split her lip against her own teeth. Zip-ties bit into her wrists, cold as winter graves. She bucked against the hands pinning her, her vision still swimming with afterimages of the flare. Someone laughed in Russian, the sound distorted through ruptured eardrums. A boot pinned Olena's thrashing leg. "American bitch," a voice sneered, close enough to smell pickled onions and stale tobacco. The hood came down like a curtain.
Darkness swallowed the mountains, the cold, the fading gunfire. Only the smell of diesel and sweat remained, thick as a burial shroud. The van doors slammed with finality. Somewhere in the black, Olena's breathing hitched—not from pain, but recognition. Alex felt it too, creeping like frost down her spine: they hadn't been outmaneuvered. They'd been sold. And the buyer's name sat in an envelope halfway across the world, stamped with a blood-red smile.
Chapter 6 : The Compound
The van's suspension bottomed out on every pothole, jolting Alex's spine against the metal floor with teeth-rattling precision. The hood reeked of sweat and motor oil, the fabric clinging to her split lip where blood had soaked through. Beside her, Olena's breathing was deliberately slow—controlled inhales through the nose like they'd trained for CS gas—but Alex could feel the tremor in her thigh where it pressed against hers. Someone's boot tapped rhythmically against the wheel well, a tuneless song that set Alex's molars on edge. Fourteen minutes. Long enough to circle the compound twice. They weren't being taken far.
Gravel crunched under tires as the van lurched to a stop. Hands grabbed Alex's shoulders, yanking her upright with a jerk that sent white-hot pain through her already bruised ribs. Her knees buckled—deliberately—but the guard anticipated it, driving a fist into her kidney hard enough to make her retch inside the hood. Cold air slapped her bare skin as she was half-dragged, half-carried across what sounded like a paved courtyard. Olena's voice cut through the ringing in Alex's ears—a snarled "*Yob tvoyu mat'!*"—followed by the meaty crack of a palm against flesh and a barked order in Russian too fast to catch.
The hood came off under fluorescent lights so bright they seared Alex's dilated pupils. She blinked against the glare, her vision swimming into focus on a concrete wall stenciled with Cyrillic warnings. They'd been dumped in what looked like a loading bay—rusted chains hung from ceiling hooks, the floor streaked with old oil stains. Olena swayed beside her, her left eye already swelling shut from the slap, her blonde hair matted with dirt and blood.
The door at the far end creaked open, revealing a silhouette backlit by flickering hallway lights. Roman Lysenko took his time entering, rolling a cigarette between his fingers before tucking it behind his ear. His boots echoed as he circled them, his gaze lingering on Olena's split lip, Alex's bruised ribs. "Welcome back," he said in accented English, pausing to inhale the scent of Olena's hair like a man sampling wine. His smile showed gold-capped molars. He nodded to the guards. They dragged Olena away first, her bare feet scraping against concrete as she threw Alex one last look—not fear, but warning. The door slammed. Alex's cuffs clicked tighter. Roman lit his cigarette.
Chapter 7 : Who Sent You?
The guards moved with the bored efficiency of men who'd done this a thousand times. The first one locked Alex's wrists in a grip like iron, his thumbs digging into the soft tendons until her fingers spasmed open. The second didn't hesitate—two piston-fast punches to her solar plexus, driving the air from her lungs in a wet gasp. She folded forward, only for the first guard to yank her upright by the hair as another sliced through her zip-ties. Cold steel replaced plastic, manacles snapping shut around her wrists before she could tense. Someone pressed a button. Chains whirred overhead, lifting her until her toes barely brushed concrete, her body stretched into a perfect Y that made every bruise scream.
Roman exhaled smoke through his nose, watching as Alex's muscles quivered under the strain. He flicked ash onto the floor between her dangling feet. "You have good pain tolerance," he observed, tapping his cigarette against a rusted meat hook. "But everyone breaks." He nodded to a guard, who stepped forward with a cattle prod. The first jolt arched Alex's back like a bowstring, her scream scraping her throat raw. The second came before she could inhale, locking her diaphragm in a spasm that left her choking on her own spit. Roman crouched, tilting her chin up with the prod. "Who sent you?"
The cattle prod's third kiss found the soft skin behind her knee, the voltage liquefying her muscles in a way that made her heel drum against the concrete. One of the guards laughed—a wet, smoker's chuckle—as Roman traced the scar along her ribs with the cold tip. "American surgery," he mused, pressing until the old wound burned. "But your tattoos..." His finger lingered on the USMC eagle, globe, and anchor above her hip. "These say you believe in something." He straightened, snapping his fingers. The guards moved in like wolves to a carcass.
Hands tore at her gear with clinical efficiency—knives slit through MOLLE straps, her plate carrier hitting the floor with a clatter. Fingers yanked her shirt up over her head, the fabric catching on her bound wrists before ripping free. Cold air prickled her skin as her bra straps parted under a blade's edge, the cups falling away to leave her exposed. Someone gripped her thigh, callouses scraping against gooseflesh as they worked her boots off with rough tugs. Her pants went next, the camouflage fabric peeled down her legs like shedding skin until only the black combat panties remained. The guard hesitated, glancing at Roman, who flicked his cigarette toward the drain. "Everything."
The metal tray clattered onto a rolling cart, its instruments arranged with surgeon's precision. Bone saw, pliers, Metal Rod, Ball-peen hammer, a glass jar of iodine that stung Alex's nostrils just to smell it.
Roman gestured—two fingers flicked outward like he was shooing a fly—and the first guard stepped forward. Not the hammer first; that would come later. The pliers gleamed under the fluorescent lights as he ran the cold steel along the inside of Alex's forearm, watching gooseflesh rise in its wake. "No CIA handbook here," he murmured, his breath reeking of cheap vodka and cured sausage. "Just old Russian efficiency." His grip twisted suddenly, the pliers clamping down on the delicate skin just above her elbow. Alex's teeth ground together, her biceps flexing involuntarily against the pain—sharp, local, intentional.
"Names," Roman said, lighting a fresh cigarette off the butt of his last. The pliers rotated counterclockwise, the guard's knuckles whitening as he applied steady pressure. Alex's vision tunneled, her breath coming in short, controlled bursts through her nose. The skin stretched, threatened to tear—then the guard relented, only to reposition higher, near the tricep. This time, he pinched hard enough to lift muscle away from bone. Alex's back arched against the chains, a strangled "URGH!" escaping before she could lock it down.
Roman exhaled smoke through his nose, watching her pupils dilate with pain. The guard adjusted his grip, the pliers' jaws opening like a crab's claw before settling over the tender flesh of her inner bicep. This time, he twisted slow—deliberate—letting each millimeter of rotation register fully before continuing. Alex's thighs trembled, her toes curling against the concrete as sweat snaked down her ribs. Somewhere beyond the ringing in her ears, Olena's voice echoed through the walls—not a scream, but a guttural curse in Ukrainian that ended with the wet thud of a fist meeting flesh. Roman smiled.
The pliers moved south, tracing the edge of her ribs where the skin was thinnest. Each pinch drew blood—not much, just beads that welled up and trickled down her side in hot, tickling streams. Her breath hitched when they found the scar tissue above her hip, the old bullet wound twitching under the pressure. The guard paused, glancing at Roman for instruction. "Deeper," he murmured, tapping ash onto Alex's thigh. The pliers obeyed, sinking into the ridge of healed flesh until cartilage popped. Alex's scream tore through the room, raw and ragged, her body convulsing against the chains. Roman leaned in, his cigarette dangling from his lips. "Who paid you?"
Cold steel bit into the soft skin of her inner thigh, the guard twisting with sadistic precision. Alex's vision whited out for a second, her knees buckling uselessly against the restraints. The pliers released—only to clamp down higher, just shy of her pubic bone. Roman's thumb brushed the angry red marks left behind, his nail digging into one until fresh blood welled. "Americans always break here," he mused, nodding toward her cunt. The pliers hovered, their cold tips brushing her outer lips. Alex's breath came in short, panicked bursts, her muscles locking as the guard adjusted his grip.
Then—contact. The metal jaws pressed against her labia, the pressure just shy of pain. Roman watched her face, waiting for the flinch. It came when the guard squeezed, the pliers biting into the sensitive flesh with cruel intent. Alex's back arched violently, a animalistic snarl tearing from her throat as her hips jerked away on instinct. Roman laughed, grinding his cigarette out on the cart. "Good," he purred, nodding to the guard. "Again."
The pliers released, leaving behind angry purple crescents that bloomed across her flushed skin. Sweat slicked her ribs, pooled in the hollow of her throat, dripped from her chin onto the concrete. Her breath came in ragged gasps, her chest heaving against the chains with every forced inhale. The guard hesitated, glancing at Roman, who waved him off with a flick of his wrist. "Enough." He circled Alex like a sculptor inspecting his work, his fingers trailing down her quivering abdomen, tracing the constellation of bruises left by the pliers. "Stunning," he murmured, pinching a particularly dark mark just below her navel.
Alex's body sagged against the chains, her muscles spent, her skin glistening under the harsh lights. Every inch of her burned—from the abrasions on her wrists to the fresh bruises blooming along her inner thighs. Roman grabbed her chin, forcing her head up. Her green eyes—glazed with pain but still sharp—met his with unwavering defiance. He smirked, running a thumb over her split lip. "And yet you still don't talk. Roman sighed. "Pity."
The clatter of metal echoed through the concrete chamber as one of the guards hauled an old car battery onto the table. Rust streaked its casing, and the jumper cables—stripped to bare wire at the ends—were crusted with something dark that Alex didn’t want to think about. Roman chuckled, patting the corroded terminals like an old friend. "Let's start with... yeah, car battery. Sorry, we're old fashioned." The guards snickered, one of them clamping the first cable onto her left nipple with a practiced twist. The metal bit deep, cold at first—then searing as the clamp tightened.
"Names!" Roman barked, stepping back. Alex closed her eyes, exhaling through her nose. The first jolt hit—a white-hot lance of pure agony that locked her muscles in a spasm so violent her heels left the ground. Her teeth ground together, her jaw clenching hard enough to crack a molar. The current cut off as abruptly as it came, leaving her gasping, her nipple throbbing where the clamp had bitten in. Roman didn't wait for her to recover. "Again!" Another shock—shorter this time, but sharper, like a knife twisting in her nerves. Then another. And another. The pauses were erratic—sometimes just long enough for her muscles to unclench, sometimes a rapid-fire barrage that left her twitching uncontrollably, her breath ragged.
Her body jerked like a marionette with cut strings, sweat dripping from her nose onto the concrete. The guards watched, their faces indifferent, as Roman leaned in close, his breath hot against her ear. "You think you're strong?" he whispered. Another shock—longer, harder—made her spine arch involuntarily, her toes curling against the floor. But still, no scream. Just a choked "Urgh," forced through clenched teeth. Roman straightened, exhaling through his nose. "Fine." He nodded to the guard holding the cables. "Switch to the ears." The clamp released from her nipple with a wet pop, blood welling where the teeth had pierced. The metal found fresh skin—this time, the delicate flesh of her earlobe. Alex's breath hitched. The current came without warning. This time, she screamed.
The shock wasn't localized—it spiderwebbed through her skull, her vision fracturing into jagged shards of light. Her back arched, her shoulders straining against the chains as her legs kicked uselessly. The second jolt struck before the first had fully faded, her scream rising in pitch, her muscles locked in a seizure-like spasm. The guard grinned, twisting the clamp deeper into her earlobe. Roman watched, arms crossed, as Alex's body writhed, her gasps turning ragged. When the current finally cut, she sagged forward, her knees buckling. Roman grabbed a fistful of her hair, yanking her head back. "Who sent you?"
Blood trickled from her nose—she'd bitten her tongue—but her lips stayed pressed in a tight line. Roman snorted, tossing her head aside with disgust. "Pathetic." He stepped back, nodding to the guards. "Again." The clamp found her other ear this time, the bite of metal just as sharp. The shock that followed was longer, more intense, the voltage dialed higher. Alex's scream shattered the stale air, her body convulsing violently. Her teeth ground together so hard she tasted enamel. The current stopped abruptly, leaving her panting, her vision blurred. Roman leaned in, his lips brushing her ear. "One word," he murmured. "Just one. And it stops."
Her green eyes—still sharp beneath the pain—flicked up to meet his. Blood dripped from her chin, her ribs heaving with each breath. When she spoke, her voice was raw, but steady. "Go to hell." Roman's smile didn't reach his eyes. He straightened, rolling his shoulders. "Again," he said, turning away. The current surged, sharper than before. This time, Alex didn't scream.
The clamp hovered lower now, its rusted teeth pressing against her inner thigh. The guard adjusted his grip, twisting slightly—just enough to make her breath hitch. Roman watched, arms crossed, as the metal jaws crept closer, brushing against the damp curls between her legs. Alex's muscles tensed, her thighs quivering as the clamp settled over her labia. The cold metal bit in—first pressure, then pain—and when the guard squeezed, her body arched violently against the chains.
The shock came without warning. It wasn't like the earlobes or the nipples—this was deeper, hotter, flooding her pelvis with agony that radiated up her spine in jagged spikes. Her scream tore free, ragged and primal, her legs kicking uselessly as her hips jerked against the restraints. The current pulsed—on, off, on again—each wave sharper than the last, her muscles locking in spasms that left her gasping. Blood trickled from where the teeth had pierced, mixing with sweat as it slid down her thighs.
Roman leaned in, his breath hot against her flushed skin. "Names?" he murmured, tracing a finger through the droplets of blood. Alex's lips curled in a snarl, her chest heaving. The guard tightened his grip on the cables. The current surged again—longer, harder—and this time, she didn't just scream. She howled.
