The Chimera Vector

The stench of gasoline and blood hung heavy in the desert air.

Dust devils danced across the rough ground as you knelt beside the wrecked Citroën sedan, the metallic tang of death sharp in your nostrils. The bodies inside were a stark reminder of the brutal efficiency of your work, yet a creeping unease settled in your gut.

Beside you, Damien’s breath plumed in the cold, his gaze fixed on the mangled forms.

“They’re toast,” he said, his voice flat.

Your mind felt like a jumbled mess, pieces of the night’s events refusing to slot together properly. The memory of the Minister of Defense's head popping like a grape felt distant, almost unreal.

Behind you, Jay’s footsteps crunched on the grit as he returned from the Land Cruiser, his usual easygoing demeanor replaced by a tense silence. The mission hadn't gone as planned, and the unexpected encounter with the Takavaran patrol—or were they civilians?—had thrown everything into disarray.

Suddenly, headlights cut through the darkness, flooding the scene. A Humvee, rolling hip-hop music rattling from its improvised armor, pulled up nearby. More soldiers. American.

"What are they doing over the border?" Damien muttered, his hand already tightening on his carbine.

You took a steadying breath, your eyes narrowing. Time to put on a different face. Time to lie.