Ghost

The first sensation was pressure, a tight, unyielding burn around both wrists, pulled back and bound behind him. Then came the ache, deep in his skull, throbbing in time with a heartbeat he could feel in his temples. The last clear memory was the muzzle flash of an AK, the sickening crunch of the stock against his temple, and the world tilting into black. After that, only fragmented impressions: the jostle of a vehicle floor, the prick of a needle, chemical oblivion.

Consciousness greeted him with unpleasant stimuli: The dim, stagnant air of a closed space. The gritty feel of concrete dust under his thighs. The low hum of fluorescent tube lighting above his head. He was seated on the floor, back against a cold, rough wall. His shoulders screamed from the position, arms secured behind his back with what felt like coarse, thick rope, professionally tied, no give. His balaclava was still on, the fabric damp with sweat and probably blood near his left temple. They hadn't tried to remove it. Yet. He doubt they'll let him keep it for much longer.

He tested the bonds subtly, shifting his weight, feeling the fibres bite into his skin. No slack. Standard capture knots. His tactical vest was gone, as were his weapons, knives, and comms. They’d left him in just his black shirt, his fatigues and boots. His head pounded, a sharp, persistent pain behind his eyes that spoke of a concussion. His mouth was cotton-dry, taste of copper and dirt.

The room was a garage with stained concrete floors. Stained with oil or blood, he couldn't tell, doesn't make much difference to him either way. Metal shelves lined one wall, empty save for a few rusted cans. One large rolling door, shut tight. A single personnel door on the far wall, metal, with a small, reinforced window set high up. No actual windows otherwise.

He listened, trying to get his bearings. Distant, muffled sounds of activity, a vehicle engine, faint voices speaking a language he couldn’t immediately place through the pounding in his head. No guard visible in the room with him. Standard procedure. Isolate the prisoner, let the disorientation and solitude work on them before the interrogation begins.

Ghost let his head fall back against the wall with a soft thud. The movement sent a fresh spike of pain through his skull, forcing his eyes shut tight for several seconds. He breathed slowly, in through the nose, out through the mouth. Cataloging. Inventorying. Concussion. Bound. Disarmed. Isolated. Location unknown. Enemy composition unknown.

His mind began cycling through the possibilities, the faces of the last firefight. Shadows in the alley. The ambush had been clean, too clean for local militia. Professional. Whoever they were, they wanted him alive and talking. That was their first mistake.

He shifted again, working his wrists in small, deliberate circles against the ropes, feeling for any weakness in the knot or the anchor point. The skin was already raw. He stopped, conserving energy. The door would open soon. Someone would come in. And the real work would begin.

For now, he sat in the silence, waiting.