Chapter 2 2

The night was loud. To a civilian, it might have seemed quiet, just the chirp of crickets and the rustle of wind in the pines. But to Arleen, the night was a cacophony of information.

She lay in the narrow bed, staring at the dark ceiling. It was 2:00 AM. Hank was passed out on the sofa in the main room, his snoring a rhythmic, choking rattle. Martha was asleep in the back bedroom, exhausted from the emotional rollercoaster of the day.

Arleen was testing her fingers.

Open. Close. Open. Close.

The reaction time was slow. There was a lag between the neural command and the muscular response. It was frustrating. It was like trying to drive a Formula One car with a steering wheel made of dough.

Thwip. Thwip.

The sound came from the woods behind the trailer park.

Arleen froze.

Most people wouldn't have heard it. If they did, they would have dismissed it as a branch snapping or a distant car door.

But Arleen knew that sound. It was the distinct, compressed cough of a suppressor. Specifically, a high-caliber round being forced through baffles. Likely a 5.56mm.

Someone was shooting in the woods. And they were trying to be quiet about it.

She sat up. Her body protested, joints popping, but she ignored it. She slipped out of bed, her bare feet silent on the linoleum. She grabbed a dark hoodie from the pile of laundry on the floor-it smelled of cheap detergent and apathy-and pulled it over her head. Her lank hair fell into her eyes, an immediate tactical annoyance. She scanned the cluttered room and her gaze landed on a cheap plastic hair clip on the dresser. Pink. Broken. A child's accessory. Disgusted but practical, she grabbed it and twisted her hair into a hasty knot at the back of her head, securing it with a click.

She moved through the trailer like smoke. She bypassed the creaky floorboard near the kitchen-a detail from Arleen's memories-and slipped out the back door.

The air outside was damp and cold. The trailer park was asleep.

Arleen crouched low, using the shadows of the rusted propane tanks and overgrown hedges for cover. She moved toward the tree line. Her breathing was heavy. Her stamina was pathetic. She had to stop every fifty yards to let her heart rate stabilize.

This body is a liability, she thought, gritting her teeth.

She entered the woods. The ground was uneven, covered in slick pine needles. She navigated it by feel, her eyes adjusting to the low light.

She tracked the sound. Or rather, the absence of it. The silence in a specific sector of the forest was unnatural. The insects had stopped singing there.

She crested a small ridge and looked down into a clearing.

A man was huddled behind a large granite boulder. He was older, silver-haired, dressed in a torn tuxedo shirt that was rapidly turning red at the abdomen. He was holding a pistol, but his hand was shaking.

General Clemons.

The name floated up from her previous life's database. Retired four-star general, now a major defense contractor on the Clemons-Moretti board. Callsign: Maximus. High-value target.

Three men were advancing on his position. They were moving in a standard fan formation. Black tactical gear. Night vision goggles. Suppressed carbines. Professionals.

Arleen pressed herself into the dirt behind a fallen log.

Analysis: Target has approximately three minutes before bleed-out or execution. Hostiles are closing the net.

She should leave. This wasn't her fight. She was unarmed, weak, and had a mission to revive her brother. Getting shot in the woods of Georgia wasn't part of the plan.

System Alert: Side Quest Triggered.

Objective: Rescue the Target.

Reward: Adrenaline Booster (Permanent) + Basic Combat Reflexes Unlock.

Arleen stared at the holographic text floating in the darkness.

She looked at her trembling hands. She needed that upgrade. If she was going to survive in this world, if she was going to get Dusty back, she needed to be more than a sick girl in a trailer park.

She scanned the ground.

A rock. Jagged edge. Heavy enough to crack a skull.

A discarded length of rusted fencing wire, half-buried in the leaves.

It would have to do.

She picked up the rock in her left hand and the wire in her right.

She waited.

The hostile on the left flank was separating from the group, checking the perimeter. He was moving toward her position.

Arleen controlled her breathing. In. Hold. Out.

He passed the log. He didn't look down. He was relying on his night vision, focusing on the heat signature of the General.

Arleen rose.

She didn't have the strength to overpower him. She had to use leverage and anatomy.

She looped the wire over his head.

She didn't pull back against his throat-that took too much strength. She twisted her body, using her weight to drag him down, the wire biting into the soft tissue of his neck, cutting off the blood flow to the brain.

He thrashed. His hand went for his sidearm.

Arleen slammed the rock into the base of his skull.

It wasn't a graceful kill. It was messy. It was desperate. But the impact hit the vagus nerve. His body went limp.

She dropped him. Her arms were burning as if they were on fire.

She stripped the tactical knife from his vest. The weight of the steel felt like an old friend returning home.

One down. Two to go.

She didn't have the element of surprise anymore. The scuffle had made noise.

"Check that," one of the mercenaries whispered.

The second man turned toward her.

Arleen didn't hide. She threw a pinecone to the right, into a bush.

The mercenary's head snapped toward the sound.

Arleen lunged.

She couldn't run fast, but she could move efficiently. She closed the ten feet between them before he could swing his rifle back.

She drove the knife into the gap between his vest and his neck. She didn't stab; she sliced. The carotid.

He gurgled, hands flying to his throat, dropping his weapon.

The third man-the leader-spun around. He saw his partner falling. He saw a small, hooded figure standing in the shadows.

He raised his rifle.

General Clemons, seeing the distraction, leaned out from behind the rock and fired his last round.

It went wide, hitting a tree, but it made the mercenary flinch.

That split second was all Arleen needed.

She couldn't close the distance. She was too far.

She flipped the knife in her hand, gripping the blade.

Calculation: Distance 15 feet. Wind speed minimal. Target stationary.

She threw.

It was a Hail Mary. With her current strength, the rotation was sluggish.

But her aim was true.

The knife buried itself in the mercenary's right shoulder, just above the trigger guard.

He screamed, the rifle dipping.

Arleen forced her legs to move. She sprinted. It felt like running through molasses.

She tackled him.

She weighed nothing. It was like being hit by a pillow. But she knew where to hit. She drove her knee into his groin. As he doubled over, she jammed her thumbs into his eyes.

He howled and shoved her back. She flew through the air, hitting a tree with a sickening crunch. The impact shattered the cheap plastic clip in her hair, sending it flying into the undergrowth.

Pain exploded in her ribs.

The mercenary stumbled back, reaching for his sidearm with his good hand.

He raised the gun.

Arleen looked at him. She didn't close her eyes.

Bang.

The mercenary's head snapped back. He collapsed.

Arleen looked over. General Clemons was holding the mercenary's dropped rifle. He was panting, his face grey.

Silence returned to the woods.

Arleen tried to stand. She fell. She tried again.

She walked over to the General.

He looked up at her. In the moonlight, she looked like a ghost. A teenage girl in a hoodie, covered in dirt and someone else's blood.

"Who..." the General wheezed.

Arleen ignored him. She picked up the pistol the mercenary had dropped. She checked the chamber. Loaded.

She engaged the safety and tossed it into the bushes.

"Don't move," she said. Her voice was steady, despite the agony in her ribs.

In the distance, the rhythmic thrum of helicopter blades began to beat against the night sky.