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LUCAS
Darkness pressed against Lucas's eyelids long before he opened them. The metallic smell—blood, rust, old fear—hit him first. Then the ache. His ribs. His head. His hands tied behind a cold steel chair.
A groan escaped him.
Where…?
And then, like a floodgate forcing itself open, the memories came.
FLASHBACK — EARLIER THAT MORNING
The day had started like every other.
Lucas Kane, FBI Special Agent, Narcotics Division. Eight years on the job. Hundreds of busts. A reputation for cracking cartel lines before they spread like wildfire across state borders.
His team moved with him—six agents he trusted with his life. Two SWAT units backing them up. Intelligence had pinpointed a warehouse on the outskirts of the city as a hub for a large incoming shipment. The kind that shifts the balance of the drug war overnight.
Lucas stood in the briefing room, running through the operation.
"Quick in, quick out," he'd said. "No hero plays. We find the product, secure the suspects, we're done by noon."
He almost smiles now. God, how wrong I was.
THE RAID
The warehouse lights flickered as they breached the doors. SWAT fanned out, weapons raised. Lucas and his team swept the left side, moving between rusted shipping containers.
Then the radios died.
Static. Nothing.
"Command, come in," Agent Ruiz whispered. No response.
Lucas felt it in his spine—the wrongness.
A click echoed.
Then hell opened.
The first explosion tore through the north side, flinging metal and bodies into fire. The second detonated overhead, shattering the catwalk. Screams filled the air. Agents cut off from each other. SWAT pinned down by gunfire from hidden positions.
"They were waiting for us!" someone shouted.
Traps everywhere—tripwires, pressure plates, remote detonators. An entire death maze disguised as a warehouse.
Lucas ran toward his team—
—just before the third explosion swallowed him.
Something slammed into his chest, lifting him off his feet and hurling him through a broken window. The world became fire, metal, and sudden silence.
BACK TO THE PRESENT
Lucas snapped awake, breathing hard, the taste of smoke still clinging to his throat.
He lifted his head slowly.
A single bulb swung overhead, buzzing like an angry insect. Concrete walls. No windows. His wrists were tied behind the chair so tight he could feel skin tearing.
Footsteps echoed somewhere behind him.
He swallowed.
So he hadn't died.
Which meant someone wanted answers.
A door creaked open.
"Welcome back, Agent Kane," a voice said—smooth, amused, wrong. "We've been waiting for you."
Lucas clenched his jaw.
This wasn't an accident. The raid wasn't a failure.
This was a setup.
And now he was in the middle of it.
CONTINUATION — LUCAS
Lucas had woken up nearly an hour ago. The pain had hit him first—sharp, burning, pulsing through his wrist. He'd tested the restraints the moment he came to, and the bone had cracked under the pressure. A silent break. Clean. Controlled.
It was a risk.
But a broken hand could be useful.
Pain could be masked.
Movement could be hidden.
So he kept his breathing shallow, head slumped forward, body limp.
Play unconscious. Play weak. Let them think you're just another broken agent.
Beside him, two masked guards stood like statues. Black cloth over their faces, rifles slung casually but ready. They believed he was out. Good. That gave him time. Time to listen. Time to think.
Outside the door, voices argued—sharp, tense, angry. Snatches of conversation filtered through the thin metal walls:
"—should've killed him there—"
"—boss said alive—"
"—FBI will come—"
"—not before we're done—"
The door screeched open.
A third man entered.
He wasn't masked. That told Lucas something important: they didn't expect him to leave this room alive.
He carried a metal bucket filled with water. It sloshed as he set it down. Behind him, on a rusted tray, were the tools—pliers, clamps, a blowtorch, electrical leads, a coiled rubber hose. Instruments designed for slow lessons, not quick answers.
The man crouched, lifting Lucas's chin to inspect his face.
"Still out?" he muttered.
Lucas let his head roll uselessly. Dead weight.
The man chuckled. "Good. Saves me the trouble of pinning you down."
He dipped a cup into the bucket and splashed the water across Lucas's face. The cold hit him like ice shards, but Lucas didn't react. Not even a twitch.
Another splash.
Another.
The man grunted, annoyed. "Should've woken up by now…"
But Lucas kept still.
As the water dripped from his hair, he let his eyes open just a fraction—barely a slit. Enough to scan.
Concrete room. One door. No windows. Two guards. One torturer. A table of tools. A single overhead light. His feet were tied to the chair legs but not anchored to the floor. His left hand—broken, swelling—was half-loose in the cuff. If he could slip it out, even at the cost of tearing skin, he'd have a chance.
He shifted his attention inward.
Bruised ribs but not broken.
Legs numb but functional.
Vision clear.
Concussion mild.
Breathing steady.
Only the hand was compromised.
Good. I can work with that.
The torturer stood again, grabbing a pair of pliers. "Wake him," he told the guards. "The boss wants him screaming before dawn."
Lucas let his muscles tighten slowly, preparing.
They think I'm helpless.
They have no idea.
The blows kept coming—heavy fists slamming into Lucas's jaw, his ribs, his cheek. He let his body swing with each hit, pretending to be barely conscious. Pretending to be helpless.
But he wasn't helpless.
He was counting.
One guard on the left:
AK-47 in his hands.
A pistol tucked at his waist—careless, too close, too exposed.
One guard on the right:
Only the AK-47.
More focused, more alert.
The torturer:
Too confident.
Too close.
Another punch cracked across Lucas's face. He let himself fall with it—chair and all— crashing sideways onto the concrete. The guards cursed and moved in fast, grabbing the edges of the chair to lift him.
Now.
With his broken hand half-loose in the cuff, Lucas forced it free—pain tearing up his arm. He ignored it. He shot his wrist forward, fingers closing around the pistol at the guard's waist even as the man bent down.
The torturer saw the motion first.
His eyes widened. "Hey—!"
Lucas ripped the pistol free.
The guard holding him froze in confusion—too slow.
Lucas fired once.
The guard staggered back, dropping his rifle as he collapsed.
The second guard jerked his AK up, but Lucas was faster—turning, sight already lined—
One shot.
The guard's body crumpled.
Silence slammed into the room.
Only the torturer was left. He stepped back, hands lifted, face pale.
"Wait—wait—"
Lucas didn't.
A clean shot dropped the man instantly.
Breathing hard, he turned back to the first guard—the one he'd hit in the stomach. The man lay on the ground, gasping, staring up at him, fear in his eyes and blood pooling beneath him.
Lucas tightened his grip on the pistol.
He wasn't going to leave anyone suffering.
And he wasn't leaving witnesses.
One last shot.
The room fell still.
Lucas pushed himself up with shaking legs, the broken hand throbbing.
But he was alive.
Free.
Armed.
And whoever had set up the raid…
They were about to learn their mistake.