Chapter 1: Time For Something New

Noooooo!

I woke up instantly with a lot of fast-paced breathing. Also, I was drenched head to toe with sweat. For some reason, I keep having the same damn nightmare over and over again! I just want this to be over.

Flashback:

I stood in the dimly lit briefing room, the faint hum of overhead lights the only sound as my team assembled. The air smelled of coffee and adrenaline, the scent of late nights and high stakes. This was my mission—my operation. Months of surveillance, undercover work, and late-night planning sessions led to this moment. My partner and lover, Luka, stood at my side, his dark, messy hair, and eyes sharp as a blade. Behind them, their team—the best soldiers I'd ever trained—waited for my command.

"The target is the Méndez Cartel," I began, my voice steady despite the weight of what lay ahead. "They've turned Vegas into their playground. Drugs, arms deals, human trafficking—it's all run through their empire. Tonight, we're cutting the head off the snake."

I gestured to the holographic display in the center of the room, where a map of Las Vegas lit up, pinpointing a sprawling mansion on the outskirts of the city. "This is their stronghold. Luis Méndez is hosting a high-stakes poker game. It's the perfect cover for their illegal operations. We go in fast, secure Méndez, and gather intel on their network. Questions?"

Silence. The team's faces were grim but resolute. I trusted these men and women with my life—I'd trained them myself. They were the best, and they'd need to be.

"Alright," Luka said, stepping forward. His voice was calm, but I could see the tension in his shoulders. "We stick to the plan. No heroics. We do this clean and get out. Everyone clear?"

A chorus of nods. I exchanged a glance with Luka. We both knew the risks, but there was no turning back now.

The convoy of black SUVs rolled through the neon-lit streets of Vegas, the city's glitz and glamour a stark contrast to the mission's deadly seriousness. I rode in the lead vehicle, Luka beside him, checking his weapon for the third time.

"You nervous?" I asked, a small smile tugging at his lips.

He shot him a look. "Do you really want to ask me that right now?"

I chuckled softly, but the humor didn't reach my eyes. "We've got this, Luka. We've faced worse."

"Not like this," he murmured, his gaze drifting out the window.

When we arrived, the mansion loomed ahead like a fortress, surrounded by high walls and armed guards. My team moved into position, their training evident in every calculated step. They'd divided into three squads: Alpha, led by me and Luka; Bravo, tasked with securing the perimeter; and Charlie, the extraction team.

The operation began smoothly. Alpha squad breached the front entrance with precision, taking down the guards in swift, silent moves. Inside, the mansion was a labyrinth of opulence: marble floors, gilded chandeliers, and the murmur of high-stakes gamblers oblivious to the danger creeping through their midst.

I led the way to the control room, where we had planned to disable the mansion's security systems. Luka covered me, his movements were fluid and efficient. The rest of Alpha cleared the hallways, leaving a trail of unconscious guards in their wake.

But then, things started to go wrong. Very wrong.

"Greyson, we've got a problem," Bravo's leader, Diaz, said over comms. "Perimeter's crawling with reinforcements. Looks like they knew we were coming."

My jaw tightened. "Hold them off as long as you can. Charlie, expedite the extraction plan. We're going to need that exit sooner than expected."

"Copy that," came the reply.

As we reached the control room, a hail of gunfire erupted. Luka dove for cover, returning fire with deadly accuracy. I joined him, barking orders into my comms. Our team held our ground, but the enemy's numbers were overwhelming.

"We're pinned down," Luka shouted, reloading his weapon. "Greyson, we need to move!"

"Not yet," I said, overriding the security panel. "I'm almost there."

A grenade landed near their position. I grabbed Luka and pulled him behind a marble column as the explosion shook the room. When the dust cleared, I saw half my squad lying motionless on the floor.

"No," I whispered, a cold dread settling in my chest.

Luka's voice snapped me back to reality. "Greyson, we have to fall back. Now."

Reluctantly, I abandoned the panel, leading the remaining team members toward the extraction point. The mansion had become a warzone, gunfire echoing through the halls as the cartel's men closed in.

By the time we reached the rendezvous point, only myself, Luka, and two other soldiers remained. The extraction team was nowhere to be seen.

"Charlie, where the hell are you?" I demanded over the radio.

Static.

Luka's eyes darted around the courtyard. "It's a trap."

The realization came too late. Floodlights illuminated the area, and dozens of cartel enforcers surrounded us. A voice rang out over a loudspeaker.

"You've got guts, I'll give you that," Luis Méndez said, stepping forward. He was a tall man with a smug smile, flanked by heavily armed guards. "But this is my city. Did you really think you could take me down?"

I raised my weapon, but Luka grabbed his arm. "No. We're outnumbered. We'll die here."

"Then what do you suggest?" I growled.

"Surrender. For now. We'll find another way."

I hated it, but he was right. Slowly, I lowered my weapon. The cartel's men closed in, disarming us and forcing us to our knees. I locked eyes with Méndez, vowing silently that this wasn't over.

Hours later, I awoke in a dark, damp room, my hands bound behind me. I called out, but there was no answer. Fear gnawed at me—where was Luka? What had they done with him?

A door creaked open, and Méndez entered, his smile as predatory as ever. "Your partner," he said, tossing a bloodied dog tag onto the floor. "He fought well. Shame he couldn't see reason."

My vision was heavily blurred with rage and grief. I lunged at Méndez, but the guards held me back, beating me until he collapsed.

Left alone in the darkness, my mind raced. I'd lost Luka, my team, and the mission. But I wasn't broken. Not yet. If I was going to survive this, I'd need to fight smarter, and harder. I'd make Méndez pay for everything.

This wasn't the end. It was only the beginning.

I've tried to continue going on as an agent, trying to track them down. But to no avail, I couldn't move past the pain. So with failing to continue being an agent, I've decided to leave the agency. Now I'm living in St. George, Utah, working as a part-time clothing store assistant manager for the time being, to keep the income still flowing in, moving on with my life. However, my love life has been in the shitter because I can't get over the loss of Luka. I loved Luka more than anything.

I stared at my reflection in the mirror, my hair still damp from the cold shower. The dark circles under my eyes reminded me of the sleepless nights, the ones filled with memories I'd rather forget. I ran a hand over the faint scar along my jaw, a souvenir from that last operation—a constant reminder of everything I'd lost. Of Luka. Of my team.

"Time for something new," I muttered to myself. "Move on."

I tried. I really did.

Utah was supposed to be a fresh start, a chance to live a normal life. No guns, no missions, no dead-end chases. Just a quiet town where nobody knew my name, working at a job that didn't require me to risk my life every day.

But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't shake the feeling that I didn't belong here. Every morning, I walked into the clothing store, pasted on a smile, and went through the motions of folding shirts and talking about sales. It was mindless. Routine. Safe.

And boring as hell.

I grabbed my keys from the counter and headed out the door. The streets of St. George were quieter than I was used to, the early morning air crisp and cool. The towering red cliffs loomed in the distance, their beauty stark and indifferent to my inner turmoil.

As I approached the store, a familiar voice called out behind me.

"Hey, Greyson!"

I turned to see Tiffany, one of the sales associates. She was all smiles and sunshine, her blonde hair bouncing as she jogged up to meet me. "You're early," she said, her eyes twinkling. "Trying to earn some extra brownie points with the boss?"

I forced a chuckle. "Something like that."

She fell into step beside me as we walked into the store together. "So, got any big plans this weekend? There's a new club opening downtown—should be fun."

I shook my head, my mind already drifting away from the conversation. "Nah, not really my scene."

Tiffany shot me a sideways glance, her smile faltering just a bit. "You've been here for months, Greyson. You've got to get out more. Meet people. Have a life."

She meant well, but the thought of trying to move on felt like trying to wade through quicksand. I didn't know how to live without constantly looking over my shoulder, without the constant buzz of danger that had once kept me alive.

I sighed. "Maybe next time."

Tiffany didn't press the issue. She just gave me a sympathetic smile and headed off to the back of the store to clock in.

I lingered by the window, watching the world go by, wondering how long I could keep pretending this was enough.

The store was practically empty all morning. For some reason, the usual stream of customers looking for new jackets or deals just didn't show up today. By lunchtime, my boss, Gina, walked over with her ever-present coffee cup in hand and a tired smile on her face.

"Greyson, why don't you head out early today? We don't need the extra coverage, and honestly, you look like you could use the rest."

I raised an eyebrow, surprised. "You sure? I don't mind sticking around."

She waved me off. "Go. Seriously. Enjoy the free time. Days like this don't come often."

I couldn't argue with that. A day to myself sounded nice, even if I didn't know what to do with it. "Alright, thanks, Gina. See you tomorrow."

The drive back to my manor was peaceful. The sun was high, casting a golden light over the red cliffs in the distance, and the quiet streets of St. George felt almost too serene. When I pulled into my driveway, though, something caught my attention immediately—a package sitting on the front porch.

I frowned. I wasn't expecting anything. No orders, no deliveries. My instincts prickled as I got out of the car, scanning the area out of habit. Everything seemed normal—no strange cars parked nearby, no signs of anyone lurking around. Still, I approached the package cautiously, my hand brushing the side of my pocket where I kept my folding knife.

The package was plain—brown cardboard, with no logos or markings. There was no return address, just my name in bold, black ink.

Greyson.

My frown deepened. Without another glance, I grabbed the package and stepped inside, locking the door behind me. The faint scent of cedarwood and leather greeted me, a comforting contrast to the unease gnawing at my chest.

I set the package down on the kitchen counter and took a deep breath. It could wait. First, I needed to unwind.

Stripping off my stiff work clothes, I traded my dress shirt and slacks for something far more comfortable—a basic teal hoodie, dark grey sweatpants, and my favorite beanie. The worn fabric hugged my skin like an old friend, instantly making me feel more at ease.

In the kitchen, I busied myself making a drink and a meal. An old-fashioned came together easily—bourbon, sugar, bitters, and an orange peel. The ritual of preparing it was calming, almost meditative. For dinner, I pulled leftover BBQ chicken from the fridge, piling it onto thick slices of toasted bread with a generous amount of cheese. A side of creamy mac and cheese completed the comfort food lineup.

Carrying everything into the living room, I settled onto the oversized leather couch, placing my drink and plate on the coffee table in front of me. I grabbed the remote and turned on the TV, letting the sound of a random action movie fill the silence.

As I took a bite of my sandwich, the smoky tang of the barbecue sauce hit my taste buds, followed by the creamy richness of the mac and cheese. It was exactly what I needed—simple, satisfying, and grounding.

But even as the movie played on the screen, I found my attention drifting. My eyes kept flicking toward the kitchen, where the package still sat on the counter like an uninvited guest.

What was in it? And who had sent it?

I swirled the ice in my glass, leaning back into the couch. The bourbon burned in the best way, but it wasn't enough to quiet the growing curiosity—or the faint edge of dread—that twisted in my gut.

Finally, I sighed and set my drink down. The movie could wait. I needed to deal with that package.

Walking back into the kitchen, I grabbed the box and set it down on the dining table, studying it closely. It was heavier than I'd expected, the weight solid and unnerving in my hands. No markings, no clues. Just my name.

I grabbed a small utility knife from the drawer and carefully cut through the tape sealing the box. The cardboard flaps sprang open, revealing a neatly wrapped bundle inside. Layers of bubble wrap concealed the object, and my pulse quickened as I began peeling it away.

"What the hell is this?" I muttered to myself.

Looking down, I saw something that caught my eye. It was some fancy sort of robotic chip. To what, I have no idea.