Basim's confession hung in the conditioned air. A chain of weakness, debt, and betrayal. Carlos. The Golden Fleece casino. The Giant Rat. Each name was a new coordinate on Raymond's mental map, a vector pointing directly at the heart of his mission. The path to the Sand Rats' main den was no longer a matter of guesswork and blind searching. It was a straight line.
He regarded Basim, huddled on the marble floor. A liability. An asset. Now, just a loose thread.
"Get up."
Basim flinched. He pushed himself onto his hands and knees, then staggered to his feet, swaying slightly. His face was a mess of swelling flesh and terror.
"Walk."
They moved through the silent, opulent corridors of the establishment. Polished wood panels and gilded light fixtures reflected their grim procession. Basim shuffled ahead, a prisoner in his own home. Raymond followed two paces behind, his steps silent, while Sayeed brought up the rear, Sentinel-5 held in a low ready position.
Basim stopped before a suite door identical to all the others and pressed his thumb to the scanner. The lock chimed. He pushed the door open and stepped inside.
The room was larger than Raymond's, decorated with an excess of chrome and dark leather. A wide window overlooked the awakening town, the first rays of dawn touching the sandstone buildings. Basim did not look at the view. He walked directly to an adjoining bedroom.
Rakheel lay on the large bed, covers pulled up to his chest. His face was slack, the intricate golden circuits across his skin seeming dull in the low light. His breathing was slow, even.
"What did you use on him?"
Basim pointed a trembling finger toward a lacquered cabinet built into the wall.
"A sedative. Medical grade. The effects last for eight hours."
Sayeed moved to the cabinet and opened it. Inside sat a pristine medical case. He unlatched it, revealing neat rows of glass vials filled with clear liquid, alongside a sterile syringe in its packaging.
Raymond looked from the vials to Basim, who shrank back against the wall, eyes wide with understanding.
"Inject him."
Sayeed picked up a vial and the syringe without a word. He tore open the plastic wrapper with his teeth, fitted the needle, and drew a precise dose from the vial. Air hissed as he flicked the syringe.
Basim's breath hitched.
"No, please, I told you everything—"
Sayeed stepped forward. Basim tried to scramble away but the mercenary's hand clamped onto his shoulder, an unbreakable grip. The needle slid into the soft flesh of Basim's arm. The plunger depressed smoothly.
Basim's eyes rolled back. His body went limp, and he slumped to the floor in a heap.
Sayeed looked at the unconscious man, then at Raymond.
Raymond turned his attention back to Rakheel, asleep on the bed. A problem contained.
"We collect the intelligence reports in the morning."
He met Sayeed's gaze.
"Then we go to Cyber City."
The day bled away into a tense evening. Rakheel had awoken near dusk, his fury a palpable force in the suite. He learned of his nephew's betrayal not from Raymond, but from Sayeed, whose blunt, factual delivery stripped the act of any familial drama, leaving only the cold steel of treason. The merchant's first instinct was for blood, a call for an execution that Sayeed calmly deflected. Basim, drugged and locked away, not a threat. For now.
While Rakheel wrestled with his rage, Raymond and Sayeed spent the next afternoon in the sun-baked streets of Rocky Town, moving from one shadowed alcove to another, trading credits for whispers. They returned with multiple intelligence reports, a mosaic of truths, lies, and omissions.
Raymond swiped a finger across the smooth glass of his pad. The file ended. He looked up. Across the low table, Rakheel and Sayeed were still hunched over their own devices, their faces illuminated by the pale blue glow. The merchant's jaw was a knot of muscle; Sayeed read with the detached focus of a man dissecting a bomb.
A dry cough from Raymond cut the silence.
Both men looked up, pulled from their analysis.
Raymond set his pad down. He gestured towards the centre of the table, and a three-dimensional map shimmered into existence above the polished wood. The arid expanse of the Serenity Desert filled the space, its topography rendered in sharp detail. Red icons pulsed over Rocky Town, the distant silhouette of Cyber City, and three smaller pinpricks marking the Sand Rats' minor outposts. The consolidated intelligence of all the brokers, paid for in forty thousand credits.
"We head to Cyber City."
With a flick of his wrist, the map zoomed, the desert contracting until the neon-drenched sprawl of the criminal hub dominated the projection. Its outer regions were a chaotic jumble of makeshift structures and abandoned industrial husks.
"Multiple reports gave us the same general layout of the gang's territory."
He pointed to a sprawling cluster of red icons on the city's fringe.
"But they all left something out. Deliberately."
He swiped again, and a new data file appeared beside the map. It was shorter, less polished than the others.
"This is from the last broker, the one operating out of the mechanic's shop. A minor player. He gave us something the others hid."
Raymond tapped the new file. A name glowed in the air: The Golden Fleece Casino.
"He mentions rumours. The owner makes shady deals with the Sand Rats."
Rakheel's eyes narrowed. The connection clicked into place, a key turning in a lock.
"Basim," the merchant rumbled, the name tasting like ash in his mouth.
"Basim confessed his connection to the gang began there," Raymond confirmed. "A gambler named Carlos. The Giant Rat's brother-in-law. It's no coincidence."
The pieces assembled themselves on the holographic display. A casino. A network of debt. A pipeline of vulnerable, wealthy marks.
"The Golden Fleece isn't just a gambling den. It's a hunting ground. A place where the Sand Rats find people to blackmail and extort. A recruitment office for traitors like your nephew."
He extinguished the minor broker's report, leaving only the map. His finger traced a path from the city's outer wall to the casino.
"We use it as our breakpoint. We go in, identify a high-value target inside the casino's operation, and take them. Someone who can give us the exact location of the main den."
Rakheel's expression shifted, the weathered lines of his face deepening with something close to fear. He set the data pad down slowly, the device clicking against the polished table surface.
"You speak of targeting a notorious gang as though we are discussing cargo routes," Rakheel began, his voice heavy with the weight of pragmatism. "What you propose requires manpower. Bodies. Skilled operators who can breach a fortified position without being slaughtered in the first thirty seconds."
He paused, hands spreading in a gesture of helplessness.
"Which we do not have."
Raymond remained silent, watching the merchant process the logistical reality.
"I can provide financial support," Rakheel continued, frustration bleeding into his tone. "Credits are no obstacle. Equipment, bribes, intelligence—all within my reach. But the problem of manpower…"
He trailed off, shoulders sagging slightly.
"That is something I cannot help you with."
Rakheel's gaze shifted to Sayeed, a sigh escaping as though passing an unspoken burden.
Sayeed nodded, understanding the cue. He leaned forward, his expression carved from the same pragmatic stone that had kept him alive through torture and captivity.
"I can use my mercenary connections," Sayeed stated flatly. "Desert Eagles are scattered after our group was destroyed, but there are others. Free agents. Men who fight for credits and survival, not loyalty."
He paused, letting that truth settle.
"I can gather a motley crew—enough bodies to make noise and draw blood. But their loyalties will not be guaranteed. They'll bolt at the first sign of overwhelming resistance, or worse, sell us out if the price is right."
Sayeed's scarred fingers tapped the table edge, a rhythm of calculated thought.
"Which means we need a smokescreen target. Something that looks like the real objective, draws their attention and commitment, while the actual operation proceeds elsewhere."
Raymond listened, his mind already turning, gears meshing with precision honed through two decades of operational experience. The casino. Carlos. A wealthy foreign mark wandering into the Golden Fleece, dripping with credits and arrogance.
Perfect bait.
"Get the crew ready for the abduction plan," Raymond instructed Sayeed, his tone leaving no room for negotiation.
Then Raymond turned to Rakheel.
"Can you provide me with a fake identity? A wealthy foreign scion coming to Cyber City seeking pleasure. Someone who would naturally gravitate toward a high-stakes casino."
Rakheel blinked, momentarily puzzled by the request.
"I can," Rakheel confirmed. "Documentation, credit certificates, wardrobe—all convincing enough to pass scrutiny at establishments like the Golden Fleece."
Raymond nodded once, satisfied.
Raymond regarded the holographic map for a moment longer, then dismissed it with a gesture. The blue light collapsed, leaving only the suite's ambient illumination.
"Alright."
He shifted his weight forward, elbows resting on his knees.
"We head to Cyber City at dusk."
Sayeed nodded, accepting the timetable without question.
Raymond's gaze moved to Rakheel.
"Can you provide convenient transport?"
The merchant's weathered face creased into something resembling relief. A problem he could solve.
"Absolutely," Rakheel affirmed.
"Good."
Raymond turned his head, his focus shifting to the drugged figure sprawled on the bedroom floor. Basim lay motionless, chest rising and falling with shallow, sedated breaths.
"Wake him up."
Sayeed glanced at Rakheel. The merchant's expression tightened.
"I'll do another round of interrogation," Raymond continued, his tone flat, clinical. "I need everything Basim knows about Carlos. Habits, routines, associates. Everything."
He stood, rolling his shoulders once.
"Both of you—step out."
The hallway beyond the suite was cooler, the air conditioned to a precise, sterile temperature. Sayeed closed the door behind them with a soft click. The latch engaged. He moved across the corridor and settled onto a low bench built into the opposite wall, his scarred hands resting on his knees.
Rakheel remained standing, arms crossed, his back against the wall beside the door.
Neither spoke.
Minutes passed. The silence stretched, punctuated only by the faint hum of the building's climate system.
Then the first scream came.
Muffled. Choked. A wet, gurgling sound that cut off abruptly, replaced by ragged, gasping breaths.
Sayeed's expression remained neutral, though his fingers tightened slightly against his knees.
Rakheel flinched. His jaw worked, grinding molars together, but he said nothing.
Another scream—sharper this time, rising in pitch before dissolving into incoherent babbling. Words tumbled out, too fast, too broken to parse through the thick door.
Sayeed exhaled slowly through his nose. He leaned back against the wall, eyes fixed on the opposite corridor.
Rakheel closed his eyes.
The sounds continued. Methodical. Precise intervals between each cry. A rhythm that spoke of control, of expertise. Not rage. Not pleasure. Something colder.
Finally, the door opened.
Raymond emerged, his hands slick with red. He moved calmly to the hallway side table, where a decorative ceramic basin sat beside a folded towel. He washed his hands with deliberate care, the water running pink before swirling down the basin drain.
He dried his palms, then turned to face them.
"I have all the details about Carlos now."
His tone carried no inflection. A mission parameter fulfilled.
Raymond's gaze shifted to Rakheel.
"Do whatever you want with Basim."
The merchant's expression transformed. His lips curled into something cruel, vindictive. Decades of mercantile politeness stripped away, revealing the desert survivor beneath.
Rakheel moved past Raymond without a word, entering the suite. The door closed behind him.
Raymond crossed the corridor and settled onto the bench beside Sayeed. His posture relaxed, shoulders dropping slightly as adrenaline began its slow ebb. He rested his head against the wall, eyes half-closed.
But his attention wasn't on the corridor.
A translucent notification hovered in his peripheral vision, visible only to him.
[ Basic Interrogation Technique - Successful ]
Below it, another line:
[ Acquired Title: Torturer ★☆☆☆☆ ]
[ Description: Awarded for the precise and excellent use of physical and psychological pressure to systematically break a target's will. This title significantly increases your chance of extracting information. ]
Raymond's gaze moved past the title description.
His focus locked on the final entry.
[ ACHIEVEMENT: First Title ]
[ REWARD: 20 REP ]
His eyes narrowed fractionally.
Finally.
The system had rewarded him. Not for combat. Not for kills. For a title. For achieving something beyond simple violence.
His current REP count now sat at 61.
Raymond exhaled slowly, processing the implications. If this is how an achievement was triggered, then the path forward became harder. More complex. More dangerous.
He closed the notification with a thought.
We will travel again after dusk, I should probably get some rest.
As that notion took hold, Raymond allowed his body to sink onto the seat, closing his eyes.