The alley was a canyon of rusted metal and stained concrete. Dumpsters overflowed, their contents leaching foul odours into the humid night. Trickle of lukewarm condensation dripped from corroded pipes overhead, splattering against the grit-strewn pavement. Distant thrum of city generators provided a low hum, beneath the closer scuttling of unseen creatures. Fluorescent glow spilled from high windows of the casino, casting long, distorted shadows that danced with their movement.
One hundred meters along the alley, Carlos slowed. He motioned Raymond to turn into a narrower side street. The air grew thicker there. Stale. The light dimmer. Raymond's feet crunched against discarded shards of synth-glass.
Engines growled. Not distant city hum, but close. Too close.
Raymond stopped. His head snapped up, the fake drunkenness dissolving.
Two desert buggies, reinforced with dark plating, peeled around the corner ahead, blocking their path. Behind them, two more buggies, accompanied by a pair of growling motorcycles, sealed off the alley's entrance. The vehicles moved in tight formation, designed to cut off escape.
They're here.
Carlos cursed under his breath. The relaxed smile vanished, replaced by a rigid mask of surprise and fear. His eyes darted, searching for an exit that didn't exist.
"What the—"
Six figures erupted from the vehicles. Dark, heavy clothing. Faces obscured by ballistic masks. They moved with predatory efficiency, weapons held low, ready. Not casino security. Not a random mugging. This was organized. Professional.
Raymond braced himself, then slumped his shoulders. The persona of John Reese reasserted itself. A spoiled rich kid. Out of his depth.
"Get down!" Carlos shouted, shoving Raymond. The man tried to draw a pistol from inside his jacket, a frantic, fumbling movement. Too slow.
A masked figure moved on Carlos with blinding speed. Carlos managed to get the weapon halfway out before a heavy boot slammed into his wrist. The pistol clattered onto the pavement. Carlos cried out, clutching his hand, then a fist connected with his jaw. He dropped, unconscious, a dead weight against the alley wall.
Another masked merc closed on Raymond. Raymond offered minimal resistance. Just enough for it to look like a desperate, untrained flail. The merc caught Raymond's arm, twisted. Pain flared. Raymond yelped, a high-pitched, pathetic sound. Perfectly delivered.
A heavy hand clamped over Raymond's mouth, another grabbed his hair, yanking his head back. A coarse sack was shoved over his head, plunging him into instant darkness. The fabric smelled of stale sweat and vehicle exhaust. Rope bit into his wrists, then his ankles. Efficient. Tight.
Rough hands lifted and dragged him. The world became a jumble of impacts and shouts. He heard the muffled thud of Carlos's body being moved. They threw him into a buggy, landing hard against metal. Another body—Carlos—landed beside him. The engines screamed. Tires spun. They were moving.
The buggy's suspension bottomed out; the impact jarred Raymond's spine against the metal floor. He remained limp, letting his body absorb the impact rather than tensing against it. The vehicle skidded to a halt on loose gravel. They cut the engine; the echo of slam-closed doors and heavy boots crunching on debris replaced the sound.
Rough hands hauled Raymond from the cargo bed. He kept his muscles slack, his head lolling forward while they dragged him across a concrete expanse. Through slitted eyelids, he registered the environment. A cavernous structure, likely a repurposed pre-war manufacturing plant, served now as a tomb for industrial waste. The air tasted of ozone and rotting hydraulic fluid. Towering piles of rusted machinery loomed in the gloom like skeletal beasts, casting jagged shadows under portable floodlights' harsh glare.
They dragged Raymond up a rusted metal staircase; the grating vibrated under the mercenaries' weight. Carlos winced through the gag every time his limbs bumped the railing as they hauled him up behind Raymond. Reaching a landing, they shoved Raymond into a small room—the old supervisor's office overlooking the factory floor.
Raymond hit the floor covering hard; he exhaled sharply to sell the impact. They threw Carlos in next, landing him in a heap near the desk. The door slammed shut. The heavy clack of a sealing mag-lock echoed through the small space.
Outside the room, two of the masked figures stripped off their tactical gear. One held Raymond's expensive core-sector watch, examining it under the light.
"Check the signature on the watch," the taller mercenary said, his voice muffled by the thick walls but quite audible in the quiet warehouse. "This gives us more value than my last job's commission."
The second mercenary released a harsh, metallic laugh. "Forget the watch. If his old man actually runs arms from Kirak, the ransom will fetch high prices. We hold him until the Boss clears the deal with the contact. Ten percent of the shares goes to each of us."
"And the other one? The gambler?"
"Collateral. Once we verify the kid's background, we dump the dead weight."
Inside the office, Carlos heard all that and cursed under his breath. He pushed himself to a sitting position, clutching his swelling wrist. Pain and realization widened his eyes as they shifted from the mercenaries to John, motionless on the floor. The conversation's reality drained the blood from his face as the realization settled in.
Carlos twisted against the bindings, the coarse fibers dug red grooves into his wrists. Sweat slicked his brow as he scraped them back and forth against the desk's sharp metal edge. A muffled curse escaped his gag as the pain sharpened—skin split, blood smeared the desktop—but the rope finally gave way with a satisfying snap.
"Amateurs," he spat out the gag, wiping his mouth with his freed hands. The contempt in his voice carried over the distant sound of heavy machines outside. He rubbed circulation back into his wrists, then turned to Raymond's motionless form. "Hey. John. Wake up."
Raymond shuddered violently, blinking as if surfacing from deep water. His breaths came fast, panicked. "Wh—where are we? What's happening?" His voice pitched higher, cracking convincingly. Bindings clinked as he tested them, his gaze darting manically around the glass-walled room.
"Easy." Carlos worked at the knots around Raymond's ankles.
"They botched the restraints." He jerked his chin toward the mercenaries beyond the glass. "We can get out before they—"
Raymond lurched upright the moment his legs came free, scrambling to his feet too fast, bracing himself against the desk. Colours leeched from his face. He acted the part flawlessly—a disoriented prey animal trembling in survival mode. "We need to... to get out. Now," he insisted.
"I know, and we will. Don't worry," Carlos said, moving closer to tap Raymond's shoulder reassuringly.
Raymond recoiled, jerking his body away from Carlos, feigning suspicion. "Are you with them? Is this all a setup?"
He shifted to a pleading tone. "Please don't hurt me. My dad! My dad can give you money. Just let me go!" He played the rich scion's kidnapping role perfectly.
"You got it all wrong, John. I am not with them. Calm down!" Carlos said. "Don't make loud noises or else we alert them!"
Raymond felt reassured, asking for confirmation once more, "You are not lying, are you?"
Carlos shook his head, pointing towards the door, "I am telling the truth. Look, I heard them speak of asking your father to pay your ransom."
Raymond feigns surprise and delight, "Oh! That's a good thing, right?" he lowers his head, "My dad will pay, I am sure of it!"
Tsk!
Carlos clicked his tongue. "No, John, they will not let us go even if they get the ransom. They know about your father, which means they must know tracking them down would prove easy with his connections, so they will silence us once they get the money."
He is attempting to make me nervous? Good strategy, I will play with him.
Raymond feigned panic.
"But it's alright. Once we can get out of here I will have my brother-in-law hunt these motherfuckers down," Carlos said, gritting his teeth.
"Bu—Bu—But how?" Raymond faked nervousness.
"We should look for any exits; warehouse supervisor quarters like these should have some." Carlos turned, scanning the area for routes of escape.
Carlos's eyes locked onto a vent situated near his right, above the metal cabinet.
Carlos nodded toward the industrial vent near the ceiling, its rusted cover barely hanging on by one corroded screw. "That's our way out."
Raymond stuttered looking at it. "How—how do you know it leads outside?"
"You got a better idea?" Carlos shot back, voice edged with tension.
The dim fluorescent glow locked their eyes—Carlos searched Raymond's expression, and Raymond let him see only calculated desperation.
Silence stretched.
Finally, Raymond exhaled. "Fine. Let's go."
Carlos nodded, and dragged the desk beneath the vent, the legs screeching against concrete.
The decision was made.
Carlos pressed through the narrow opening initially, his body scraping metallic ribs, and the structural vent groaned in protest—a high, strained sound—yet somehow sustained his shifting mass. The metal felt cold, slick with a fine layer of settled grime beneath Raymond's gloved touch. When Carlos had wormed his way deeper into the darkness, Raymond ascended too, pulling his frame into the tight enclosure, crawling silently behind him.
The vent shaft amplified their ragged breathing. Raymond pressed his knee into a weak spot—metal shrieked in protest but held. He adjusted position to distribute weight evenly. The stale, metallic stench of decades-old dust filled his nostrils. Ahead, Carlos crawled inch by inch; the oppressive darkness barely revealed his silhouette.
Light bled through the vent cover at the tunnel's end. Carlos reached it first and tested the edges with probing fingers—the edges felt loose. One sharp elbow strike dislodged the cover completely, sending the rusted grate clattering to the pavement three meters below. He dropped through the opening in a controlled fall, rolling to absorb the impact.
Raymond tumbled out seconds later, coughing violently as fresh air hit his lungs. He collapsed onto all fours, gasping as his knees gave out, acting perfectly according to the persona of John.
Carlos remained crouched, scanning the abandoned loading dock they'd emerged onto. Broken crates littered the cracked concrete. The warehouse's exterior lights cast long shadows across the derelict space.
Shouting erupted from inside the building. Heavy boots pounded toward the office they'd just vacated.
"Motherf—" Carlos scrambled upright, his eyes wild, grabbing Raymond's sleeve and dragging him toward the chain-link fence at the dock's edge. Their footsteps echoed too loud in the empty yard.
A searchlight flared to life, sweeping across the pavement behind them. Carlos vaulted the fence in one fluid motion, landing in a crouch on the other side. Raymond clambered over with less grace, panting.
"They'll have vehicles," Raymond hissed, scanning the maze of industrial alleys ahead. The stench of sulfur from nearby refineries burned his throat. "Where do we go?"
Carlos grabbed Raymond's sleeve, tugging him away from the fence.
"The casino. We circle back to the casino."
Panic coloured Raymond's expression—wide eyes, shallow breaths—though his mind calculated angles and distances. He maintained the John Reese persona even now.
"You sure?"
"Your security detail's still there. We reach them, we're safe."
They moved through industrial corridors, keeping to shadows where rusted machinery provided cover. Carlos navigated confidently, clearly familiar with the outer sprawl's layout. Raymond followed two steps behind, maintaining the image of someone dependent on his guide's expertise.
Engines roared behind them. Two buggies appeared at the corridor's far end, searchlights sweeping across corroded walls.
"Run!"
Carlos broke into a sprint. Raymond matched his pace, letting the other man lead whilst cataloguing their surroundings—loading bays to the left, abandoned refineries to the right, a drainage channel cutting across their path fifty metres ahead.
Automatic fire chattered. Rounds sparked off metal plating above Raymond's head. He ducked reflexively, stumbling for effect, before Carlos hauled him forward by the arm.
They vaulted the drainage channel. Carlos's boot caught the far edge and he nearly fell, windmilling his arms for balance. Raymond steadied him with a grip on his jacket.
The buggies couldn't follow across the gap. Engines whined as drivers reversed to find alternate routes.
More gunfire. Closer this time. Raymond glanced back—motorcycles threading through narrow passages the buggies couldn't navigate.
"There!" Carlos pointed toward a skeletal structure ahead—the casino's rear section visible beyond two more industrial blocks.
They sprinted across open ground. A motorcycle emerged from their left, rider raising a compact SMG. Raymond shoved Carlos sideways as bullets stitched the pavement where they'd been running.
The rider circled for another pass.
Carlos's breathing came ragged now. "Can't... make it..."
Raymond assessed the distance. Four hundred metres to the casino. Three motorcycles converging on their position. No cover between here and the target.
Carlos seized Raymond's shoulder, spinning him around. Recognition lit his eyes—he'd spotted familiar landmarks despite their desperate flight.
"West. My brother-in-law's place is west."
"How far?"
"Two blocks. Safe house. Well defended."
Raymond let uncertainty cross his face before nodding. They changed direction, abandoning the casino route. The motorcycles adjusted pursuit, engines screaming.
A narrow access tunnel appeared between warehouses. Carlos plunged into it without hesitation. Raymond followed, shoulder scraping against rough concrete as the passage narrowed further.
Motorcycle engines echoed behind them but grew more distant—too wide to follow.
They burst from the tunnel into an enclosed compound. Reinforced buildings surrounded a central courtyard. Armed figures moved on rooftops—sentries. A fortified gate stood twenty metres ahead.
Carlos waved frantically. "Open up! Sand Rats!"
The gate mechanism engaged with hydraulic hisses.
They crossed the threshold just as the first motorcycle emerged from the access tunnel behind them. The gate sealed shut with a metallic clang.
Raymond bent double, hands on knees, gasping for breath whilst his mind processed the situation.
The Sand Rats' main den. He is finally in.