James awoke to pain.

  His body screamed in protest, nerves burning from the violent impact. His ears rang, a sharp, high-pitched whine drowning out everything else, and his vision swam as he tried to process his surroundings.

  Upside down. Wreckage. Blood.

  The Jeep had flipped. The world was a chaotic mess of metal, dirt, and shattered glass.

  Move.

  He didn’t even try to unbuckle—he ripped the seatbelt from the frame with a brutal yank. Gravity did its job, and he tensed mid-fall, twisting his body to catch himself before he slammed into the crumpled roof. He landed gracefully, years of experience and enhanced reflexes kicking in even through the haze of pain.

  James had seen a lot. Done a lot.

  Killed a lot.

  Watched many die.

  He had hardened himself, honed his emotions into a weapon, dulled them when needed. Attachments were dangerous. Grief was a killer.

  Maybe it was the gene mods. Maybe it was the implants that dulled emotions like sadness.

  But not this time.

  This time, he was furious.

  THESE BASTARDS DARED TO MAKE HIM BREAK HIS PROMISE.

  He had sworn—sworn to himself—that Laim would make it back. And now he was dead.

  James clenched his jaw so hard it hurt, his vision going red, his eyes glowing so bright they illuminated the wreck before he forced it back under control. Later. The rage would serve him later.

  Right now, he needed to move.

  His gaze snapped to the passenger side—Aurora.

  She was still strapped in, her head slumped forward, blood running down her face. Unconscious.

  “Shit.”

  James moved—fast and precise. He unbuckled her gently, careful not to jostle her more than necessary, then hoisted her out of the wreckage with ease. He carried her behind the remains of the Jeep, dragging her to a patch of road just below the incline, using the wreck for cover.

  Boots.

  Close.

  He grabbed his bag in one motion, slung it over his shoulder, and reached inside. His HK416 was still intact—there was a reason he chose his guns. His fingers wrapped around the grip, muscle memory locking into place.

  Kill.

  The first enemy rounded the Jeep.

  James rose up like a ghost, rifle already aimed.

  Three shots. Burst fire. Chest. Throat. Skull.

  The soldier collapsed mid-step, their rifle falling uselessly from limp hands. The others barely had time to register what had happened.

  Too slow.

  James pivoted. One. Two. Three. The enemies crumpled in rapid succession.

  He adjusted fire. Next target. Headshot.

  Another. Gut shot. They screamed before the follow-up round ended it.

  The last of them turned, trying to retreat.

  Coward.

  James put a round in the back of their knee. They collapsed, howling, scrambling, trying to crawl—too late.

  James left him there, screaming in pain, hoping to draw more out in a desperate, ill-fated rescue attempt.

  But then—a shot rang out.

  The man fell silent, his body slumping lifelessly into the dirt.

  The silence returned.

  The bodies didn’t move.

  James exhaled, slow and steady. Heart hammering. Controlled.

  James took the brief respite to assess his injuries, his body still thrumming with adrenaline and fury. Pain was everywhere, but pain meant he was still alive.

  He pressed a hand against his ribs, inhaling sharply as a burning sensation flared through his chest. Definitely broken—maybe two, possibly three. Moving was agony, but he had no choice. He shifted his weight and immediately winced. His left leg wasn’t just sprained it was bordering on fractured. The swelling had already started, and every step sent a searing pain shooting up to his hip. Walking would be hell. Running? Not an option unless he wanted to collapse mid-sprint.

  He reached up, feeling along his hairline. When he pulled his fingers back, they were slick with blood. A concussion. That explained the blurred vision and the slow, dull thudding in his skull. His brain was swelling, pressing against the inside of his skull like a caged animal.

  But internal bleeding? That, he wasn’t worried about. He knew from experience that his enhanced physiology would prioritize life-threatening wounds first. A ruptured organ, arterial bleeding—his body would fix that immediately. But it came at a cost.

  The broken bones, the concussion, the torn muscles, the cuts—they would all remain untouched. His body had to focus on keeping him alive. Everything else? He’d just have to endure it.

  Great. Just great.

  With a grunt, James wiped his bloody hand on his already ruined jacket and turned his attention to Aurora.

  She wasn’t just injured—she was in bad shape.

  A deep gash stretched across the side of her forehead, blood trailing sluggishly down her temple. It looked bad—but then, he saw it. The wound was closing. Slowly. Not as fast as he would heal, but still—her body was working on it. So, she had a healing mod too.

  Good.

  Her arm, however, was a different story.

  James gently lifted it and hissed through his teeth. Completely shattered. Her forearm was bent at an unnatural angle, and when he pressed lightly, he could feel fragments of bone shifting under her skin. If that didn’t get set properly, she’d never use that arm the same way again.

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  Then there was her ankle.

  James stared at it, deadpan.

  Her foot was facing the wrong way.

  Dislocated at best. Broken at worst. Shattered, most likely. The skin around it was already swelling and darkening, a clear sign of severe damage. She wouldn’t be able to put weight on it. Not without immediate medical attention.

  Internally? He didn’t even want to think about it.

  A punctured lung, internal bleeding, ruptured organs—if she had any of those, there was nothing he could do. No amount of wrapping wounds and setting bones would help if she was dying from the inside out.

  James clenched his fists. He had no time to waste.

  All he could do was hope she wouldn’t die before he killed the bastards responsible.

  Just then, the radio on the first dead man crackled to life. James instinctively tensed, his grip tightening around his rifle as he finally took a proper look at the body.

  EHD.

  Unlike SDS soldiers, who wore bulky exo-suits that made them look more like machines than men, EHD troops were closer in appearance to pre-war military forces. Their gear was practical worn but well-maintained.

  All black. No camouflage.

  Their attire was built for urban warfare, not the wasteland. Heavy-duty hooded jackets woven with some kind of anti-tearing fabric, layered under reinforced plate carriers. Their faces were completely concealed beneath balaclavas, leaving nothing visible but their eyes.

  James' gaze flicked toward the fallen man’s rifle. MPR-17 "Viper." High-caliber, suppressed, built for precision combat. This wasn’t standard-issue gear.

  These weren’t just normal soldiers.

  They were EHD Black Vultures—the best their military had to offer without dipping into Splicers or Augmenters. Elite kill teams. Trained for covert operations, sabotage, and high-risk extractions. If the EHD had sent Black Vultures after them, this was bigger than James had initially thought.

  The radio crackled again.

  "If you can hear me, pick up the radio. We can negotiate."

  The voice was calm. Controlled. Whoever was on the other end wasn’t panicked. They knew exactly what they were doing.

  James picked up the radio, bringing it to his lips. His voice was steady, sharp.

  “Who is this?”

  Silence. A long, deliberate pause. Then a voice crackled back through the static.

  “James, is that you?”

  A flicker of familiarity stirred in his gut. His eyes narrowed. “Who is this?” he repeated, more forceful this time.

  Then, a low chuckle. “Holy shit, that really is you. Don’t tell me you don’t recognize my voice?”

  The realization clicked like a bullet sliding into place.

  Mr. Apollo.

  James exhaled slowly, rolling his neck. The last time he’d heard that voice, it had been over a different radio, under different circumstances. Maine. A job that involved eliminating a certain slave girl turned warlord who took over a brutal little empire along the coast. Mr. Apollo had been the one who hired him for that job.

  A professional, through and through. If James was a mercenary—a soldier for hire—then Apollo was a retriever. A specialist in acquiring objects, artifacts, and technology from places others wouldn’t dare step into. Ruined bunkers, sunken warships, old-world labs buried under collapsed cities. If there was something worth retrieving, Apollo could get it.

  And he was damn good at it.

  James adjusted his grip on the radio. “What the hell are you doing down here? Last I heard, you were still running your business up in Maine.”

  Apollo’s response came with a grin James could practically hear. “Yeah, well, when a massive organization offers you an obscene amount of money to do the same job you’re already doing—but in a warmer climate—and they set you up with a brand-new shop? You take the deal.”

  James’ jaw tightened slightly. EHD. They had poached Apollo. Which meant this was more than just a random ambush. They were after something. And considering what he and Aurora had just pulled out of Project Prometheus—he already knew exactly what.

  James’ eyes flicked toward Aurora. She was still unconscious, her breathing shallow but steady.

  Apollo’s voice came through again, this time more casual. “I will say, though—I wasn’t expecting to run into you. But I suppose it makes sense. SDS would hire someone like you for a job like this.” He paused, then continued, his tone smooth and calculated. “Look, we both know you’re not in a great spot. But since I know you, I’ll make this simple—just hand over the core, and I’ll let you walk away.”

  James’ fingers curled around the radio. His mind was already working through the angles. A direct fight against an elite retrieval unit was suicide, especially in his condition. He could stall, play along—but Apollo wasn’t an idiot.

  His gaze shifted back to Aurora. She was still out cold his gaze lingered just a little too long. A second more than necessary.

  “And the girl?” he asked carefully.

  There was a beat of silence before Apollo let out an exaggerated hum.

  “Oh my, oh my… has the unflinching James Grayson finally taken a liking to someone?”

  James’ grip tightened on the radio. His voice came out cold. “Answer the question, Apollo. She’s my client.”

  Apollo’s amusement didn’t fade, but his tone shifted—lower, more serious. “My clients would prefer she didn’t make it out of here.” He exhaled, almost lazily. “But, honestly? I don’t give a damn about their preferences. I was hired to get the core. That’s it.”

  James remained silent, his mind racing.

  So it wasn’t just about Prometheus. This was groundwork—a piece of something much bigger. And James had a damn good idea of what that something was.

  His grip on the radio tightened, his jaw flexing as he exhaled slowly. “You know, I have a reputation to uphold, Apollo. I can’t just give you the core.”

  A soft chuckle came through the static, one that lacked any real humor. “I know you can’t. But it was worth a try.”

  There was a pause, then Apollo’s tone shifted—steady, certain. “Just know, this truly isn’t personal. If I had my way, I’d rather have you on my side. But alas… it’s just business.”

  And with that, the radio went silent.

  James understood how Apollo felt—he wasn’t the type to take this personally. Business was business. But the sniper? That bastard was going to feel every ounce of James’s wrath.

  Before he could dwell on it further, a hail of bullets ripped through the wrecked Jeep, tearing through metal and glass like paper. Shit. They weren’t wasting time.

  James ducked lower, keeping his head down as bullets ricocheted off the vehicle’s frame. He had maybe five seconds before they flanked him, ten if they were cautious. He needed a plan. Fast.

  He yanked his bag open, searching for anything that could turn this around.

  Ten grenades left. Useful, but only if he could use them without getting shredded first.

  Rope. Climbing gear. No help right now.

  Water. Combat drug. He nearly skipped over it until—

  The combat drug.

  James’s fingers froze for half a second before wrapping around the small, pressurized injector at the bottom of his bag. How the hell did I forget I had this? He almost never needed it. The drug was dangerous and volatile, only stable for about a week after production before breaking down into something even deadlier.

  Designed for enhanced soldiers, it pushed the body beyond its absolute limits—overriding pain, flooding muscles with raw strength and endurance, and sharpening reflexes to an almost supernatural level. But the cost? It burned through every resource in the body like wildfire.

  For a normal man, it was a one-way ticket to the grave. A single use could shut down organs, overload the heart, and fry the nervous system beyond repair. It was the kind of thing you gave to expendable assets—those expected to die anyway.

  But James wasn’t normal. His body could handle it.

  The gunfire was getting louder. Closer. Then—a sharp, distinct whine cut through the chaos.

  A Gauss cannon charging.

  James didn’t have time to think. No other choice.

  He jammed the needle into his neck and pressed the injector.

  The effect was immediate.

  Not just dulled—the pain vanished completely. His nerves, once screaming, went silent. His muscles tensed, no longer sluggish from exhaustion. His heart pounded like a war drum, his blood surging like liquid fire through his veins.

  The world slowed to a crawl.

  James already thought faster than most—his enhancements, his neural implants, his sheer reflexes put him leaps and bounds ahead of the average soldier. But with the combat drug in his system, it was something else entirely.

  This was as close to stopping time as a human could get.

  His body wouldn’t move any faster—but this time, there was no holding back.

  His mind processed every detail with inhuman clarity—the trajectory of bullets, the shifting of shadows, the faintest movement from the enemy encircling the wreckage.

  He rose to his feet, smooth and deliberate, grenades filling his pockets, HK416 in hand.

  And then he moved.