Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 80431 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 322(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80431 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 322(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
They can lock the doors, but not the sky.
That would be their escape.
Chief Styles Sawyer
Zorion
Zorion walked into the training facility with a mix of dread and reluctance.
Though the warehouse-sized area was vast, he still felt caged.
Instead of allowing the frustration and anger to sink deeper, he allowed his mind to drift to last night.
The director glared down at him from his observation room, sleazy, swamp-brown eyes scrutinizing his every move. He vowed right then he’d claw them out one day, no matter how long it took.
To hide his rage, Zorion pulled his oversized hood even lower over his face.
“All right, this way, Zorion.”
Cipher put his hand on Zorion’s shoulder and tried to lead him into another room.
Zorion whipped his head around and glared at Cipher’s hand until he yanked it away.
“Sorry,” Cipher mumbled, then pointed. “Through those doors.”
Zorion walked behind a group of men, all dressed in green T-shirts and cargos.
The only one he recognized was Ren, their project manager.
“Zorion, this is your combat wardrobe design team.” Ren nodded at the five people working on various arrangements of pants, vests, hoods, and footwear. Most of the outfits had compartments and holsters that looked to hold everything from axes to firearms.
A hollow chill raced down Zorion’s spine as Valor stepped from behind a curtain dressed in a hunter-green suit that was a warfare marvel.
Ever silent and observant, Valor moved with measured grace, his gait smooth and quiet. Even in the gear, his shoulders rolled sexily and smoothly.
Zorion watched him, captivated, his pulse quickening.
Cipher stared back and forth between them.
“Okay, men, it’s time to pick your poison.” Cipher tapped at keys on the tablet that stayed attached to his hand like an electronic prosthetic. “We won’t choose for you. Each Raven surveys their options and chooses whatever weapon speaks to them.”
Zorion stood in front of the grotesque buffet of killing instruments.
The sight made his stomach knot. Choosing a weapon would mean acceptance of his role as the director’s assassin, his killing puppet.
He scanned the table as Cipher continued to whisper. “Let them speak to your inner being…don’t overthink or analyze. Let the weapon choose you.”
Shut the fuck up!
A surge of revulsion made him want to throw up. Every fiber of him screamed to rebel, but he couldn’t shatter the fragile plan Jo was hopefully formulating for their escape.
Zorion stared into Valor’s eyes, which were so bright, no barrier could conceal them.
In a shared moment of understanding and pain, Valor stepped forward and, without a word, selected a pair of knives.
Zorion remained still as Cipher continued to badger him to also choose.
For a brief moment, he considered choosing, but his gut twisted in protest.
These scientists had stripped so much from him but had failed to remove his conscience. He would not choose.
As if sensing his turmoil, Valor placed his hand on his shoulder, receiving the opposite reaction Cipher did.
The moment was short but effective.
Valor stepped back and faced Cipher, his voice grating and his tone holding a strong edge of finality.
“Zorion’s hands are his greatest weapon. It’d be wise not to weigh them down with artillery.”
Valor turned and left the room, and Zorion wanted to race after him, fall to his knees again, and show his appreciation, but instead, he went and dressed in his new suit.
It was tailored for him and created for high performance. The lightweight cotton fabric with the discreet armor plating was surprisingly comfortable.
His hood was made of anti-reflective material that concealed most of his face but didn’t compromise his vision. The coloring was a gradient of deep forest and olive greens, designed for integration into their natural environment, perfect for an unseen predator that could strike without warning.
Zorion met Valor in the center of the room just as the overhead lights dimmed. The arena became a space of darkened panels, alternating simulated environments, and holographic projections as he leaped up and took to the beams and rafters.
Valor’s performance was best described as lethal precision.
His knives sliced the projections into halves almost as fast as they’d appeared. Like himself, he was sure Valor was feeling the looming presence of the director and the pressure from the demand for perfection.
Watching Valor was devastating. It was as if he were fighting for their survival. The destruction of phase three loomed, so Valor roared through simulated foes, merciless and brutal.
This was not the same man he’d surrendered to last night.
The memory of Valor’s tender touch, the warmth of his skin and words, contrasted with the ruthlessness he displayed on the makeshift battlefield and made Zorion’s soul ache.
Time seemed to stretch on forever as the training session escalated to drones and mobile targets with complex algorithms calibrated to challenge their enhanced abilities.
He and Valor were both winded but not to the point of exhaustion when the lights flickered back on and the warehouse faded to eerie silence.