The phone trembled against Jord’s ear as his mother’s voice crackled through. ‘Thanks for worrying, son.’ A pause. ‘But we can manage the costs. They’ve been… reasonable. In an hour, we will be home, okay?’

  Lapo’s finger tapped the tablet screen – a single typed word: INTEL.

  ‘Are you sure? I’m with my new friends. If you need us, we can pitch something, You know that we are always there for you.’ Jord swallowed, tracking Lapo’s glare. ‘But… If you say that you have everything under control, so be it.’

  Silence stretched between them, precarious and uneasy. Jord didn’t know if someone was pointing a gun at her, and that made him hesitant in breaking his doublespeak. When she finally spoke, her words were precise, each syllable measured with deliberate cadence.

  ‘No need, sweetie. Everything’s settled. We’ll be home in an hour.’

  Jord hesitated, his nails clipping his palm, but he forced himself to play along.

  ‘Alright… be safe. If you’re short on money, call me – I’ll come running.’

  A brief pause. Then, ‘See you soon.’

  The line went dead.

  ‘First mark in fifteen minutes, second in thirty. Deadline in an hour.’ Lapo said. The task force coalesced – six figures sporting black camouflage gathered around an office table that held the schematics of the warehouse.

  ‘Positions. Fjorr – rooftop overwatch. Mas and Egil, front breach. Sera and Lastian, west side. Silent ascent. Dila – back entrance. All units to hold position unless shots are fired.’ He pivoted to Jord, eyeing one of the rifles on the table. ‘You shadow Fjorr. Take the LR-37. Don’t chamber a round unless Fjorr says so. You’re eyes only. Clear?’

  Jord’s nod was a marionette’s jerk. He took the offered firearm, its weight heavy and foreign.

  Fjorr shouldered past, a luggage case in hand. ‘Keep up, rook.’

  Fjorr moved with purpose, and Jord followed – through a door, another door, up a flight of stairs, then another. At the top, a final door barred access to the rooftop.

  Fjorr tested the handle. Locked. Without hesitation, he crouched, retrieving a slim case from his back pocket. Inside, a neatly arranged set of lockpicks gleamed under the dim light of Jord’s torch. In seconds, the lock gave way with a soft click, and Fjorr pushed the door open without issue.

  Stepping onto the rooftop, Fjorr beelined for the parapet, dropped to a knee, unlatched the case, and retrieved a tool made for murder.

  The position of their overwatch gave them a clear view of the warehouse’s main point of access – able to see the main building service entrances on the south and east side.

  Jord trailed behind him, clumsy in comparison, and placed his rifle down in the same manner Fjorr had.

  As Jord adjusted himself, he noticed Fjorr fiddling with his scope before retrieving a small, unfamiliar device.

  ‘This,’ Fjorr said, setting it down, ‘measures wind strength – essential for long-range shots. Overkill for now, but I like knowing nothing is messing with my aim.’

  He glanced at Jord, who was lying prone beside him, awkwardly adjusting his scope.

  ‘Problem?’

  Jord exhaled. ‘Yeah… first time handling a firearm.’

  Fjorr let out a quiet chuckle but didn’t comment. Instead, he reached over and adjusted Jord’s scope, walking him through the dials and their functions.

  Couldn’t they have just given me binoculars?

  ‘Thanks,’ he muttered.

  ‘You’ll learn, rookie. Now, set up comms,’ Fjorr said, tossing Jord a radio.

  ‘Put it on speaker. Rightmost knob – no, not that one, yes, that one. Turn it clockwise once until you hear a tick. Now, the main knob in the centre – adjust it until the screen shows frequency one-one-three-dot-one.’

  Jord followed the instructions. White noise crackled from the device as he tried to tune it.

  Lapo’s voice suddenly crackled through the speaker. ‘What’s the situation, Fjorr? Everything clear?’

  ‘All clear.’ Fjorr replied, eyes locked on the scope.

  Jord, trying to mirror Fjorr, tried to do the same, but his mental state was a tangible thing: His skin was damp in the chill air, and his heart pounded in his throat. The city’s distant hum barely registered – the only thing that mattered was the main door.

  Time dragged, and Jord’s worry coiled around his psyche. Where are they?

  No one left or entered the building. No calls came through. The first time-mark came and left like that.

  Then, before the second mark, the main service door on the south side creaked open. A figure stepped out.

  Elia. Then came the rest. Jord saw his father was limping.

  Jord’s grip on the rifle slackened, and his limbs suddenly felt incredibly heavy. The tension had coiled so tightly within him that a single relaxed breath drained him of all energy.

  Lapo’s voice chimed in, steady and sharp. ‘Your family?’

  Jord swallowed. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Call them. Get a count – Number and positions.’

  Jord’s fingers fumbled over his phone. Through the scope, he saw his mother hesitate, glancing down at her pocket. Her shoulders, rigid with tension, loosened slightly when she saw his name on the screen.

  Her voice sounded strained. ‘Jord? We just left – I was about to call you.’

  ‘I know. Listen to me – how many are inside, and where? Be precise.’

  ‘What? Jord, it’s fine. Everything’s settled. It just took longer than expected to convince your father about the bill – you know how–’

  ‘Mum!’ Jord cut in, voice frantic. ‘I know where you are! Just tell me how many and where they are!’

  A pause. Then, a shuffle. He saw his mother give the phone to Elia, who wore a look of utter confusion.

  ‘Jord?’

  ‘Yes, quick – how many, where are they?’ Seven seconds had already ticked by, and Jord could feel Lapo’s breath on his neck.

  ‘Three men,’ Elia said hurriedly. ‘Two in an office – one at the desk, one by the south door. The third, I believe, is in the back storeroom. They’ve got… guns, Jord. Not just pistols. Rifles.’

  Lapo had been listening – the radio was right next to Jord’s phone. He acted immediately. ‘Breach teams, move. Mas, Egil – eyes on the entrance. Dila, stay–’

  A metallic clang rang out below.

  Jord’s scope jerked toward the sound. A side door had been thrown open on the east side. A hulking man stepped out, tattoos snaking up his neck, an automatic rifle in his hands. His weapon swung up, aiming for the nearest target.

  Elia.

  Lapo’s voice came over the radio. ‘Fjorr. Resolve it.’

  A single exhale. A shot. The tattooed man's head jerked and collapsed like a puppet with cut strings.

  'One,' Fjorr muttered, already reloading.

  This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  Jord's parents ran, but Elia stood transfixed by the corpse.

  'Elia, move!' Jord screamed into the receiver.

  His brother jolted alive, bolting after their parents.

  'Breach compromised! Dila – smoke the rear! Sera, Lestian, in!'

  Sera and Lestian, mere silhouettes in the night, dropped from the roof’s windows.

  The warehouse erupted in flashes of gunfire.

  ‘Hostile down.’

  ‘Dila, hold. Mas, Egil advance.'

  Shots cracked from the rear.

  'Report.'

  'All hostiles neutralized. Two dead, one surrendered, one incapacitated.'

  Jord pressed the phone to his ear. ‘Elia, are you all right?’

  A pause, then came Elia’s shaken voice. ‘What?… What happened?’

  ‘I’m on–’

  ‘Don’t reveal our position. Not yet,’ Fjorr cut in sharply.

  ‘It doesn’t matter now. Just… just get to Mum and tell her everything is alright, understood?’ A beat, he saw Elia nod through the scope. ‘We’ll talk later.’ He ended the call before Elia could protest.

  He watched his brother's final trek towards their parents. He saw how they were all shaken, how Elia trembled. How his mother clutched at his father’s sleeve. And how his father just stood there, immobile.

  The radio crackled.

  ‘Good job, Whittaker. Go to your family. I’ll debrief you tomorrow.’ Lapo said.

  Jord exhaled slowly. His grip on the rifle lingered. Now what? Do I just leave this here?

  He glanced at Fjorr. ‘Should I leave this here, or…?’

  ‘Unless you fancy scaring your folk, I highly recommend leaving it here.’

  Jord let out a dry chuckle. ‘Right. Thanks. Thanks for everything, truly.’

  Fjorr shrugged. ‘You’ll learn, rookie. Now go – enjoy your family.’

  Jord didn’t walk; He fled.

  The run to his family took less than a minute. When he finally reached them, words failed him. His mind drew blank words that held blank sounds.

  They just stood there, breathing each other in, letting the moment settle in silence.

  Then, his mother’s composure cracked, and a choked sob escaped her. That was all it took for the dam to break.

  The tension, the fear, the helplessness – it all unraveled in a deluge of muffled cries and shaking shoulders.

  They stood there for what felt like a long time. Eventually, Jord found his voice, his resolve. ‘Let’s go home.’

  The rest of the night passed in a blur. They talked of old memories, good memories – fragments of a life that felt untouched by the night’s plight.

  Of the time Elia got into a schoolyard fight over a stolen lunch, only for Jord to storm in, sleeves rolled up like he was about to take on a gang of hardened criminals rather than a scrawny twelve-year-old. The sheer second-hand embarrassment had been enough to make Elia forget his bruised cheek and yell to Jord to stop.

  Or when Jord had snuck some alcohol to Elia for the city’s annual festival. Then, letting him ride on his shoulders to watch the parade despite being way too old for it. Jord had then grumbled, but he never put him down until the last float passed.

  Their father broke into a smile as he recalled the time Jord had broken his arm trying to impress some girl by climbing a scaffolding near the old patisserie. Their mother sighed. ‘And then he lied about it, said he tripped over a dog.’

  ‘To be fair, I did trip over a dog. After I fell,’ The confession elicited the first genuine laughter of the night.

  The conversation wandered in placated waves – Elia’s disastrous attempt at baking that ended with a flour explosion in the kitchen; the time their father had nearly been banned from the market for aggressively haggling; their mother’s failed attempt at keeping a pet despite being terribly allergic.

  For a little while, at least, the weight of the night felt a little lighter.

  –––

  The morning aches had not relented. Every muscle in Jord’s body still protested as he dragged himself to the shower. Predictably, the boiler failed again, but he didn’t want to wake anyone, so he endured the icy water in silence. He emerged, trembling, wrapping himself in blankets as though they could chase away the chill burrowed deep into his bones.

  Still shivering, he stepped into the courtyard and gathered his now slightly cold but clean guard’s uniform from the drying line. He ran his fingers over the fabric absent-mindedly, but his mind was elsewhere – turning over a question that had gnawed at him since the night before. He had applied to join the city guard, yet somehow, he had been pulled into something else. Why the secrecy? Why wasn’t he told? It unsettled him. And yet, if it meant having the power to keep his family safe…

  Now clean, freshly scented, and with a slightly jittering hand he couldn’t quite steady, Jord stepped out of the house as quietly as possible, not wanting to wake anyone.

  The street glistened with a thin sheen of moisture from the morning mist. Thamburg had always been kind in its climate – not too cold in winter, thanks to the harbour, nor unbearably hot, thanks to the northern winds. The only trouble was the occasional gale strong enough to steal a man’s hat right off his head. As a child, he, Elia, and Kotian – a childhood friend he had long lost contact with – would run through these very streets with umbrellas open, laughing as they tried to let the wind carry them away. He could still hear the echoes of their laughter if he listened hard enough.

  A small smile tugged at his lips as he walked toward the compound. For a brief moment, he even considered taking one of the remaining working trams, but old habits held firm – best to keep a healthy and cheap routine.

  Dawn had barely broken when he reached the gates. A guard stood at the checkpoint, tablet in hand.

  ‘Identification?’

  ‘Here.’ Jord said as he handed his card.

  The guard glanced at the screen, his face illuminated by its cold glow. After a second, he nodded, returned the card, and gestured Jord through.

  The lift was finally repaired, and as he stepped inside, he found himself face to face with Lapo.

  ‘Whittaker,’ Lapo greeted, eyeing him with scrutiny. ‘Figured you’d take a day off after last night’s ordeal. Why didn’t you?’

  Jord hesitated, knowing full well that Lapo had already noticed the slight tremor in his left hand.

  ‘I… wanted to thank the squad from last night. And I want some answers.’ His voice was measured but firm. ‘I don’t understand how my family got mixed in such a situation, they are hard-working folk. And,’ his brow furrowed, ‘What’s going on?’

  Lapo was silent for a long moment, expression unreadable as the lift doors slid open on the third floor.

  ‘Follow me,’ he said at last.

  Jord followed Lapo down the hallway until they reached a conference room. Inside, a table surrounded by office chairs sat beneath the dim hum of overhead lights. A television on a stand loomed in the corner.

  ‘Close the door,’ Lapo instructed as he took a seat. He gestured to the chair opposite him. ‘Sit.’

  Jord did as he was told, his pulse steady but anticipation crawling up his spine.

  Lapo exhaled, rubbing his temples before speaking. ‘Your family,’ he began, ‘were in the wrong place at the wrong time. That’s what we got from interrogating the men from last night. A shipment arrived at the textile mill where they work – one they weren’t supposed to see. The syndicate runs on a tight schedule to avoid such mishaps, but something must have gone wrong, and your parents opened the wrong crate.’

  Jord stiffened.

  ‘They were taken as leverage,’ Lapo continued, ‘to intimidate and bribe. Your brother was there too, likely because your mother called him for help. And your brother, instead of calling the authorities, ran straight to your parents. A group of heavily armed men, alerted by a mole in your folk’s work, were waiting in ambush. The rest,’ Lapo said, ‘you already know.’

  Jord clenched his fists. Why didn’t she call me?

  He cleared his throat before shifting the conversation.

  ‘And there is something that we haven’t told you. Your career path.’ He leaned forward. ‘What I’m going to say is confidential. Watch what you say – to everyone, especially your family.’

  Jord’s brows knit together, but he held his tongue.

  ‘You must already have been informed about the mobilisation.’ To Jord’s nod, Lapo continued, ‘It is the Velmara kingdom.’ His voice dipped into something close to distaste. ‘They’ve been sending instructors. We don’t trust them. What you do need to know is this – you’re currently being trained as a reconnaissance officer to spy on their instructors. You’ll go through the program like any other recruit. Understood?’

  Jord frowned. ‘But why me? Why not any other rookie?’

  Lapo arched an eyebrow. ‘You were a dockhand. You have a certain mannerism – one that doesn’t scream military. That makes you invisible to the trained eye. Unlike our existing officers, who have undergone years of conditioning and can spot one of their own from afar, you’re fresh. You won’t stand out. And that makes you valuable.’

  Jord tried to process it all.

  ‘But you are sending other rookies?’

  ‘Well, of course,’ Lapo said matter-of-fact. ‘But you? You report to me. Not the army. That’s the difference.’

  Jord’s jaw tightened. ‘And… what if I refuse?’

  Lapo smirked. ‘You signed the papers, didn’t ya?’

  The pen had felt heavy in his hand that day, its weight seeming to hold all his hopes and regrets. Jord had paused before signing, watching the ink pool at the nib – dark and full of promise, like the night sky before dawn. A fresh start, he'd told himself, a chance to spurge the inked past.

  He remembered his father's hands, calloused from the mill, and how they would rest heavy on his shoulder during their rare moments of connection. Always that same gesture, as if his father were trying to anchor him to something solid, something respectable. The signature would be a bridge between them, Jord had thought, a way to finally earn the pride he glimpsed so rarely in his father's tired eyes.

  Late at night, when the house creaked with settling silence, he would sometimes find his mother at the kitchen table, her reading glasses perched low on her nose. Bills and papers would spread before her like fallen autumn leaves, each one carrying its own weight of worry.

  Now, sitting in Lapo's sterile conference room, Jord understood the true cost of promises. His mother's careful hands on those bills, his father's perpetual exhaustion, his own desperate hope for a better future – all of it connected like threads in a tapestry he was only beginning to see. Some signatures, he realized, were like keys turning in locks you didn't know existed, opening doors you never meant to pass through.

  Jord felt a knot tighten in his stomach.

  ‘That’s it, then?’ he asked, voice edged with resignation.

  ‘That’s it,’ Lapo confirmed. ‘Welcome to the job, Whittaker.’