One Breath, One Bullet(The Borders War book 1) by S. A. McAuley Page B
Authors: S. A. McAuley
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most logical tactical approach.
Lucky for me, these soldiers were not the best.
I tried to leave my body loose, but prepared, and my legs anchored wide to stabilise me, as I waited for the first punch. No matter how much I was ready to get this over with, I wouldn’t beg for them to begin. The tension that had been building inside me since the President chose Armise was cresting, and my patience was beginning to fray.
The punch to my left kidney came with a forced exhale of breath as the sole warning. As I’d anticipated it was the giant behind me whose meaty fist pounded into my side until I had to fight to stay standing. I coughed, sputtered, tried to draw in enough breath to keep from blacking out. Somehow I was able to find the presence of mind not to curl into the guard’s fists and expose my other side. The left side of my body was stronger because of the attack in the DCR—if the guards had been properly briefed they would know that. I feinted weakness, and dropped my right shoulder. The jab to the left side of my ribs was immediate and I couldn’t find my breath.
They fell on me all at once. I kept my fists up attempting to protect my torso from the worst of the blows, but my grunts of pain were feeding them and before long I was curled on the stone floor desperately trying to remember my mantra. They were words that anchored me and gave me strength.
One breath.
Inhale.
Hesitation is my enemy.
Solitude my ally.
Death the only real victory.
Exhale.
Twice I repeated it until I realised I’d made it back to my feet and was fighting back. This was a beating I was supposed to take, but my mind wouldn’t accept that outcome. I was drawing more of their blood than they were of mine when the sergeant yelled, “Enough!”
The group staggered back. My left eye was nearly swollen shut and each breath caused my chest to constrict. I flexed my hands, feeling the ripped skin pull apart and the warmth of my blood and theirs coating my knuckles. I drew in a deep, painful breath and squared my shoulders. My muscles fought the movement. But I’d endured worse, survived when even my superiors believed I’d been broken beyond repair.
“Armise is coming for you next, traitor,” the sergeant spat out at me. He cocked his arm back and took one last cheap shot across my jaw that sent me to my knees. Then they were gone, their heavy footfalls thudding against the stone floor until the sound disappeared with the decisive clang of the metal door.
I struggled to hold onto consciousness. My vision flickered from black to grey and back again, the tunnel floor appearing to tilt in front of me. I put my hands to the floor and closed my eyes, savouring the damp coldness of the stone as it travelled up my arms in shivers.
I’d planned for the beating, but I hadn’t planned for Armise. Armise was the crosswind to a sniper nest shot—unpredictable, and potentially fatal to the mission. But years of training and experience had taught me that, with calculation and preparation, you could negate the effects of a crosswind. I just had to pull together enough of my jumbled brain cells to figure out how to do that.
Armise wouldn’t keep me from my mission, but he was going to make it difficult. Perhaps nearly impossible. But it was my duty to withstand this beating, keep my body whole and then dispose of the attacker the President had sicced on me. That it was Armise I was preparing to kill should have given me pause. I didn’t know. Maybe even having the thought counted as fleeting consideration of his role in my life. It didn’t matter either way.
I’d always known this moment, this choice—his life over mine—was inevitable.
I hadn’t failed a mission since Armise took out that general, and I wasn’t going to fail this one. I would kill Armise when the time came. There wasn’t any other choice. I would be the one taking the shot on the opening ceremony platform.
Time suspended as I waited.
I tried to strategise. To
Lucky for me, these soldiers were not the best.
I tried to leave my body loose, but prepared, and my legs anchored wide to stabilise me, as I waited for the first punch. No matter how much I was ready to get this over with, I wouldn’t beg for them to begin. The tension that had been building inside me since the President chose Armise was cresting, and my patience was beginning to fray.
The punch to my left kidney came with a forced exhale of breath as the sole warning. As I’d anticipated it was the giant behind me whose meaty fist pounded into my side until I had to fight to stay standing. I coughed, sputtered, tried to draw in enough breath to keep from blacking out. Somehow I was able to find the presence of mind not to curl into the guard’s fists and expose my other side. The left side of my body was stronger because of the attack in the DCR—if the guards had been properly briefed they would know that. I feinted weakness, and dropped my right shoulder. The jab to the left side of my ribs was immediate and I couldn’t find my breath.
They fell on me all at once. I kept my fists up attempting to protect my torso from the worst of the blows, but my grunts of pain were feeding them and before long I was curled on the stone floor desperately trying to remember my mantra. They were words that anchored me and gave me strength.
One breath.
Inhale.
Hesitation is my enemy.
Solitude my ally.
Death the only real victory.
Exhale.
Twice I repeated it until I realised I’d made it back to my feet and was fighting back. This was a beating I was supposed to take, but my mind wouldn’t accept that outcome. I was drawing more of their blood than they were of mine when the sergeant yelled, “Enough!”
The group staggered back. My left eye was nearly swollen shut and each breath caused my chest to constrict. I flexed my hands, feeling the ripped skin pull apart and the warmth of my blood and theirs coating my knuckles. I drew in a deep, painful breath and squared my shoulders. My muscles fought the movement. But I’d endured worse, survived when even my superiors believed I’d been broken beyond repair.
“Armise is coming for you next, traitor,” the sergeant spat out at me. He cocked his arm back and took one last cheap shot across my jaw that sent me to my knees. Then they were gone, their heavy footfalls thudding against the stone floor until the sound disappeared with the decisive clang of the metal door.
I struggled to hold onto consciousness. My vision flickered from black to grey and back again, the tunnel floor appearing to tilt in front of me. I put my hands to the floor and closed my eyes, savouring the damp coldness of the stone as it travelled up my arms in shivers.
I’d planned for the beating, but I hadn’t planned for Armise. Armise was the crosswind to a sniper nest shot—unpredictable, and potentially fatal to the mission. But years of training and experience had taught me that, with calculation and preparation, you could negate the effects of a crosswind. I just had to pull together enough of my jumbled brain cells to figure out how to do that.
Armise wouldn’t keep me from my mission, but he was going to make it difficult. Perhaps nearly impossible. But it was my duty to withstand this beating, keep my body whole and then dispose of the attacker the President had sicced on me. That it was Armise I was preparing to kill should have given me pause. I didn’t know. Maybe even having the thought counted as fleeting consideration of his role in my life. It didn’t matter either way.
I’d always known this moment, this choice—his life over mine—was inevitable.
I hadn’t failed a mission since Armise took out that general, and I wasn’t going to fail this one. I would kill Armise when the time came. There wasn’t any other choice. I would be the one taking the shot on the opening ceremony platform.
Time suspended as I waited.
I tried to strategise. To
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