Page 50 of Dark Rebel’s Mystery (The Children Of The Gods #92)

50

KYRA

K yra drifted in and out of darkness. She felt no sense of time for a while, only a half-aware haze that swirled through her mind and trapped her in a slow, heavy daze. The bite of metal around her wrists and ankles remained constant, though the dull ache reminded her that this wasn't a dream.

It was a nightmare.

No matter how often she blinked, she couldn't peel away the floating spots or the thick fog of sedatives. She wasn't sure how long she'd been under. Minutes? Hours?

Possibly more than a day.

Thoughts floated up in no particular order of the cruel smile on the doctor's too-handsome face, the echoes of a far-off scream, the memory of fear as she'd crouched in the corridor, waiting for him and his entourage to depart, her scarf being ripped away.

She shuddered involuntarily, the chain rattling in response. If he'd come back to see her, she had no recollection of it. The cell's stale air pressed down on her, still reeking of cleaning solution, old sweat, and a faint whiff of burnt metal from the overhead lamp.

Who cleaned these cells?

She had never been allowed in, and neither were the other staff members. Who brought in food? Did they starve the prisoners?

Oh, that's right. The soldiers did that. They brought in the food and took the prisoners to the bathroom and back. Kyra had already investigated all that when she'd planned to switch places with Twelve.

Her mind wasn't working properly, like right now it was registering the sounds of gunfire. They didn't do target practice inside the compound. So, what was the deal with those sounds?

Was she imagining them?

The sharp crack of shots sounded authentic, but the stone walls and the thick door muffled it.

She strained to lift her head, blinking rapidly. If this was a hallucination, it was a damn good one. Still, she kept listening, and then it started again—a rattling burst followed by men shouting and then more gunfire.

One part of her believed she was imagining it or perhaps remembering old battles, but the sounds were too consistent and insistent to originate in her compromised mind.

A scream, sounding closer this time. Another wail answered, more distant but no less agonized. Kyra swallowed what little saliva she could muster.

They hadn't given her anything to drink or eat since she'd been captured. Perhaps it hadn't been that long ago, or maybe she was just too drugged to remember.

Her throat felt dry and scratchy.

Could it be her people?

Had Soran and Zara gathered enough fighters to attempt a rescue? Surely, they weren't stupid enough to attempt this with the small force at their command.

She'd never wanted them to risk this and told them so. She refused to let them sacrifice themselves for her. But maybe they had ignored her wishes and decided she was worth saving.

She had to help them.

She'd escaped similar confinement before and could do it again if only she could clear her foggy mind.

Pain was the answer.

Pain could cut through the fog, and she might gather enough strength to break the chains.

Kyra grunted with effort and lifted her head a few inches from the mattress. Her vision swam, the drugs hammering at her skull and stealing her strength just as effectively as the restraints.

"Come on," she muttered to herself, throat convulsing. "Move." The words came out hoarse, cracking mid-syllable. She tried flexing her biceps, forcing the chain to yield.

Nothing.

The steel cut into her skin, and the bed frame rattled but refused to budge.

Another round of gunfire echoed, this time closer. She heard frantic footsteps overhead—boots clattering on the floor above. Her senses were all scrambled. She tried to count how many different footsteps there were, but everything blurred.

Her team didn't have enough manpower to wage a loud, drawn-out assault in broad daylight, or was it night? She wasn't even sure of that.

Had they secured cooperation with another resistance cell?

No, there hadn't been enough time to organize that. Her sense of time might be all screwed up, but she couldn't have been in this cell for more than a day or even a few hours. They would have been forced to take her to the bathroom, and she would have remembered that.

Unless there was a chamber pot in the cell.

She sniffed the air, but other than the stale smell of moldy walls, nothing would indicate a pot with anything in it.

Kyra exhaled shakily.

"Soran… Zara…Hamid," she whispered.

She wanted to believe those dear faces would come barreling through the door, cutting down any guard standing in their way and freeing her. But it was nearly suicidal for a unit of Kurdish fighters to storm a secure compound that housed several enhanced soldiers.

Just listening to the commotion released a fresh wave of adrenaline that burned through the sedative and gave her a bit of clarity. She groaned and pulled, but the rattling clank of the cuffs reminded her that even if she mustered some supernatural strength, these new chains were designed for someone as strong as her.

The doctor had learned from his past mistakes.

A thunderous boom rattled the overhead light. Maybe a grenade or a heavy blast. The building itself seemed to quiver, and dust drifted from the ceiling.

Kyra sucked in a breath, tasting grit on her tongue.

Shots rang out again, a flurry of them, followed by shrill shouts in multiple languages. She couldn't parse them, but the raw panic carried through. She pressed the back of her head against the flat cushion, imagining the courtyard in chaos.

A strange knot twisted in her chest, a tangled mix of guilt and longing. If it truly was her people, how many would die trying to rescue her? The thought made her stomach twist so violently that she feared she would vomit.

She closed her eyes, tears gathering under her lids.

She was so tired. So unbelievably tired.

A strangled cry penetrated the thick walls—someone near her cell—the scuff of footsteps, then a low moan. Kyra's eyes snapped open, adrenaline surging. If a fight was that close, maybe the front lines of the incursion had pushed deeper into the building. She jerked at her wrist cuffs again, ignoring the tearing pain.

There was no give. Gritting her teeth, she tried thrashing her legs, but the chain at her ankles was no kinder.

"Damn it," she hissed, frustration and desperation eating away at what was left of her sanity.

Gunfire flared anew, stuttering so close now that she felt the floor vibrating. Another explosion rocked the corridor, sending a muted tremor through the bed frame. Her breath caught. Something large had definitely blown up. Possibly a door or a security barrier.

She fought not to black out again.

A guard barked an order, and a distinct pop of rifles answered, forcing a hush. Kyra prayed to whatever deity that would listen that the rebels had made it inside, that the enhanced soldiers were dead, and for the door to her cell to burst open, followed by the familiar faces of her friends.

She almost chuckled at how her imagination ran wild.

Noise crackled in the hallway—the shuffle of boots, clipped curses.

Her lungs itched with the need to call out, but she didn't know who was out there. If it was the doctor or his men, a shout might sign her death warrant. If it was her allies, a cry for help might bring them right to her.

Another sharp rattle of gunfire overhead. Then, a thunderous silence. She froze, ears straining for the slightest hint of voices, footsteps, or anything. The silence pressed on her eardrums, so absolute it made her breathing sound deafening. That hush was worse than the noise. Because she had no idea what it meant. Had the rebels won? Or were they all dead?

Her eyes drifted shut, forced by exhaustion. Her body trembled, each spasm making the cuffs dig deeper into her wrists. She recognized a slow trickle of warmth from the raw chafing, but pain hardly registered. How many had already fallen if it was indeed her friends battling out there? How many more would die if reinforcements arrived? She willed them to hold on, to prevail with fewer casualties than she dared guess. The idea that her team might be lying in pools of blood was too horrific to consider.

"Just stay alive," she murmured. "Please."

Her head swam, the world tilting. For a moment, she wanted to surrender to that blackness so she wouldn't have to face the truth if it was dire. Instead, she clenched her fists and held on, clinging to consciousness like a drowning woman holding on to driftwood.

Gunshots echoed once more, faint but definitely close. A final flash of adrenaline surged through her, stopping her from sinking under. She listened desperately, waiting for familiar voices or footsteps that might burst through the door.

None came. Yet.