Page 23 of Fractured Future

Titanium. Aluminium. Carbon fibre. Even fibreglass. If a manufacturer makes it, I’ve tried it. Still, there are days when I push too hard, stupidly believing I can outrun my own body.

When I repeat that mistake, I have to go without the prosthetic to recover. On those long, wheelchair-bound days, I work from the penthouse I share with my teammates where my struggles can’t be seen by outsiders.

Or I did before our recent long-term work placement in Mexico. The heat aggravates my residual limb further, making it more difficult to be mobile. But I’m not a complainer, and I won’t leave until we find her.

Alive or… well, alive.

I won’t entertain another possibility.

“You all good in here?” Axel pokes his head around the door, waggling his eyebrows. “You’re not supposed to insult the new leg, you know.”

“It doesn’t have feelings.” I sigh loudly.

“I bet John Connor said the same thing before he had a freaking terminator on his ass. Not so fun insulting the machines when they rise up, is it?”

As much as I appreciate our newest and youngest team member’s perpetual playfulness, I am in no mood for his teasing today.

“You got something for me, Ax?”

Stepping into the shitty motel room, he bobs his head, though his obnoxiously bright, purple-dyed faux hawk doesn’t move. He spends a stupid amount of time styling it each damn morning.

Axel has fully embraced the teen runaway look, despite being a fully grown man. His revolving wardrobe of oversized slogan shirts and ripped jeans match his baby face and bee-stung lips. The head-to-toe tattoos are another thing altogether.

“Picked up some online chatter on the dark web about an incident down south near Chilpancingo, but nothing concrete. Just a few players murmuring about a search party.”

“Searching for what?”

He shrugs. “Beats me.”

“Fine. Monitor it.”

“Already sent a request to the intelligence team in London. Kade told me to suck a dick for waking him up at 2 am.”

“Charming,” I mutter.

“Isn’t he just?” Axel rolls his eyes.

Head shaking, I refocus on fitting my prosthetic. With some gentle manoeuvring, the socket finally clicks into place. I stretch the stiff limb out, testing the weight. It always feels odd at first.

Axel whistles dramatically. “Nice. You had it shipped from the UK?”

“Sure did. We don’t know when we’ll go home. I’m not being uncomfortable and in pain until then.”

“That’s fair.”

Climbing to my feet, it takes a moment to adjust to the foreign sensation. This new model is cutting-edge, the best money can buy. It still doesn’t replace the right leg I dream about at night.

“I miss my bed.” Axel’s heavily-inked arms fold across his chest. “And Mary’s bagels. Reckon she’d ship some out here for us?”

“All the way across the Atlantic Ocean?”

“Yes!”

Honey-hued eyes curving into a puppy dog look, Axel juts out his bottom lip. It’s an insane expression on a thirty-year-old who I’ve seen break every bone in man’s leg in alphabetical order before.

He will play the jokester until the cows come home, but since he joined us, recent investigations have taught me that our new transfer from MI-5 is the most dangerous of us all.

Axel is even more violent than our team enforcer. Not to mention utterly unhinged when the jokes cease. You know what to expect with Hyland, but Axel will skin a man alive while wondering what to eat for dinner.