by V T Bonds
Unknown Omega
Alpha Elite Series Book 1
V.T. Bonds
Copyright © 2020 by V.T. Bonds
Cover design by V.T. Bonds
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
*This story is not for the faint of heart. It is a dark action-packed Omegaverse story set in a world where violence and sexual situations occur. Scenes are not glossed over. Sensitive readers please abstain. Proceed with caution.*
Dedication
Wee Little Omegaverse Authors – I can never repay you for the support you’ve given me. Thank you for putting up with my shenanigans. I never thought I’d be invited to such an amazing group of friends. You’ve blessed me more than I can say.
Readers – You’ve given me too much encouragement. Be careful what you wish for. I can never thank you enough.
Chapter One
Seeck
Pitch black in all directions. Complete inky darkness, invasive and frigid. Even through my wet suit, my body feels the cold. I continue my even swimming, sluicing through the depths, unhindered by the tide or conditions.
I’m light on gear this mission. My oxygen tank is triple the capacity but half the size available to the military. I could swim for a week and never surface. My mask morphs to my face, negating the need for bulky tubes or equipment, and clearing my vision of helmet and mouthpiece. An extra mask and suit cause a bit of bulk in the pouch on my right shoulder. A high-tech pocket/strap hybrid hugs my main blade to my right thigh, and my left inseam holds two razor blades. My shoes and gloves are Liamon, a new top-secret material. It is stronger than Teflon, malleable, heat and cold resistant, and form fitting. A special pouch built into the left shoulder of my suit holds a parachute rated to carry at least ten of me.
My gear is jet black, just like the bottom of this ocean. I glide through the water, my limbs keeping time with my internal clock. At this pace, I’ll reach the first checkpoint in an hour.
A few minutes before I reach my goal, a mass, just as dark and silent as me, alerts my senses. It swims about a quarter of a mile to my right, on a path that will converge with mine. A matching mass on my left mirrors the movement. The barest hint of their existence wafts through my senses. Not a singular sense can decipher what is on my radar, but with both my knowledge and experience, I know what they are. I know who they are. We converge on the cliff that supports the most secure prison on the planet.
Checkpoint One complete.
I find holds for my limbs and begin my ascent. As my head breaches the surface of the water, the howling wind batters against my suit. A torrential downpour means that visibility is about the same as it was at the bottom of the ocean. With my front flush against the sharp, deadly rocks, I continue to climb, my weight increasing as I leave the water.
A flash of electrical current lights the sky and my sensitive eyes glimpse the silhouettes to my left and right, about seventy yards in each direction. We climb, maneuvering up the vertical obstacle with speed and grace. I keep my breathing even, focused on accomplishing the task. Up and up we scale, until the thunder and deluge drown out the crashing of the waves. We are relentless, propelling ourselves up the scraggly surface until there is no sky or ocean—just wind, rain, and sharp rocks.
A streak of lightning illuminates the scene. For a split second, I see a black-clad figure, at my elevation, reaching for his next hand hold. The world returns to black.
As we climb higher, the wind strengthens. Rain continues to pelt us.
Jagged rocks give way to a man-crafted wall—a solid, smooth surface with no workable way to scale it. Mid-motion, I tap my thumb and ring finger on my left hand twice in quick succession.
The top-secret mechanisms in my gloves and shoes attach my palms and insteps to the wall. Press, suction, slide, release. Press, suction, slide, release. My rhythm never falters. My speed never slows. I reach the top in mere seconds.
In tandem, staying flush against the wall, we flip our feet skyward and slide over the top. Without hesitation, I scale down and to the right. About fifteen feet from the ground, I tap my thumb and ring finger, releasing my climbing device. Thunder and rain muffles what little noise my landing causes.
Checkpoint Two complete.
Staying crouched low, I stalk forward.
A twenty-foot wall of tightly woven razor wire juts up from the concrete.
I power through my last four strides and launch myself upwards. My suit keeps my skin protected as I thrust against the wire. I fling myself over the top, twisting to reorient my alignment.
Without bothering to slow my descent, I pitch my left shoulder forward and tuck into a roll. I transfer my momentum into a horizontal force and sprint towards the building.
I reach the structure, turn left, and skirt along the wall. After a long dash, I approach a large dark silhouette, devoid of reflection and oozing discipline. It ducks and places a tiny object along the base of the building.
Another shadow hovers close behind me.
Beyond the silhouette in front of me, obscure even during a lightning flash, is a small opening—about three feet square. A thick metal grill, molded into the building, ensures that nothing but air can pass through. The tiny security cameras, embedded and camouflaged into the cement, cover every angle from inside and out, leaving a five foot radius of dead-man zone.
For a moment, we pause, as still as statues.
Lightning illuminates everything and I see two other black-clad men opposite the tunnel. As the lightning ends there's a soft pop, and for a millisecond an abnormal void permeates everything.
My teammate timed the specialized Electronic Magnetic Pulse device perfectly.
Now the cameras loop sixty-four seconds of the storm from before the most recent lightning strike. The behemoth male in front of me programmed the recording on the device before he placed it on the building. The shadow on the opposite side threw the receiver onto the wall above the cameras as the light dissipated. The EMP will loop the footage for forty minutes.
The two men closest to the opening sprint forward and place tiny black dots on the perimeter of the grate. They retreat four paces and press their backs against the wall.
A plume of smoke erupts from the tunnel, but the deluge cuts it down.
In a maneuver so well-practiced that it is instinctual, we converge on the opening.
The shadow in front of me folds himself into the space, then with zero hesitation, the first silhouette from the opposite side slides in. I dart in with less than an inch between his heels and my face. Another large body fills the tunnel behind me, and after him the last of us barrels into the cramped space.
Checkpoint Three complete.
We propel our bodies forward, nimble even in the darkness. Crawling within the vent, we calculate each movement with expedient care. A stream of wind brushes along our suits. The chute becomes a maze, with tunnels leading in every direction.
The male in front of me turns up a tunnel on the right, but I follow the first male and continue straight. The presence behind me breaks off to the right. The one behind him follows me.
Now there is more space between us.
We continue farther into the maze, pushing forward despite the claustrophobic tunnel. Silently, we labor on as the wind becomes less uniform—it gushes around us only to ebb to near stillness.
Moving deeper still into the labyrinth, the surges of current become stronger and more obvious, with moments so forceful they howl and threaten to rip us from our positions.
The figure in front of me pauses. After
a single large, sharp motion, he continues his forward rhythm. I keep following six feet behind him, sliding my knife out of its sheath.
Beyond my leader, a deafening noise emits from the wall of the tunnel, then abruptly ends a few seconds later. Again, it blares, then ceases. The next rhythmic pulse masks a soft popping noise.
Without hesitation, the figure in front of me slides past the obstacle. His heels cross the danger zone just as the release valve opens under the force of deadly intensity.
The pressure of the wind atop my head and shoulders mash my suit and mask into my skin. A thousand pounds of weight barrel into my body.
I push through the pain without faltering. The stream of air stops. I emerge through the other side into a disappearing cloud of smoke, the forceful airflow sucking it down the chute.
A spotlight in the center of the room glares down on a chair occupied by a bloody Alpha male. Metal bands around his neck, wrists, and ankles hold him trapped.
Ten men, covered head to toe in gear the same gray as the walls, fill the interrogation room. Four stand in the corners, one blocks the locked cell door, two stand near a table to the right, and three hover over the prisoner.
Our entrance has gone unnoticed because of the tortured male's screams and the noise of the air valve release. That won’t last. The male behind me slides out of the vent, and as he straightens, he flings an impact explosive up at the light.
Sparks accompany a loud crack, and darkness encases the room.
Synchronized, we attack. My blade slices through a neck, and blood covers the area. I'm already behind my next target before the emergency lights flicker on. I reach around to grab his chin, feeling his posture stiffen in shock. Before he can pull his knife from his belt, my other hand spans the base of his skull.
With a practiced lethal jerk, his neck snaps, and his body drops to the floor.
My teammates have each killed two guards. Only two near the prisoner and two near the table remain.
I flick my arm forward and my knife hurtles through the air. The interrogator nearest the prisoner begins to fall, my knife handle jutting straight out of his forehead.
Enemies and death surround them. The numbers may now be even, but our skills are not.
I dodge as a flash of silver barrels toward my face. I tuck into a roll and burst upward, putting my momentum into my fist. It connects with the bottom of my attacker’s jaw. His eyes show pain, terror, and death in less time than it takes his heart to beat its final time. His head jerks up and back, a snapping, tearing noise rends the air, and his lifeless body follows. Useless, limp limbs flail as the power of my punch sends the carcass flying away from me.
I continue toward the center of the room, grab the handle of my knife, and jerk it from the guard’s head before he can hit the ground.
As I approach the chair, I pull one of the razor blades from the inseam of my leg. I slide it between the lock mechanism and the metal cuff on the man's left wrist. I push it deeper into the crevice with the blade of my knife, then shove my palm against the hilt.
Internal mechanisms snap and I yank upwards on the cuff. It wrenches and pops off the chair. I kneel and repeat the process—razor, wedge, strike—breaking the man’s restraints. A single yank and it breaks off the chair. Other metallic sounds fill the air, my teammates releasing his other limbs. Within seconds we’ve freed the male from his bindings.
He's injured, bleeding from multiple wounds, and missing a few fingernails and whole toes. Overall, his condition is not promising, but we don't have time for medical aid. The suit will stop the flow from the worst of the injuries. He'll manage until we can get him back to our designated drop point. Then he’ll be someone else’s responsibility.
I reach up to my right shoulder, pull out the extra mask and suit, and tilt the battered male forward. Leaning him on my forearm, I shift behind him, place the folded suit on his lower neck, and tap the upper right corner. It unfurls, wraps around him, and seals. I slide the mask over his face and ensure the edges suction.
Golden eyebrows and striking blue eyes meet mine through my massive teammate’s mask. This was the male in front of me in the tunnel, Dirk.
Dark skin and rich brown eyes, even more prevalent because of the surrounding gray, are visible through the smaller Alpha's mask. This was the man behind me in the tunnel, Kwame.
Dirk moves around the room, collecting any paraphernalia that could connect us to the incident.
Kwame produces a hidden bundle and unravels it while I lean the prisoner forward and pin his arms to his sides. Kwame wraps a strap around his torso. Dirk passes Kwame his blade back, then hands me my knife and the five razor blades. I slide them into their places.
At Kwame’s gesture, Dirk steps to the front of the chair and lifts the male up by his shoulders. In less than a minute, Kwame has fitted a specialized harness, designed and built by Kwame himself, to the male. Dirk carries the prisoner to the mouth of the vent and lays him on his back, feet towards the tunnel. Kwame wraps one final strap around the inmate and the harness holds him as stiff as a cadaver undergoing rigor mortis.
Kwame picks up a woven strap near the prisoner’s feet and secures it to Dirk’s camouflaged chest harness, another of Kwame’s creations. The man has a special knack for rope. He picks up an identical cord from near the male’s head and connects it to his own hidden chest harness.
Dirk stands at the opening for a half second, then enters with grace rare in someone so big. I lift the inmate over the lip of the grate, then Dirk pulls him forward, evading the release valve with his pacing. Kwame darts into the tunnel with perfect timing. They’ll keep the injured male suspended between them with their spacing, transporting him without hindering their movement. The prisoner’s passage down the chute will be as smooth as lying in a hammock floating between two trees.
The deadly pressure of air continues it’s rhythm. I slide into the small space and move past it with ease.
Checkpoint Four complete.
Crawling through the labyrinth of concrete chutes, we retrace our path. My arms and core muscles burn as sweat slicks my skin under the suit, but I keep my breathing even and my progress quick.
Two more bodies join the procession behind me, their spacing the same as Dirk and Kwame’s. A faint whisper of air displacement between them relays that they’ve retrieved the other prisoner.
Kwame slides out of the wretched passageway, and I pursue. Dirk and Kwame move to my left, each grabbing a discreet handhold on the cocoon dangling between them.
Another figure emerges into the deluge, and a flash of lightning reveals gray eyebrows and lethal dark brown eyes that refract glints of gold back at me. Vander, our unit leader, continues forward, angling his body to the right, pulling another cocooned man into the weather. Then my last teammate joins the storm.
I don’t need lightning to know that his hazel eyes include a mischievous tilt of his eyebrow. But, sure enough, light shows green and brown orbs accompanied by a single raised brow. Jumoke enters the chaos with an odd glee.
We stand side by side, with Jumoke on my right and Kwame on my left. The whole team stays aligned as we sprint toward the razor wire wall, the inmates receiving a smooth ride because of Kwame’s brilliant design.
As one, we launch ourselves over the dangerous obstacle, a synchronized dance of deadly skill. We roll through the impact on the other side; the pairs rolling in tandem to keep the hostages airborne. Our feet pound through the gravel as we increase our speed, and as we approach the external wall, I prepare for the biggest role I have in this mission.
We engage our climbing gear and ascend the smooth surface, powering through the transition.
Before we reach the height of the wall, I check our alignment. Everyone is at the same altitude. I check our spacing and confirm that everyone is within reach.
We jettison past the summit, pushing off the top ledge with our right feet. For a moment, we are weightless in an ugly world—the sky is full of angry clouds, lightning st
reaks across the sky, and rain fills the space all around us. Our weightlessness ends and we plummet, the rocky cliff behind us threatening to tear us apart as the tumultuous ocean roars closer.
I slap my left shoulder, then stretch my arms out to the sides. Fingers clench my wrists, and I tighten my grip on the connected arms, locking us together. My parachute opens, jerking my harness against my chest. As I slow, the weight on my shoulders threatens to tear my bones from their sockets. I brace myself against the pain and hold firm, straining my muscles, refusing to fail. We slow further, and with the terrible increase of pressure, white-hot agony streams from my left shoulder. Gasping through the pain of a dislocated shoulder, I grit my teeth but refrain from snarling out a curse.
I look down and check our formation, ensuring that everyone is in position. The parachute holds me at the top. The second tier is Jumoke and Kwame, grasping my wrists in one hand and their hostages in the other. Both cocooned men make up the third tier. Below them, Vander and Dirk create the fourth tier, grasping each other’s elbows to prevent excess swinging.
Vander and Dirk slide into the water, and the strain on my body lessens. My left shoulder flares in misery, but I keep my hold steady.
The dark water churns like a monster, and as it barrels closer, it gobbles up the prisoners. Then the fierce waves consume Jumoke and Kwame.
Cold sluices up from my toes, engulfing my whole body. The suit stops the frigid water from stealing my breath in shock, but the cold still seeps through the high-tech material. I snarl as I brace my injured arm between my knees, stabilize my shoulder with my right arm, and push my humerus back into the socket. The pain recedes to a throbbing, and the cold is a welcome sensation.
I kick upward, fighting the ferocious waves. As my head breeches the surface, I slap my left shoulder and the parachute retracts. I tread water, waiting the precious seconds for it to squeeze back into its compressed pocket. The rain pummels my mask as the waves attempt to push me under. The pocket on my shoulder snicks closed, and I dive.