A Horrid Ping

The morning slips into rhythm.

One moment, you’re helping repair the broken irrigation lines from the oasis, the next, you’re reviewing the perimeter with two of your older Lions who still limp from the last fight.

The people greet you with nods, with small smiles. There’s respect there. Fear, too—but it’s quieter now, diluted by gratitude.

You’re halfway through checking on the weapon stores behind the old bakery when the phone in your cargo pocket vibrates.

Once.

You stop moving.

Only two people have the number.

Your mother and Norah.

You dig into your pocket, pulling out the sleek black phone Norah left you. There’s a new message on the screen. No name. Just a number with no region tag.

You open it.

The screen flashes bright, then loads the image.

It’s Norah.

Stripped of rank, stripped of pride, stripped of almost everything.

She’s slumped in a rusted metal chair, arms pulled behind her, likely zip-tied or worse. Her face is swollen—eye nearly shut, blood dried across her temple, a trail down her chin from her mouth. Her nose is broken. Her lip’s split.

She’s bruised. Beaten. Topless.

Eyes open. Alert. Defiant.

Alive.

The message beneath the image is short. A single line in Arabic.

"We found your foreign bitch. Ready to negotiate?"

Your jaw locks. Your fingers tighten around the phone until the plastic creaks.

You don’t realize your breath’s caught until you hear a voice behind you.

“John?”

You turn. Your mom’s standing in the alley behind the bakery, eyes narrowing the second she sees your face.

“What happened?” she asks, stepping forward.

You just hold the phone up for her to see.

Your thumb hovers over the screen, over the number that just carved a hollow into your chest.

You hit Call.

The line clicks immediately. No ringtone. No delay. As if they were waiting.

"Ah… John Karim," a voice says, the accent thick, but trying to fake smooth Arabic. It's wrong. Just wrong enough for you to hear the steel underneath—the Russian buried beneath the pretend.

You don't speak. You just breathe. Controlled. Contained.

“Don’t be shy, commander,” the voice continues. “We figured you’d want to talk... once you saw what’s left of your aunt.”

You hear a thud in the background. Then a whimper.

Your grip tightens on the phone.

“She's tougher than she looks,” the Russian adds with a chuckle. “Bit of a mouth on her. But we’re helping her keep that filled.”

You close your eyes briefly. One second. Just one.

He keeps going.

“This is simple. You give us our General—intact. We give you your bitch—intact.”

There’s a pause. Then he adds, smug, venomous. “Unless you'd rather she keep tasting what Russian cock tastes like.”

Your other hand clenches into a fist so tight your knuckles crack.

Your mother, standing beside you now, watches with murderous focus. She hears every word. Doesn’t interrupt. Just listens, her eyes narrowing with every syllable.

You speak finally, voice low, deadly calm. “You’ll get the General.”

The Russian hums, pleased. “See? That’s the Zahiri spirit. Pathetic.”

You hear Norah in the background—guttural breathing.

"Say goodbye to your nephew."

A long silence.

Norah’s voice comes through, cracked but still defiant, “A—”

SMACK.

Hard. Wet. Sharp.

The line goes dead.

The silence that follows is suffocating.

Your mom exhales through her nose, slow and steady. Her hand twitches near her holster.

You walk through the village.

Past villagers who part instinctively at the sight of you.

Past Lions who recognize the look in your eyes and don’t dare speak.

Toward the house where the General is kept.

The General is sitting just as you left him—tied to the chair in the back room of what used to be a schoolhouse, a man turned from uniform to meatbag over the course of a week. His bruises have bruises. His nose has bent permanently sideways. But his eyes? Still smug.

Until he sees yours.

You don’t say a word at first. You walk in, phone in hand, face carved from stone.

He smirks, blood still dry on his teeth. “What, missed me?”

You flip the phone around and shove it into his face.

The screen lights up with Norah’s image. The moment caught, frozen in hell.

The General squints. Then grins.

“Oh?” he says. “Is she for me?”

You don’t reply.

You punch.

A brutal, clean strike. No yelling. No theatrics. Just your fist against his cheekbone—again, and again, and again. The crack echoes against the stone walls. Blood spatters the floor. His chair nearly tips, but he laughs even as his jaw starts to swell.

“You’re going to tell me where that is,” you growl.

He chuckles through a wheeze. “You’re a bit late for heroics. I’ve been your guest for a week. What makes you think I know a goddamn thing?”

You grab him by the collar and slam him against the wall behind his chair, cracking the old plaster. You don't care. You slam him again. And again. And again.

Your mom enters behind you. She watches from the doorway, her shadow long, her face unreadable.

You turn back to the General, breath heavy, voice low and feral. “Guess.”

His head lolls to the side, spit and blood hanging from his lip. He chuckles. “You’re that ****? All that power, and you’re begging?”

Another punch.

This time he chokes. A tooth hits the floor.

You press your forearm against his throat, leaning in.

“Guess.”

He gurgles. Coughs. Then—cracks.

“There’s a compound,” he wheezes. “Southwest. In the red hills. Old oil facility." He pauses, "we used it to hold hostages."

You let go.

He collapses forward, head down, spit and blood dripping onto his shirt.