By nightfall, the two fugitives had put many kilometers between themselves and the blood-soaked clearing near the ranger station. Kabelo and Khumalo traveled under the cover of darkness, sticking to back trails where the chance of encountering patrols was low. Their stolen jeep — a rusted relic from the ranger station that Khumalo had miraculously coaxed back to life — jounced along a dirt service road, its headlights kept off. The engine rattled and coughed, but it carried them onward through the wilderness.
Each bump sent a bolt of pain through Kabelo's weary body, but he held tight to the wheel. Khumalo sat beside him, cradling his injured arm. The night air was cold on their faces, carrying the scents of dust and dry grass. Neither man had spoken for a while, both lost in their thoughts as the stars wheeled above.
At length, Khumalo broke the silence. "Back there... what you did," he said quietly, eyes forward. "Stepping through... thin air, appearing behind those bastards. That was..." He shook his head, at a loss for words.
Kabelo tightened his grip on the steering wheel. He had known this moment was coming. "I don't fully understand it myself," he replied. "It must be what they did to me in that lab. The Prometheus Serum."
"Prometheus Serum?" Khumalo glanced over, confusion plain even in the dim starlight. "What the hell did they inject you with?"
Kabelo grimaced, memory of the ordeal flashing through his mind. "Some experimental cocktail. The silver-haired leader called it the Prometheus Initiative. They pumped it into me. Next thing I know, I'm tearing holes in reality and teleporting out of their grasp."
Khumalo let out a low whistle of disbelief. "Damn, Shadow... And here I thought I'd seen it all." He paused, considering the weight of this revelation. "Do you think it... changed you? Beyond the obvious, I mean. You feel alright?"
Kabelo gave a terse nod. "Physically, I'm roughed up but I'll live. Mentally..." He trailed off, searching for honesty. "It scares the hell out of me, Lawrence. I didn't ask for this power. I don't know how to control it except on instinct. And I'm worried what it might be doing to me that I can't see."
Khumalo was quiet for a moment. "We'll figure it out. Right now, it's kept you alive. Kept us alive." He managed a wry grin. "Hard to complain about having a walking escape hatch on the team."
Despite the grim situation, Kabelo chuckled softly. Trust Khumalo to find humor in the absurd. The laughter died quickly, though, as reality pressed back in. "They won't stop coming after us," Kabelo said. "Not after what we pulled. And if this Prometheus Serum is as important as it seems... I'm the only successful subject. That makes me valuable."
"Or a loose end they need to cut," Khumalo added soberly. "Either way, we're targets."
Kabelo nodded. The jeep jolted over a rut, and he winced as his leg flared with pain. "We need a plan beyond running. We need help."
Khumalo exhaled, a mix of frustration and resignation. "I tried to reach our people," he said. "Earlier today, while I waited at the station, I got the ranger's radio working. Sent out a coded distress on an old Special Forces frequency. No official response. Either nobody's listening, or..." He didn't finish the thought.
"Or our own command can't be trusted," Kabelo finished. The idea tasted bitter. The possibility that someone in their chain of command had sold them out had crossed his mind. It was the only thing that made sense of the ambush. The mission intel had been too perfect, the enemy too prepared.
Khumalo's expression hardened. "I wouldn't be surprised. Someone set us up. I want to know who."
"Me too." Kabelo glanced at the fuel gauge — nearly empty. The jeep likely hadn't been filled in years. "How far to the safehouse coordinates Colonel Mabaso gave us?"
"Not far," Khumalo said, checking a small notepad by the light of a pocket torch. The colonel had responded to their emergency broadcast at last, much to their relief. Mabaso was an old-guard intelligence officer who had worked with their unit before. He'd given them cryptic instructions to head toward a farm silo outside a town called Thabazimbi, and to use a short-range radio signal once nearby.
Kabelo could make out a few pinpricks of light on the horizon now — a town or village. He killed the engine and let the jeep roll to a stop behind a stand of acacia trees. "Better to proceed quietly from here. We don't want to drive into an ambush."
They concealed the jeep as best they could with branches and brush. Khumalo insisted he could walk despite his limp and slinged arm. Kabelo offered his shoulder for support when needed, and together they moved cautiously toward the twinkling lights of Thabazimbi.
It was past midnight when they reached the outskirts — little more than a cluster of darkened homes and a shuttered petrol station at the edge of a one-street town. The farm silo Colonel Mabaso mentioned loomed in the moonlight a kilometer north of the town. The area was quiet, almost eerily so; if the enemy was hunting nearby, they showed no sign.
Kabelo tuned the handheld radio Mabaso had guided them to find at the ranger station (it had been hidden under the floorboards, a decades-old but serviceable set). He set it to the agreed frequency and clicked the transmit button three times, pause, then twice — the coded signal to identify themselves.
They waited in tense silence beside an abandoned tractor. A few seconds later, the radio crackled softly. "This is Nightingale," a low voice came through. "Proceed to the silo. All clear."
Khumalo released a breath. "Nightingale. That's him."
The two made their way to the solitary grain silo that sat like a ghostly cylinder under the moon. As promised, it appeared deserted. A creaking wooden fence surrounded an empty field dotted with old farming equipment.
Kabelo scanned the area with his carbine (one of the mercenary rifles they'd taken). Seeing nothing amiss, he gave a low whistle. "Clear."
From behind the silo, a tall, slender figure emerged with hands raised. Even in darkness, Kabelo recognized Colonel Desmond Mabaso's distinctive gait. He was dressed in civilian clothes — khaki trousers and a dark jacket — but carried himself with military calm.
"Kabelo. Sergeant Khumalo." Mabaso greeted them in a hushed tone as he drew nearer. He briefly clasped Kabelo's hand, then Khumalo's, taking note of their injuries. "I'm glad you two made it."
"Barely, sir," Khumalo replied, relief evident in his voice. "We lost everyone else."
Mabaso's jaw tightened. "I know. We have a lot to discuss, but not here. Come." He gestured and led them behind the silo.
Concealed in the shadow of the structure was a metal hatch in the ground, left slightly ajar. Mabaso pulled it open, revealing a narrow staircase descending into an old grain storage cellar. "It's not five-star, but it's safe."
One by one they climbed down into the dark. Mabaso secured the hatch above them, then flicked on a battery-powered lantern. The cellar was a cramped concrete chamber that smelled of dust and old maize, but it was dry and hidden. Blankets were spread on the floor along with a couple of crates serving as makeshift seats.
As they settled in, Mabaso went to a crate and pulled out a first-aid box. "Let's get you two patched up properly. No telling when we'll get another respite."
Over the next quarter hour, they dressed wounds and caught their breath. Mabaso cleaned the cut on Kabelo's cheek and checked his leg gash, nodding with satisfaction at the field dressing. He helped Khumalo tighten the sling on his broken arm and applied fresh bandages to a shrapnel graze along Khumalo's ribs.
Finally, the colonel sat back, eyes studying Kabelo beneath heavy brows. "Now, tell me everything. Command gave a sanitized report that your team was KIA in a terrorist explosion. But I had a feeling that was bullshit. Your signal confirmed it. What happened out there?"
Kabelo and Khumalo took turns recounting the ordeal in low voices: the mission ambush, the mysterious mercenary force, the execution of Captain De Beer, and Kabelo's capture. Then Kabelo detailed the horrors of the lab — the Prometheus Serum injections and the bizarre powers he gained. He kept his voice steady as he described the portals he created, demonstrating by opening his palm and allowing a tiny swirling distortion of air to appear for a second before letting it fizzle out. Khumalo flinched at the miniature portal, still marveling at it, but Mabaso only raised an eyebrow.
"Incredible," Mabaso murmured. "I'd heard whispers that some private outfits were working on radical soldier augmentations, but I never imagined... this."
"Sir, do you know anything about this Prometheus Initiative?" Khumalo asked. "We need leads. Right now, we don't even know who specifically is hunting us. They were using some PMC — highly trained, well-equipped."
Mabaso frowned deeply. "I've been digging quietly since I caught wind of your mission going bad. There are rumors filtering through intelligence circles about a project called Prometheus. Word is, it's being funded off-the-books by a consortium of defense contractors and some powerful figures in multiple governments. Highly classified stuff."
He rubbed his temples. "As for the men chasing you — I've identified one likely player. Have either of you heard of Crimson Shield?"
Kabelo shook his head. Khumalo muttered, "Sounds like a security company."
"Private military contractor," Mabaso confirmed. "Officially registered in the UK, operates globally. A lot of their operatives are ex-special forces from various countries. Nasty reputation, but with powerful clients. I suspect the mercs you encountered are Crimson Shield contractors. That silver-haired man you described... I think I know who he is. Colonel Janus Steyn."
"Steyn," Kabelo repeated, trying the name. It wasn't familiar.
Mabaso continued, "Ex-South African Special Forces, just like you boys. Went rogue years back, sold his skills to the highest bidder. He's been connected to black ops in Africa and Eastern Europe for a while. If he's leading this hunt, it means Crimson Shield is deeply involved in Project Prometheus."
A cold anger settled in Kabelo's gut. A countryman, a fellow special forces veteran, had done this to them. "Do you know who hired Crimson Shield for this job?"
Mabaso shook his head. "Not yet. But there are hints. There's a biomedical firm, SynGen Industries, that has facilities not far from here, across the border. SynGen has ties to defense research. I wouldn't be surprised if one of their black labs was involved in developing that serum."
Kabelo exchanged a glance with Khumalo. It was a lead, at least. "You think SynGen is running Prometheus?"
"Possibly one of many. But if we can get into their local facility, we might find evidence or information — something to expose this and leverage for protection."
Khumalo sighed. "Breaking into a corporate lab with mercenaries on our tail. Sounds fun."
"We have one advantage," Kabelo said quietly, flexing his hand. "They built a weapon into me — and it can be used against them."
Mabaso nodded, eyes glinting. "Just be careful. We don't know the limits of your... ability. And if SynGen is part of this, they'll have security systems and possibly even researchers who know what you're capable of."
A heavy silence fell as they all contemplated the challenges ahead. Finally, Mabaso spoke up. "For now, you two get some rest. I'll take first watch. At first light, we plan our move on SynGen. With luck, we can get what we need before Crimson Shield even knows where you are."
Kabelo lay back on one of the blankets, the concrete floor unforgiving against his muscles. Khumalo was already easing himself down on another blanket with a groan.
Exhaustion weighed on Kabelo's bones, but he felt a ray of hope. They had an ally with resources, a plan forming, and a clear next step. It was far better than running blind.
As he closed his eyes, Kabelo allowed himself for the first time to imagine that they might actually turn the tables on their hunters. If they could expose Project Prometheus and bring down those behind it, maybe his team's deaths would be avenged and he could rid himself of this living nightmare of powers.
Up above, the wind rustled the grass around the silo. Below, in the cellar safehouse, three soldiers slept in shifts, their resolve hardening with each passing hour.
But outside the bubble of the farm, unseen eyes were already watching the stars, tracking the movements of men like pieces on a chessboard. In the darkness beyond the safe haven, a storm was brewing, and it would soon come crashing down.