Saturday Story 2025 #36 (Four Days – Part 3)
The newest Alexandra Ryder story continues today on my Patreon. Synopsis below:
When Alexandra Ryder’s vacation is interrupted so she can track down a known terrorist, she discovers she has only four days to prevent an international catastrophe.
In Part 3, following the aftermath of the explosion, Alexandra meets a CNI agent called Emiliano Gálvez, and they become reluctant allies. The discovery of a survivor allows the mesmerizing secret agent to put her skills to good use.
https://www.patreon.com/posts/138835335
It’s still going to be a while before I release any parts of this to the public because I want to add more hypnotic content to it. For anyone curious, the first part is free to read, here: https://www.patreon.com/posts/132656696
To read this story before anyone else, head over to my Patreon page and become Spell… B-O-U-N-D, too. The minimum pledge for this type of early access is $5 per month.
An excerpt is available below:
III
For what seemed like a long time, Alexandra’s world was reduced to chaos. Then came the sirens, disembodied and insistent, cutting through the swelter of smoke and the hot, copper taste of blood. The hypnotic secret agent watched the emergency vehicles arrive on the scene, but her thoughts were numb. It was as if her soul had left her body and was struggling to return to it.
When she finally did so, sensation began to return as desperate hands gripping her wrists, bracing her head, and peeling the debris from her chest. The voices arrived next, a chorus of accented Spanish, speaking rapidly against the warehouse’s charred husk.
She blinked, the world around her a painting of disaster: the roof collapsed, sunlight pouring through the wounds of the building, concrete dust hanging in the air like snow. Her mind tried to reconstruct the sequence: Torres, the bombs, the shrapnel, the flash of heat, but time had gone spongy, logic elastic and unreliable. She coughed, and someone rolled her onto her side. There was a paramedic, young and trembling, face mottled with horror at his surroundings. He kept repeating, “Cuida, cuida,” as he checked her leg.
Beyond him, a ring of navy uniforms corralled the crime scene, yellow tape unfurling in the wind. It was a circus of flashing lights and shouted orders. A woman in a Guardia Civil uniform paced nearby, barking into a radio. Alexandra felt her tactical jacket pulled away, the cool bite of scissors against her flesh, then the sharp sting as a field dressing was pressed against the wound. The pain was immediate. She gritted her teeth, tried to sit up, and instantly regretted it: her shoulder screamed, and so did she.
Two different medical teams argued over her body, trading clipped sentences, while a third team attended to the blackened, unrecognizable remains by the stairs. She caught glimpses: the twisted metal of the van, one of the bomb carriers slumped over the bay doors, a booted foot protruding from beneath a slab of cinderblock. It was a nightmarish vision for sure, yet not the worst thing she had seen on the job. Alexandra cataloged her injuries, comparing them to the last time she’d been blown off her feet, and decided she could live with the odds.
(…)
Should you decide to join this cause, your support will help make sure this site thrives and that more and more content is produced for you daily. Thanks.
