The door to the small flat exploded in a cloud of dust. The shock wave drove his ageing body against the rear wall still sitting in the wooden chair which collapsed on impact. Not content, fate sent the poker table the same direction. It crashed into his abdomen like a kick from a horse.
Gasping for breath, all he managed was a mouthful of smoke. It had a bitter, metallic taste, but then it would, wouldn't it. He spat the taste away, but it returned with each breath.
His ears were full of a piercingly loud ringing, yet he could hear nothing. His eyes were stinging from the brightness, he could see nothing. Up felt like down. Left was right.
An instructor had once told him: "When it goes off, you will fall. Protect your head."
He flung his arms up towards where he thought his head was and managed to hit himself in the nose. At least he was in the right direction, he thought, a moment before his arms hit the floor, mercifully cushioning his head from the impact.
Always a bright side, he decided. His eyes were still stinging: too much damned brightness!
Collapsed on the floor, he decided that was the best place to stay.
"Sys Auth!" screamed a voice which he just about heard through the ringing. "System Authority!" It came again, just to make sure, sounding more assured of itself this time. "Don't move!"
He had no intention of moving, nor any idea of where he might move to. Cloudy shapes were moving around him, his eyes squinting against the brightness.
"Effects from a stun grenade last a few seconds," he remembered the instructor saying. "be sure to over-power your target quickly."
I'm over-powered, he thought to himself as he lay there. I'm too old and too retired for this shit. How did they find me?
He was rolled over, not gently, his hands and feet were bound. Then they dragged him up and on to a chair. Opposite him was Fred, in a similar state, looking every bit the academic he was, but with blood dripping from his nose and mouth, and a heavy bruise already forming on his forehead. Was he unconscious? He certainly wasn't moving. Next to him was Fred's headstrong teenaged daughter, Tracy.
Minutes earlier the trio had been playing poker, the evidence for which lay scattered around the room under a layer of debris. Now the Federation had caught up with him, and dragged Fred and Tracy down too.
This was all his fault, he knew that. But how?
The flat was barely big enough for father and daughter, yet it had amused the pair to invite the recluse from next door round every week for their Friday night game. He appreciated the gesture, despite having no interest in cards, it was fun to debate current affairs with the law professor and student activist.
But now he'd got them into this mess.
"Rule number one," he remembered the first time the instructor had told them, "never allow yourself to get caught." It had been a daily message. "Fight, kill if you have to - but never get taken."
He'd been careful these past few years, watching his back, avoiding anything that might draw attention to himself. He hadn't let his guard down. Friday nights were the only social event he'd allowed himself. It was safe, he'd decided, the risk was minimal.
Obviously he'd been wrong.
Each day the instructors had delivered their message with examples of agents evading capture. Their examples had become more and more extreme - he understood why, desensitising him to the barbaric methods he may one day need to employ. Those memories slowly returned as he sat in the chair. The decades had buried them, his trade-craft weakened, but this explosive intrusion brought it all back into sharp focus.
He looked around him. He counted four of them. Two assumed the role of guard. One stood watch in the corridor to deflect any inquisitive neighbours. The last he had pegged as the interrogator, 'yep we're going to be doing the dance in the flat it seems'.
Caught or in the process of evasion? The evidence for the former was overwhelming, but the difference is merely a state of mind, the instructors had told him that too.
"Don't hesitate, use lethal force, but never get taken captive." The stories told by the instructors had been gruesome, captured agents were rarely released, they just disappeared.
He could just imagine their disapproving looks at his current predicament: bound, hands and feet.
'It's just a state of mind,' he reminded himself.
The two guards seemed happy that their prisoners were restrained satisfactorily. They stood watch over him as the interrogator set up. Except they weren't watching him, they were watching her.