“I’m almost there!” Aceon announced, jumping down and running forward as Lung continued taking shots, picking off additional crew members before they could even get involved.
And that was when the helicopter lifted off.
I’d tagged it earlier—civilian model, matte custom job, probably ex-mil. Reinforced skids, tail boom braces. At the time, I wrote it off as overkill.
Pirate-proofing. Oil-baron bullshit. Yacht-chic.
But now the rotors spun wide and slow.
The door slid open.
And someone inside pushed a belt-fed M240 out.
It wasn’t crowd control.
It was suppression.
“Gunship!” I shouted across all channels. “Cover and scatter!Now.”
Ellum bashed frustrated palms against the cargo box’s side before bolting. Kelly’s body fell to his knees and crawled beneath the dolly, presumably looking for his head. Lung started taking potshots at the helicopter.
“Stop shooting!” I commanded him as the M240 began to roar.
“I can get him!” Lung shouted back.
“Hold!” I shrieked, my voice going into registers humans and Therians could not hear.
I knew his aim was good, but if he shot the gunner, and the gunner slumped, the M240 might keep going, and the .308-caliber rounds it fired could cut the cargo box in two.
Along with everyone inside it.
The rounds traced Ellum’s path away from the box as Aceon kept storming in.
Reason told me to tell him to stop.
But where Sirena was concerned, I had no more reason left inside.
Only instinct.
Onlyneed.
“Rear corner!” I shouted. “Hit the frame—not the wall. RAM IT.”
He was already lowering his horns.
And I was already calculating.
If Ellum’s first hit shifted the frame by even a millimeter—and if Aceon were to strike it dead-on, full speed—I could predict where the stress would bloom.
Where the steel would crease.
Where the seal would fail.
Not enough to rupture.
Just enough to allow me to fork.
If the pendant’s antenna was still intact—if Aceon hit the exact same seam Ellum stressed—then I could inject a thread of myself through that fracture.
