“She’ll take that as a compliment.”
“AS WELL SHE SHOULD.”
I take position beside Suki, checking sight lines to the main blast doors. My pulse rifle feels good in my hands—solid, reliable, deadly. Through the bond, I feel Rynn reaching his position. There’s a moment of anticipation, coiled tension, and then—
The sharp, bright flare of combat. Not pain, not yet. Just the adrenaline rush of a fight engaged, his enhanced reflexes kicking in, his training taking over.
Stay safe,I send down the bond.
His response is wordless—a pulse of warmth, determination, love—and then his focus sharpens to a killing edge and I know he can’t spare the attention for more. He’s fighting. He’s in the thick of it.
And I’m here, about to do the same.
“Cover positions,” Suki says, her voice dropping into combat-calm. “They’ll breach those doors expecting resistance, but not expecting us to bethisready. We don’t run. We don’t negotiate. We make them regret every step they take into this room.”
“Just like those dodgy deliveries on Hextron 3,” I say.
“Most of those deliveries didn’t involve alien technology and orbital bombardment.”
“No, but remember that package on Baloros and that one feral Corsairian who tried to eat my face.” I check my rifle one more time. “Frankly, I’ll take the dreadnought.”
Suki laughs—bright, sharp, fearless. “That’s my girl.”
The blast doors begin to glow.
Not an explosion. Something more deliberate. A cutting beam, precision military-grade, tracing a glowing orange line through the reinforced obsidian. They’re being methodical. Professional.
That’s almost worse.
“They’re breaching,” I say, unnecessarily. The line of molten stone is impossible to miss.
“Let them.” Suki’s eyes are fixed on the doors, her weapon raised and steady. “Remember, Rocket—we’re couriers not soldiers.”
“What’s the difference?”
Her grin is sharp as broken glass. “Soldiers fight fair.”
The cutting beam completes its circuit. For a heartbeat, nothing happens. The War Room holds its breath.
Then the blast doors explode inward in a shower of superheated debris and smoke, and hell comes through the breach.
The first Meridian elite through the door isfast.
I’ve seen corporate mercs before—everyone who runs the Fringe has. Usually they’re glorified security guards with expensive armor and delusions of competence. These aren’t those.
These are the real deal.
Sleek black armor that seems to absorb light rather than reflect it. Helmets with no visible visors, just smooth, featureless surfaces that look more insectoid than human. Personal shield generators that shimmer like heat haze. They move with military precision, weapons up, already scanning for targets.
Professional. Deadly. Everything Suki said they’d be.
I put two armor-piercing rounds through the lead elite’s knee joint before he makes it three steps into the room.
The armor might cost more than Pink Slip used to be worth, but joints are still joints. Hydraulics are still vulnerable. And I’ve always been a good shot.
He goes down screaming—a sound distorted by his helmet into something mechanical and horrible. The elites behind him have to scramble over his thrashing body, breaking their perfect formation.
That’s all the opening Suki needs.
