“Do your worst.”
I clean the wound. He doesn’t flinch, but his muscles jump under my skin. I apply the glue, pinching the ragged edges together, then reinforce it with the butterflies. It’s ugly, but it will hold.
“You good at everything you do?” Jackson asks, his voice rough.
“I learn fast.” I wrap a fresh compression bandage around his bicep. “There.”
Across the room, Torque and Whisper are cleaning weapons. I catch them watching us. Torque nudges Whisper, murmuring something. Whisper smirks.
“Ignore them,” Jackson says, following my gaze. “They’re children.”
“They’re your family.”
“Yeah. They are.” He catches my hand. “You stood your ground with Ghost.”
“Was I supposed to be scared?”
“Most people are.” He runs his thumb over my knuckles. “You fit in here. Better than you think.”
“I’m an analyst. You guys are?—”
“Kinetic,” he finishes. “But we need the brain. You saw it. Halo respects the code. Ghost respects the intel. You’re not just a package to them.”
“And to you?”
His eyes darken. “You know what you are to me.”
“Hey, lovebirds,” Torque calls out. “Ghost said rest, not romance. Keep the heartrate down.”
Jackson flips him off without looking away from me. “Get some sleep. We have a war to plan tomorrow.”
I nod. I curl up on the adjacent cot, pulling a wool blanket over me. The sounds of the warehouse—the tap of Halo’s keyboard, the low murmur of Brass and Ghost discussing tactics, thesnick-snickof Whisper’s rifle bolt—should keep me awake. Instead, they act as a lullaby. A perimeter of violence keeping the world at bay.
For the first time in days, I close my eyes, and I don’t see the black SUV mowing Victor down.
I see Jackson standing between me and the darkness.
The next twenty-four hours blur into a montage of preparation.
Halo and Vargas argue over voltage requirements. Brass builds a 3D holographic map of the Nexus building using blueprints I pulled from the city archives. Torque acquires a nondescript delivery van and a high-speed interceptor, tinkering with the engines until they purr with unnatural power.
I spend the time with Ghost and Brass, refining the target package.
“The server room is here,” I point to the hologram. “Subbasement three. Single access point.”
“Fatal funnel,” Brass mutters. “One way in, one way out. If they pin you down there, it’s over.”
“We need a diversion,” Jackson says. He’s rested, moving better, though he still guards his left arm. “Something massive at the front gate. Pull their eyes.”
“I can blow the substation,” Torque offers. “Kill the grid. Halo loops the cameras.”
“I need to be in the room,” I say.
Ghost looks at me. “Halo can run the script remotely once we plug in.”
“No.” I shake my head. “The Root Seed is a brute-force weapon. But we also need to knowwhois giving the orders. I need to be at the terminal to trace the command line back to the source while the Seed uploads. Halo can’t do both.”
“She’s right,” Jackson says. “I take her in. I breach the door; she handles the data.”
