Rhea lifts it gently. Sets it on a nearby crate. The code panel lights up with a flicker.
“It’s buried,” she murmurs, squinting. “Multiple layers. Like someone intentionally wrapped it in anti-surveillance rotors.”
“Can you break it?”
“I can try.”
She’s already plugging in a decrypt stick when Ripley tugs her sleeve.
“Mommy, someone’s coming.”
I spin.
Three of them.
Fast. Moving like they’ve trained for this.
No uniforms. Just dark clothes, masks, and stun batons humming low and lethal.
Rhea pulls Ripley back fast, tucking her behind the crate.
I step in front of them, stance wide.
“You wanna do this the hard way?” I growl.
They don’t answer.
One lunges.
I move first.
My elbow crashes into his face, snaps the mask clean in half. I follow with a knee to the gut and a brutal hook to the temple. He drops like scrap metal.
The second swings wide—his baton crackling as it arcs toward my ribs.
I catch it.
Rip it from his hands and slam it into his kneecap.
He screams.
Good.
The third is smarter—tries to flank, goes low, aims for Rhea.
Big mistake.
I drive my heel into his spine before he reaches her. He folds like paper, but not before his baton hits the ground and discharges.
The hum makes Ripley scream.
I whirl, expecting blood?—
But she’s just standing there.
Frozen.
Eyes wide. Trembling.
