“I—” she starts again, blinking like she’s trying to reboot her brain. I can’t blame her.
She’s staring at me the way most civilians do—like I just crash-landed a war cruiser into their living room. I’m used to that look. Doesn’t even sting anymore. Much.
Then she exhales, slow and theatrical. “Does it have to be him?”
Ouch.
I grin wider, puffing on the end of my cigar like it's oxygen. “You wound me, doll.”
Lazarus steps in behind me, brushing past with all the warmth of a cryo-gun. “He’s the best the Alliance has.”
“Seriously?” she mutters. “The best was busy?”
“Voltar has saved more civilian lives than any two squads combined,” Lazarus adds, clearly reciting from memory. “And destroyed more enemy assets than we can legally admit to.”
“Mostly on purpose,” I chime in.
She raises one sculpted brow, arms crossing like she’s bracing herself against a storm. “You don’t look like someone who does subtle.”
“I can be subtle,” I protest. “Sometimes. Usually. When I’m unconscious.”
She makes a noise that’s half-scoff, half-laugh. Progress.
Time to seal the deal.
“You wanna know who I am?” I plant my boots wide, arms out, a walking war statue with attitude. “I’m the guy who held the eastern trench on Gorvath Prime for seventy-two hours straight—by myself—because everyone else ran out of ammo and excuses.”
Lazarus groans quietly.
I don’t stop. I’m on a roll now.
“I’m the guy who jumped on a detonation core mid-countdown, ripped it open with myteeth, and defused it using only a half-melted spoon and a prayer.”
“That was classified,” Lazarus says.
“Not anymore.”
Sable leans against her kitchen counter, eyes narrowing. She’s trying not to be amused. Failing.
“I once flew a stolen Harbinger-class gunshipbackwardthrough an asteroid field to evade a Baragon strike cruiser. And you know what happened?”
“Let me guess,” she deadpans. “You survived.”
“The shipdidn’t. But I did.”
She laughs. It’s a real one, sudden and bright, and it hits me like a rail shot to the chest. I wasn’t ready for it.
“All right, hero,” she says, waving vaguely toward the hall.
I salute with my cigar hand and head off, dragging my footlocker behind me. It makes a horrible screeching sound across her fancy floors. She winces.
Inside the guest room, I take one look and decide it won’t do. Too soft. Too neat. Too…civilian. I pop the seals on my case and start setting up.
First comes the grav-hammock—custom rigged to support three times my weight and calibrated for optimal lumbar support. Then the mini-gun tripod goes up by the window, trained on the street below. Standard protocol.
“You brought acannon?” she calls from the other room.
“You never know,” I yell back. “Could be assassin pigeons.”
