He smirks. “Just us.”
I nod once.
Perfect.
The hover transportLazarus sent is a stealth-class freight vessel stripped down for speed. No logos. No tail lights. Just matte gray paint and a humming silence that screamsillegal.
Voltar pilots.
I sit shotgun, strapping myself in and triple-checking my weapon.
A modified electro-pulse repeater rests against my thigh. Not regulation, not legal, and very much mine. I palm a stun disc next, tucking it into the forearm slot of my armor.
Voltar watches me from the corner of his eye, one hand on the throttle.
“You’re not afraid.”
“Of Otto?” I scoff. “I just watched my life go up in smoke. You think I’m afraid of some corrupt landlord in a novelty suit?”
He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to.
My compad pings again.
TARGET SITE LOCATED. ETA: 7 MINUTES.
Lazarus sends the rest: digital schematics, guard cycles, internal heat signatures.
It’s a fortress dressed up like a penthouse. Thirty-two floors of marble hallways and fake concierge services, hiding a bunker wrapped in luxury wallpaper.
“Entry point’s the rooftop,” Voltar says, slowing the craft. “I’ll drop us on the maintenance grid. You take north. I take west. We converge on Floor 31—data vault.”
I nod. “Clean?”
“If it’s not, make it.”
The rooftop isslick with condensation and fake greenery. Some corporate idiot thought throwing potted trees up here would distract from the helipad and plasma turrets.
We slip between motion sensors, crawl along exhaust vents, and drop down the emergency shaft like a pair of ghosts with vendettas.
My heart pounds like a war drum.
Floor 31 is silent.
Too silent.
Until it’s not.
Three drones zip down the hallway, low and fast, laser scopes blinking to life.
I duck behind a column. Voltar pulls me close, his arm braced across my chest as if he can shield me from pure plasma. He waits, eyes locked on the lead drone.
Then he moves.
Fast.
Two flicks of his wrist—throwing blades pierce the drones in sequence.
Pop. Pop. Pop.
