We don’t have to wait long.
By the time we hit Level 29, the Grolgaths are waiting.
Eight of them.
Built like hover tanks and twice as dumb.
The first charges with a war roar, dual fists swinging. I meet him head-on and plant a fist dead center in his chest. The impact cracks ribs and sends him flying backward into his own team. Two go down like bowling pins.
“Three o’clock!” Sable barks, sliding under a clawed arm and jamming her shock baton into another’s lower spine. He seizes mid-roar and crashes to the ground twitching.
“Thanks, sweetheart.”
“Don’t get cocky.”
Another Grolgath fires a plasma burst.
I dodge the first two, but the third tags me high on the bicep.
Pain lances through my arm like liquid fire. The smell of seared flesh hits me—familiar and nauseating.
I snarl and keep going.
“Voltar—!”
“I’m fine,” I grit out.
Blood runs hot down my side. Doesn’t matter. I rip the blaster from the Grolgath’s claws and use it to beat him unconscious with the butt end.
“Clear,” I pant.
Sable glances at my arm. “That’s not fine.”
“Fix it later.”
She swears under her breath and throws me a field patch. I slap it over the wound and keep moving. No time for weakness. Not now.
The explosions start two floors down.
Controlled charges, just like Lazarus said. He’s breaching walls to create diversions, scattering Otto’s forces like spooked birds. The floor shakes beneath our feet.
“Elevators are dead,” she growls. “Stairs?”
“No time.”
I take three steps back, then charge the nearest wall and slam my shoulder into it.
The concrete cracks, then caves.
Dust erupts like a sandstorm. I feel the wall give way under my weight, and suddenly we’re spilling through to the next corridor like gods with bad manners.
Sable coughs beside me. “You seriously need a therapist.”
“Later.”
We descend through two more levels of chaos.
One of Otto’s secondary squads intercepts us on Level 31—smaller, faster, more tactical. Doesn’t help them.
