Lazarus snorts despite himself, then reins it in. “Medical teams are standing by. Both of you are going to?—”
“In a minute,” I cut in. My voice comes out hoarse, but firm. “You said you had something.”
He studies me for a second, then nods. “We do.”
The data tech steps forward and hands him the slate. Lazarus taps it, brings the screen up, and turns it so we can see.
Files scroll past—transaction logs, encrypted messages, shell corporations peeling back layer by layer like rotten wallpaper. Names I recognize from the Nine’s rumor mill. Routes. Payoffs. Dead drops. Enough dirt to bury a syndicate so deep it won’t see starlight for decades.
My breath catches.
“You got all this?” I ask.
“Yes,” Lazarus says. “Delivered anonymously to Alliance intelligence six hours ago. Verified, authenticated, cross-referenced.”
Voltar stiffens slightly beside me. I feel it more than I see it.
“Anonymous,” I repeat. “Let me guess.”
Lazarus’s mouth twitches. “The delivery vector matches a Grolgath signature.”
I bark out a short, incredulous laugh. “Of course it does.”
Voltar glances down at me. “You called it.”
I shake my head slowly. “I can’t believe I almost died for a cat with a couture obsession.”
Lazarus arches a brow. “You know who it was.”
“Tugun,” I say. “Definitely Tugun.”
There’s a pause.
“Why would he do this?” Lazarus asks.
I think of immaculate lapels. Of a hitman who paused mid-assassination to discuss tailoring. Of pink eyes and a voice that saidplease don’t take it personally.
“Guess he really does want that fashion line,” I mutter.
Voltar lets out a low chuckle. “I respect a man with priorities.”
Lazarus sighs. “I don’t want to know.”
For a moment—just a moment—it feels like we’ve won. Like this is the part where everything exhales. The bad guys exposed. The witness alive. The city saved from a quiet rot.
Then Lazarus’s expression changes.
It’s subtle. A tightening around the eyes. A line appearing between his brows like it’s being etched there by something heavy.
“You need to see this,” he says.
The words land wrong.
He switches screens.
The classified alert fills the slate, stark and unforgiving. Alliance header. Red priority markers. Operational seal.
My eyes skim automatically—years of reading contracts and salon leases have trained me to find the important parts fast.
