“No, I mean if I parked this ship outside the killzone and said ‘go.’”
She steps forward slowly, studying the display. But I’m watching her, not the map. Watching how her pupils dilate. How her jaw ticks.
“How many guards?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
She lifts a brow. “It always matters.”
“If you’re the Butcher, it doesn’t.”
There it is. That flicker in her spine. Like a dog told to heel and wondering if it’s worth biting instead.
She circles the holo, arms crossed. “Pattern recognition,” she says finally. “Watch their rhythms. Movement loops. Find the cracks they don’t think are cracks.”
“Obvious. Then what?”
“Read the guards. Behavior tells you more than gear. Fatigue, distractions, ego.”
“And after you get in?”
She pauses, shrugs. “Same thing in reverse. Read the flow. Break the parts that hold structure.”
No terminology. No tactical framing. Like she read a combat blog once and memorized the highlights. I lean back, arms folded.
“Okay. Change of scene. Say the breach goes wrong. They spot you. You’re ambushed halfway in. Do you fall back or push?”
“Depends.”
“On what?”
“Instinct.”
I snort. “That’s a good way to get dead.”
She smiles, faint and sharp. “Worked so far.”
I switch the holo again. Another compound. This one with hostages—fictional, for now.
“Same entry, but now you’ve got civilians. Hostiles are jumpy. What’s your play?”
She doesn’t answer immediately, and when she does, it’s slow. “Keep the hostages calm. Shift the energy. If they panic, you lose leverage.”
“And extraction?”
“Create a wedge. Make the threat chase the wrong thing while you move the real asset.”
I nod, slowly. “Huh.”
She looks proud for a second. Or relieved. Like she passed a test she didn’t study for.
But that’s the problem.
She didn’t.
I rise, cross the small distance between us, and unlock the side armory panel with a flick of my wrist. The case hisses open. Rows of weapons, precise and clean.
I pull one of my sidearms—a compact shock-load buster, modded for rapid fire and silence.
