Our convoy surges forward in darkness lit only by emergency strips and our internal displays.
“Flank,” I growl. “We flank.”
Renn’s grin is feral in the dim light. “Classic.”
We push through the tunnel, engines thunderous, and I feel that old prison-wilderness instinct rise—the asymmetric thinking that says you don’t meet force head-on if you can crawl under it and bite its Achilles.
The tunnel forks.
I choose left.
We burst out through a service hatch behind the barricade like a nightmare crawling up from underneath.
The loyalists don’t even have time to pivot.
My men pour out, weapons up, disciplined bursts. No spray. No civilian targets. Just clean violence.
I slam out of the transport and hit the pavement running, boots splashing through puddles that smell like oil and rot. I grab the nearest loyalist by his collar, yank him off balance, and smash him into the barricade hard enough to crack his teeth.
He gurgles.
“Who sent you?” I snarl.
He spits blood and laughs. “The Nine own you!”
I break his wrist and let him scream.
Then the breach charge goes off.
A sharp white flash.
A concussive slam that hits my chest like a battering ram.
The world blurs.
I stagger, ears ringing, and the smell of burning plastic floods my nose. The barricade’s scrap plates buckle, flinging shrapnel like angry confetti.
I feel something slam into my shoulder—pain hot and immediate.
Then I hear Fyr’s voice in my ear, distant and wrong.
“Lonari—DOWN!”
Fyr isn’t supposed to be here.
And yet?—
He’s there, suddenly, throwing himself between me and the next burst of turret fire as it reactivates, optics recalibrating, trying to regain the kill lane. He moves like old training, like muscle memory dragged out of storage and polished with desperation.
He shoves me backward.
The turret rounds slam into the barricade where my head would’ve been.
Fyr grunts.
Then a second explosive pops—smaller, closer—and Fyr goes down hard.
“Fyr!” Renn roars.
