As I move toward the war room, my encrypted channel pings—a fresh report, urgent, distorted.
“Boss,” a voice says. “Intercept chatter—off-world corridor. A human witness?—”
My blood goes cold.
Jordan.
I don’t let my face show it. Not here. Not now.
I just answer, voice like iron.
“Track it,” I say. “And if you touch civilians, I’ll skin you.”
Then I keep walking, because panic is a luxury and I can’t afford it—not while the Nine think they can buy my house and keep my girl like an asset.
Not while Gur screams.
CHAPTER 15
JORDAN
Consciousness comes back in pieces—sound first, then smell, then the slow, mean realization that I can’t move.
There’s a low mechanical hum under everything, the kind you feel in your teeth more than your ears, like the whole room is a vibrating tin can in transit. The air tastes metallic and dry, with a faint antiseptic sting that rides the back of my throat. Something oily clings to my tongue—cheap recycled oxygen that’s been filtered through too many ducts and not enough ethics.
My wrists ache.
That’s the next thing. Pain, dull and constant, wrapped around my bones like a reminder.
I open my eyes.
Ceiling. Gray. Close. Too close. A lattice of struts overhead with cable runs clipped into place, the kind of utilitarian engineering that doesn’t bother hiding its intentions. A mobile holding rig. Not a cell, not a room—more like a piece of cargo equipment that someone decided could also store a person.
My hands are bound in front of me with polymer cuffs. Tight. Not cutting off circulation, but snug enough that every pulse through my wrists feels like a taunt. My ankles are strappedtoo, hooked to a floor plate that vibrates with the ship’s motion. There’s a collar—lightweight composite—resting against my neck. I can feel its pressure when I swallow, the subtle drag of it against skin that’s already irritated from panic sweat and rough handling.
I test the cuffs gently. No give.
I inhale slowly, forcing my heartbeat to stop galloping, and listen.
Footsteps, distant. Mechanical servos. The occasional muted clang that suggests cargo shifting in a corridor outside. No voices nearby.
Which means I’m either alone…
Or they’re confident.
I tilt my head, as much as the collar allows, and spot my compad resting on a small fold-out shelf near my right knee. Like a bone tossed to a dog.
It’s face-up. Screen dark.
A message, then:We know you’ll reach for it.
My mouth goes dry.
I slide my bound hands toward it anyway, because if you’re going to die, you might as well die doing something useful.
My fingertips brush the compad’s edge. Cold metal, familiar weight. I press the wake button.
Nothing.
