The van swerves, tires squealing on damp concrete, and we slide into a position that blocks line-of-fire to the transit awning.
Shots slam into our side panel. The vehicle shudders. The smell of scorched paint fills the cabin.
Morazin jerks. “Are you insane?”
“Yes,” I say, calm. “Shut up.”
Jordan’s voice bursts in, stunned. “Lonari—what are you doing?”
“Keeping people alive,” I reply.
A beat of silence. Then her voice, softer, almost disbelieving: “That’s… going to cost you time.”
“I’m aware.”
Rook fires through a concealed port—controlled bursts that drive one attacker back. The decoy vehicle ahead launches a smoke canister, filling the corridor with thick gray haze that tastes like chemicals and burns the nose.
Jordan’s voice again, faster now. “Gate’s open. Go. GO.”
I glance toward the transit awning—see the bystanders scrambling away under cover of our vehicle and smoke.
Good.
“Move,” I tell Rook.
We surge forward through the open gate, past the choke point, into a wider artery of industrial road.
Behind us, the Nine’s vehicles try to follow, but Jordan slams a traffic lock down behind them—metal gates dropping with a satisfying clang that reverberates through the concrete bones of the city.
Jordan’s breath comes through the comm, loud. “Lockdown complete. You’ve got maybe thirty seconds before they reroute.”
Morazin laughs again, but this time it’s shaky. “You’re… you’re actually?—”
“Saving you?” I finish. “Don’t get attached.”
We race through Gur’s underbelly toward the transfer point, the city flashing by in ugly neon and steam.
My heart is steady. My mind is not.
Because every second we lost shielding civilians is a second the marshal’s setup can tighten.
And I can feel the trap closing.
The transfer point is a wide loading platform near a transit hub—public enough to have cameras, empty enough to feel abandoned. The air is cold here, biting, damp with industrial mist. The smell is diesel and wet stone.
We pull in.
I expect the marshal’s escort.
I expect paperwork theater.
I expect the usual corrupt handshake.
What I don’t expect is the marshal’s body.
He’s sprawled near the platform edge, face down, one arm twisted wrong, blood pooling dark beneath him.
For half a heartbeat, the world goes quiet.
