Jordan’s voice comes through my comm, tight with dread. “Lonari…?”
“Yeah,” I say softly.
Then shadows move.
Nine operatives step out from behind stacked cargo containers, weapons already raised. Their armor is matte black—no insignia, no flags. Just void.
One of them speaks through a modulated mask. “Godfather Kaijen.”
The title makes my scales crawl.
“Cute,” I say, stepping forward just enough that they see me, while Rook shifts behind me, ready. “You killed a marshal to say hello?”
“We killed him because he was inconvenient,” the operative replies. “As are you.”
Morazin whimpers behind us. “This is—this is not?—”
I don’t look back. I keep my eyes on the Nine.
Jordan’s voice is urgent, crackling. “It’s a snatch team. They’re trying to force you into a static firefight. You’ll lose the vehicle, you’ll lose Morazin?—”
“I know,” I say.
Because they want the location. They want us pinned. They want Morazin handed over clean.
So we don’t fight for the location.
We fight for extraction.
I pivot sharply, voice cutting through the haze. “Retreat. Now.”
Rook’s eyes widen. “But?—”
“NOW,” I bark.
The decoy vehicle surges forward, slamming smoke and flash into the platform. The air explodes with light and sound, stinging eyes, burning throats.
Nine gunfire cracks. Sparks fly off metal.
We don’t answer with pride. We answer with movement.
The convoy turns, engines whining, tires spitting grit, and we punch out of the transfer point like we were never there for it in the first place.
Jordan’s voice is rapid, focused. “Safehouse route is live. I’m scrambling cameras. I’m?—”
“Good,” I say, blood singing. “Keep us invisible.”
Behind us, the Nine operatives fire into smoke, frustrated.
Ahead, Gur’s industrial veins open up again—dark corridors, stacked containers, narrow bridges.
And Morazin is still alive.
That is the only thing that matters.
As we race toward the hidden Kaijen safehouse, my lungs fill with cold industrial air, and the taste of it is sharp, almost cleansing.
The Nine tried to set the board.
