I slide behind a concrete support column and signal with two fingers. My team shifts into place like we’ve rehearsed it—because we have, a thousand times, in different rooms, against different enemies. The Nine thinks we’re chaos.
They don’t understand that criminals have to be disciplined, or we die.
“Choke Two, seal the cross corridor,” I order. “Make them funnel.”
Sable answers, voice calm. “Sealed. They’re trying to burn through the lock.”
“Let them,” I say. “Make them spend.”
A thud hits the far wall—something heavy. A breaching charge. The safehouse shudders. Dust rains down.
Someone screams. One of mine. The sound is cut off by the crackle of comm static.
My jaw tightens, but I don’t flinch.
I don’t have time to mourn in real time.
Not yet.
Morazin is the objective. Morazin alive. That’s the whole spine of this thing. If Morazin dies, all we have is rage and rumors. If he lives, he’s a shield no government can pretend doesn’t exist.
A shield made of a man I’d love to tear apart with my own hands.
That’s the joke of it.
Truth forces you to protect the people you despise.
Rook’s voice breaks in again. “They’re through the breach. Five in the first wave. Masked.”
“Let the first wave commit,” I say. “Then collapse the lane.”
I flick my wrist and one of my lieutenants tosses a small fusion block down the corridor—low charge, controlled. It skitters, spins, stops.
The Nine operatives step forward, rifles raised, movement silent and synchronized.
Then the block pops.
Not a big explosion—just enough to flash-blind and concuss. The air slams my chest. My ears ring. The corridor floods with smoke.
My people open fire.
The gunfire is clean, sharp bursts. Bodies hit the floor with dull thuds. The smell of scorched fabric and burned skin rises fast, sweet and sickening.
One operative doesn’t drop. He staggers, then steadies, and I see why—energy diffusers woven into his armor, Alliance military grade.
My stomach goes cold.
“Alliance toys,” I mutter.
Morazin’s words echo in my head:Someone in Alliance High Command needed the war to restart.
This isn’t proof, but it’s a damn good breadcrumb.
A second wave pushes, using the fallen as cover. They’re not here to posture. They’re here to finish.
I snap into Ghostline. “Fallback to Choke Three. Don’t die in the first room.”
“Choke Three is close to the holding cell,” Sable warns.
