She’d narrowed her eyes. “Same thing.”
And then I’d told her, “This is not a negotiation.”
She didn’t like that.
She also didn’t walk out.
Small victories.
I glance at the tunnel map projected faintly on my compad. Three vehicles. Two decoys. One “real” transport with the false signature—enough encrypted chatter to make it look like Jordan is inside, enough deliberate sloppiness to make the Nine confident.
We’re feeding them exactly what they want: a chance to take her.
And in exchange, they’ll show us who’s holding their leash.
Sable’s voice pings in. “Surface cams are looping. Traffic locks are staged. If they’re watching, they think we’re blind.”
I exhale slowly. The air tastes like damp rock and old metal.
“They’ll strike,” I say.
Rook huffs. “You sound sure.”
“I’m always sure,” I reply, but the truth is simpler: the Nine isn’t subtle when it smells leverage. It’s arrogant. It believes fear makes people predictable.
And maybe it does.
But tonight, we’re writing the predictability.
I step deeper into the tunnel system, boots splashing shallow puddles. The echoes are thick down here; every footfall feels like an announcement. The tunnel widens ahead into an old junction chamber—once a staging area for mining carts, now a dead space that criminals use because it’s out of the way and the cameras died years ago.
We didn’t leave it dead.
Jordan did her thing.
She resurrected the cameras just enough to control them, not enough for anyone else to notice.
“Convoy entering Junction Three,” Rook murmurs.
I lift my gaze to the darkness overhead. A few dim work-lights flicker weakly, casting sickly halos. Shadows pool in corners like they’ve been saving themselves for later.
I smell it before I see it—ozone. Fresh. Sharp.
Weapons charged.
“Contact?” I ask.
Sable answers instantly. “Heat signatures on the upper catwalks. Three, maybe five. They’re holding position.”
My lips curl. “There you are.”
Nine agents.
“Trade reps,” my ass.
They strike exactly where I predicted: Junction Three, where the tunnel narrows into a choke and the ceiling catwalks give shooters high ground. It’s textbook. It’s confident. It’s the kind of plan you execute when you think you’re smarter than your prey.
Decoy One rolls into the chamber first—a drab utility hauler with a Kaijen escort bike leading. Its lights cut through the misty air, bouncing off wet stone.
