Then the Nine drops the hammer.
A burst of energy fire snaps down from above, clean blue-white bolts that hiss when they hit metal, leaving neat cauterized holes. Alliance-grade, again. Precision. Suppressed sound dampeners that keep the firefight from echoing too far.
The escort bike goes down in a shower of sparks.
The hauler swerves, tires screaming against slick stone.
Rook’s voice is calm. “They committed.”
I don’t answer. I’m already moving.
My teams spring the containment net: drop-gates slam down behind the Nine’s entry path, sealing the junction. Smoke canisters hiss, filling the chamber with thick gray clouds that taste like chemicals and burn the throat. Strobe bursts flash intermittently, disorienting.
The Nine agents return fire, disciplined, efficient.
But they’re shooting into a box I designed.
“Now,” I say softly.
My shooters in the side tunnels open up—not full-auto, not sloppy. Controlled bursts. Cut lines of movement. Force them toward the center.
One Nine operative drops, armor sparking.
Another rolls behind a support pillar, weapon raised, trying to create a firing lane.
I advance through the smoke like it’s my natural habitat.
“Lonari,” Rook warns, “you’re too close.”
“I’m right where I need to be,” I reply.
A figure lunges out of the haze toward Decoy One’s side door—fast, confident, reaching to rip it open.
The “door” pops outward instead—rigged—slamming into the operative’s chest and knocking him off balance. My lieutenant behind it hooks him with a shock line, yanking him hard to the ground.
The operative hits wet stone with a grunt.
I’m on him in two steps.
He tries to roll, tries to bring his weapon up.
My boot pins his wrist.
I crouch, inhale, and the air is thick with burned metal and wet rock and adrenaline.
“Alive,” I mutter.
The operative spits something through his mask. His eyes are feral, but trained—too controlled for a street hitter. He’s not Kaijen. He’s not typical Nine muscle.
He’s something else.
A professional wearing Nine colors.
Fyr’s voice snaps into my ear—he’s not in the tunnels, he’s watching from the Nun’s command room because I refused to let him limp into this mess. “Kill him.”
I bare my teeth, though nobody can see it under the hood. “No.”
Fyr snarls. “You’re wasting time. The Nine will?—”
