The mercs hesitate.
Just a fraction.
But a fraction is everything.
My men’s visors flare into night mode instantly; Kaijen gear is built for this. The mercs’ optics—whatever they’re running—stutter as the sudden grid shutdown forces recalibration. I see their silhouettes jerk, their heads tilt, their rifles sweeping as they try to reacquire.
“MOVE!” I growl into comms. “Teams Alpha and Bravo—left flank. Charlie—up the stairs. No sprays. No civilians. Put them down clean.”
I sprint across the floor, tail balancing my turns, feeling the carpet’s give under my boots, smelling sweat and panic and the faint electrical ozone from the lighting system dying. My ears catch everything now—footsteps, gasps, the click of a safety being flicked, the soft whirr of a merc’s rifle stabilizer.
A merc turns toward me, rifle coming up.
Too slow.
I slam into him like a truck, my shoulder driving into his chest plate. The impact knocks the breath out of him in a sharpgrunt. His rifle skitters across the carpet. I grab his wrist, twist, and the bone gives with a wet pop that I feel in my palm.
He screams.
I don’t have time for it.
I shove him into a table, crack my elbow into his helmet, and he goes limp.
Renn’s voice cuts in my ear. “Second team coming in from the service corridor!”
“Let them,” I say, already pivoting toward the north mezzanine stairs. “Funnel them. Don’t chase.”
The darkness turns the Nun into a maze. Neon from the outer windows bleeds in faintly, throwing warped color across the floor—greens, reds, purples—like the building is bleeding light. Emergency strips should be activating, but Jordan killed the whole grid, and that means we’re running on minimal power.
Which is fine.
I don’t need pretty. I need advantage.
Gunfire snaps again. A Kaijen enforcer curses, then returns fire in disciplined bursts. Another merc drops with a soft thud. A civilian screams as they crawl under a table.
I hit the stairs, taking them three at a time.
The mezzanine smells different—less perfume, more gun oil. I see two mercs moving toward a private door that leads deeper into the VIP wing. That’s where Kel’s office is.
That’s where Glar was.
That’s where the Nine’s leash lives.
My blood goes cold and hot at the same time.
“Not tonight,” I whisper.
I pull my sidearm, a heavy slugthrower modified for shipboard use—no hull breaches, no explosive rounds, just brutal stopping power. I level it and fire once.
The slug hits the first merc in the back of the knee. He drops with a howl, leg collapsing. The second merc whirls, rifle sweeping.
I fire again.
Shoulder. He staggers.
A third shot—head.
He drops.
