CHAPTER 14
LONARI
Gur doesn’t whisper when it decides to bleed.
It screams.
It screams in sirens and gunfire and comm-chatter clipping into panic, in the hot stink of exhaust and fear sweat rising off streets packed too tight, in neon lights flickering like they’re blinking against the ugliness they’re forced to illuminate. Even from the Defrocked Nun’s upper levels, I can feel the city’s pulse turn arrhythmic—like the whole planet just took a hit to the ribs and now it’s deciding whether to stand back up or choke on its own blood.
My encrypted channel detonates with reports before I even finish tightening the strap on my shoulder holster.
Renn’s voice hits first, sharp and controlled. “Boss—armory three is seized. Loyalists. They locked the biometric gates and they’re arming civilians on the perimeter.”
Another voice—Captain Jessa—cuts through, breathless. “Tribute accountant—Kovren—executed in the street outside Depot Twelve. Body left displayed. Nine mark.”
Then a third voice—one of my street watchers—comes in distorted, half-screaming. “Rival syndicate moving on Kaijeneast—Sable Knives. They got Nine blessing, Boss. They’re rolling heavy, like they own the damn air.”
Three fires.
All at once.
Classic Nine. They don’t just stab you. They make sure you’re looking the wrong way when the knife goes in.
I close my eyes for half a second and inhale. The air in the war room tastes like hot electronics and stale coffee and the faint metallic tang of blood that never fully leaves this building anymore. My men are watching me—captains, lieutenants, old killers and newer ones—waiting for the first decision because the first decision tells everyone whether we’re panicking or winning.
I open my eyes.
“Alright,” I say, voice low and even. “We do phase one.”
Renn’s shoulders drop a fraction—relief. Plans are comfort. Plans are control.
“Seize the financial nodes,” I continue. “Now. We lock transaction authority so the Nine can’t drain us mid-conflict. I want the ledger vault sealed and every routing key rotated. No exceptions.”
A captain hesitates. “Boss, if we lock?—”
“If we don’t lock,” I cut in, “we’re fighting a war with our pockets turned inside out.”
Renn nods. “I can get you a convoy to the vault.”
“I don’t want a parade,” I say. “I want a knife.”
I turn to Fyr.
He’s been hovering at the edge of the room, face drawn tight, jaw set. His suit is immaculate but his eyes keep flicking like he’s listening to ghosts. He looks like a man who’s tasted betrayal and is still deciding whether it’s poison or fuel.
“Fyr,” I say.
His gaze snaps to mine. “Boss.”
“You run secondary strikes,” I tell him. “Armory two and the weapons shipments. Secure them before rival captains distribute anything. You know the routes.”
His mouth tightens. “And if I meet resistance?”
“You used to love resistance,” I say flatly.
A flicker of something crosses his face—old pride, old muscle memory.
“Yeah,” he mutters. “I did.”
