Chapter 26
LONARI
The Coalition marshal smells like menthol and bad faith.
We meet in a “neutral” office that’s neutral the way a knife is neutral—depends who’s holding it.
Concrete walls. A single light strip that flickers like it’s tired of pretending.
A desk bolted to the floor. Two guards posted near the door with their hands resting casually on weapons they absolutely intend to use.
The marshal sits behind the desk like he grew there. Heavyset, gray at the temples, eyes sharp and bored. He wears his badge like an accessory, not a vow.
He looks me up and down, slow, like he’s appraising a vehicle for resale.
“Kaijen,” he says. “You’re taller in person.”
“People tell me that,” I reply, and keep my voice light. “Usually right before they ask for something.”
His mouth quirks. “I’m glad we understand each other.”
I don’t sit. I let my size do what it does. Let the air pressure in the room change a little.
“You requested temporary custody,” he says, tapping a slate with a thick finger. “Of Morazin Valeer.”
“Correct,” I say.
He leans back. The chair creaks. “That’s a big ask.”
“It’s a necessary ask,” I answer. “He’s a live asset. He’s a witness. He’s also the kind of problem governments like to solve with a bullet and a press release.”
The marshal’s smile is small and mean. “You sound like you’ve dealt with governments before.”
“Unfortunately,” I say.
He drums his fingers on the desk. “You’re not IHC. You’re not Alliance. You’re not even officially Coalition.”
“And yet,” I say, “every official body on this planet uses my money to keep their lights on.”
His eyes narrow slightly, amused. “Careful.”
I tilt my head. “Careful is why I’m alive.”
A beat of silence. I can hear the faint rumble of traffic somewhere above us. Gur breathing. Machines complaining.
He sighs like I’m an inconvenience he can’t avoid. “What are you offering?”
I don’t hesitate. Hesitation is weakness in rooms like this.
“Criminal intel,” I say. “Names. Routes. Stashes. Numbers. The kind of information you can parade in front of your superiors and call it ‘progress.’”
His eyes sharpen at that. His boredom drops away a fraction, replaced by hunger.
“On who?” he asks too quickly.
I smile, just a hint. “On rivals. Not on you.”
He laughs once, short. “That’s generous.”
“It’s practical,” I correct. “I’m not here to burn your house down. I’m here to borrow a key and keep Morazin breathing long enough to testify.”
The marshal studies me, weighing the bribe against the risk. He’s corrupt, but not suicidal. Those are different flavors.
Finally, he says, “Temporary custody is possible. Under Coalition escort. Neutral paperwork. Enough to look clean.”
“Good,” I say.
“But,” he adds, raising a finger, “I want you personally involved.”
I feel the shift immediately. Like a click in a trap mechanism.
“Go on,” I say, voice still mild.
He leans forward, eyes glinting. “You personally deliver Morazin to a neutral transfer point. No Kaijen goons doing it for you. No remote handoffs. You.”
My scales prick.
Jordan’s voice echoes in my head from earlier—shark offering you a life vest.
This is that.
I keep my face calm. “Why would you require that?”
He shrugs like it’s nothing. “Chain of custody. I want to know you’re not swapping him for a decoy. You bring him, I sign, we’re done.”
One of his guards shifts, pretending it’s casual.
My gut says: setup.
Kill, snatch, or both. A marshal’s demand for personal delivery is the kind of request that comes with extra graves.
I breathe in. The air tastes like dust and menthol.
“Fine,” I say.
The marshal’s smile widens. “Good. Transfer point is a transit hub on the industrial ring. Public enough that nobody starts a firefight. Neutral enough that my people can claim jurisdiction.”
Public enough that there are witnesses.
Neutral enough that there are blind spots.
I nod once. “Send coordinates.”
He slides the slate forward. “One hour.”
I look at him. “One hour is tight.”
He shrugs. “Then move fast.”
I take the slate and turn toward the door.
The marshal calls after me, voice oily. “Bring your intel package too. As promised.”
I glance back over my shoulder.
“Oh,” I say, letting a little humor show. “You’ll get your dessert.”
His guards laugh politely. The marshal smiles like he just won.
I leave without showing my teeth.
But inside, I’m already building the pivot.
The Defrocked Nun’s operations room smells like coolant, smoke, and Jordan’s fury.
She’s pacing near a bank of monitors, hair tied back, eyes bright with adrenaline and anger. She has grime on her sleeve from the market tunnels. Her hands keep flexing like she wants to strangle the universe.
When I enter, she stops and stares at me.
“You look like you just shook hands with a snake,” she says.
I toss the slate onto the table. “Because I did.”
She snatches it up, scans the coordinates, and her mouth tightens. “Public transit hub. Industrial ring.”
“Yes.”
“And he wants you personally delivering Morazin.” Her gaze snaps up. “That’s a setup.”
“I know,” I say.
Jordan exhales sharply through her nose. “So why are we doing it?”
Because corruption hates a mirror, I think. Because if you lean on the rot correctly, it cracks in predictable places.
Out loud I say, “Because he’s offering a door. And we’re going to use it—then leave with the hinges.”
Jordan’s eyes narrow. “Okay, Godfather. What’s the plan?”
I ignore the title. Not because it doesn’t thrill something dark in me. Because I don’t have time to enjoy it.
“We run a disguised convoy,” I say. “Three vehicles. One decoy. One buffer. One real.”
Jordan’s brows lift slightly. “You’re thinking like a criminal.”
“I am a criminal,” I remind her gently.
She snorts. “Yeah, well, I’m thinking like a contractor. Which means if you want this to work, I need control of the city’s eyes.”
I nod. “You have it.”
That lands heavier than I intend. Jordan stills.
“Full control?” she asks, cautious.
I tap the token I gave her earlier—Kaijen archive access, plus more. “Route hacking. Cameras. Traffic locks. Comm distortions. You’re driving the city’s nervous system.”
Jordan stares at me like I just handed her a loaded weapon and told her to have fun.
Then she swallows and says quietly, “Okay. Then we do it right.”
I gesture toward the map display. “Show me the arteries.”
Jordan steps forward, fingers flying as she overlays Gur’s industrial district: rail lines, service tunnels, cargo elevators, maintenance corridors. The map becomes a living thing—veins of movement, choke points, blind spots.
“If they’re going to hit us,” she says, voice tight, “they’ll do it where they can force us to slow down. Intersections. Locks. Transit hubs.”
“Agreed,” I say.
Jordan highlights a narrow corridor between two industrial stacks. “Here. Camera coverage is heavy, but the feed runs through a local node I can spoof. I can loop it for thirty seconds.”
“Thirty seconds is a lot,” I say.
“It’s also nothing,” she replies. “Depends what you’re doing with it.”
I feel a smile tug at my mouth. “I like you when you’re murderous.”
Jordan rolls her eyes. “Don’t get sentimental. It’s gross.”
Rook steps in, silent, holding a folded coat and a cap. “Convoy ready. Morazin is secured.”
Jordan’s jaw tightens. “I want eyes on him.”
“You’ll have them,” I say. “But you’re not in the same vehicle.”
She whips her head toward me. “Lonari—”
“No,” I say, firm. “You already survived one grab for your compad. I’m not letting you be the second.”
Jordan’s eyes flash with anger, then something softer—fear she refuses to admit.
Finally she snaps, “Fine. But if you die, I’m burning this syndicate to the ground out of spite.”
I tilt my head. “Romantic.”
She flips me off.
We move.
Morazin smells like cold sweat and expensive cologne that can’t hide panic.
He sits hunched in the back of the real vehicle—an unmarked cargo van with false panels and shielded comms. His wrists are cuffed. His ankles too. A hood is pulled over his head, but he still manages to radiate arrogance like heat.
When I climb in beside him, he stiffens.
“You,” he says, voice thin.
I pull the hood off. His eyes blink hard against the dim light. Pupils tight.
“Me,” I say. “Miss me?”
He sneers. “You’re making a mistake. You think you can—”
“Save your breath,” I cut in. “You’re alive because you’re useful.”
His smile is brittle. “To you.”
“To the truth,” I correct.
Morazin’s eyes flick over my face, calculating. “They’ll kill you before they let you parade me in a hearing.”
“They’re going to try,” I say.
He laughs softly. “Good luck.”
I lean in close enough that he can smell me—smoke, steel, and the faint metallic edge of restraint.
“You’re going to tell them everything,” I say quietly. “And if you don’t, I’ll make sure you live long enough to regret it.”
Morazin swallows. His throat bobs like a trapped animal’s.
Outside, the convoy rolls.
Jordan’s voice comes through the secure comm, low and focused. “Cameras on Route One looped. Traffic locks delayed by forty-five seconds. You’re green.”
Her competence is a physical thing in my chest—a steadying weight.
“Copy,” I say.
We move through Gur’s industrial veins—past stacks of shipping containers, under skeletal bridges, through corridors lined with pipes that hiss steam into the cold air. The city smells like hot oil and ozone, like rust and damp concrete. It’s uglier than the casino, but it’s honest about it.
The decoy vehicle runs ahead. The buffer behind. We keep space between us like breathing room.
Jordan’s voice again: “You’ve got a tail.”
Rook, in the front seat, murmurs, “Where?”
“Drone,” Jordan says. “High. Small. It’s trying to match speed.”
I glance up through the narrow window. I can’t see it, but I believe her.
“Can you blind it?” I ask.
“Working,” she says. “But if it’s Nine-grade, it’ll have redundant optics.”
A hiss of static crackles in the comm—an attempt to jam.