Chapter 26 #2
Jordan’s voice cuts through anyway, sharp. “They’re pushing distortion into the local grid. Someone’s trying to lock the traffic gates ahead.”
Morazin laughs under his breath. “Told you.”
I ignore him.
“Jordan,” I say, “do what you do.”
“Already doing it,” she snaps.
The convoy hits a junction—and the traffic gate ahead begins to slide down, slow and heavy, like a guillotine dropping in syrup.
Rook curses. “Gate’s closing!”
Jordan’s voice is tight. “Give me ten seconds.”
We don’t have ten seconds.
A vehicle swings out from a side corridor—black, armored, moving too fast for civilian traffic. Another behind it. Their headlights cut through the industrial haze like eyes.
Nine.
Not in uniform. Not flying banners. But the way they move—coordinated, predatory—tells me everything.
“Contact,” Rook says, voice calm despite the situation.
Gunfire erupts—sharp, compact bursts. Not loud. Suppressed. Professional.
The air fills with the smell of hot metal and burned propellant.
Civilians scatter—dock workers in oil-stained coats, a couple of vendors pushing carts, a cluster of commuters waiting under a transit awning.
Morazin twists in his cuffs, eyes gleaming. “This is delightful.”
“Shut up,” I growl.
Rook swerves, trying to angle us away from the closing gate, but the corridor narrows. The decoy vehicle ahead slams the brakes and jerks sideways, blocking one of the attackers.
Shots ping off metal. Sparks fly.
Jordan’s voice crackles: “I can open the gate—two seconds—”
A civilian screams.
A stray round hits the wall near the transit hub entrance, spraying concrete dust over a group of bystanders who duck and scramble.
I see them through the window—three kids, maybe teenagers, huddled behind a pillar. A woman dragging one by the arm, face pale with terror. A man in a worker vest frozen in shock.
The Nine agents don’t care.
They’ll carve through anything between them and Morazin.
And if we keep pushing forward, crossfire will chew those people up like collateral.
Rook barks, “We can punch through! We’ll be past them!”
Jordan’s voice is urgent. “Lonari, if you stop, they’ll box you in—”
I taste blood where my teeth press into my tongue.
The easy move is to keep moving. Let the civilians handle themselves. We’re not heroes.
But I can’t—something in me refuses.
Maybe it’s Jordan. Maybe it’s the way she said she watched institutions sacrifice kids like her. Maybe it’s my own old line in the sand: brutality toward predators, protection for the powerless.
Either way, I’m already deciding.
“Hard left,” I say.
Rook snaps his head. “What?”
“Hard left!” I repeat. “Get us between the shooters and the bystanders.”
Rook hesitates for half a heartbeat—then obeys.
The van swerves, tires squealing on damp concrete, and we slide into a position that blocks line-of-fire to the transit awning.
Shots slam into our side panel. The vehicle shudders. The smell of scorched paint fills the cabin.
Morazin jerks. “Are you insane?”
“Yes,” I say, calm. “Shut up.”
Jordan’s voice bursts in, stunned. “Lonari—what are you doing?”
“Keeping people alive,” I reply.
A beat of silence. Then her voice, softer, almost disbelieving: “That’s… going to cost you time.”
“I’m aware.”
Rook fires through a concealed port—controlled bursts that drive one attacker back. The decoy vehicle ahead launches a smoke canister, filling the corridor with thick gray haze that tastes like chemicals and burns the nose.
Jordan’s voice again, faster now. “Gate’s open. Go. GO.”
I glance toward the transit awning—see the bystanders scrambling away under cover of our vehicle and smoke.
Good.
“Move,” I tell Rook.
We surge forward through the open gate, past the choke point, into a wider artery of industrial road.
Behind us, the Nine’s vehicles try to follow, but Jordan slams a traffic lock down behind them—metal gates dropping with a satisfying clang that reverberates through the concrete bones of the city.
Jordan’s breath comes through the comm, loud. “Lockdown complete. You’ve got maybe thirty seconds before they reroute.”
Morazin laughs again, but this time it’s shaky. “You’re… you’re actually—”
“Saving you?” I finish. “Don’t get attached.”
We race through Gur’s underbelly toward the transfer point, the city flashing by in ugly neon and steam.
My heart is steady. My mind is not.
Because every second we lost shielding civilians is a second the marshal’s setup can tighten.
And I can feel the trap closing.
The transfer point is a wide loading platform near a transit hub—public enough to have cameras, empty enough to feel abandoned. The air is cold here, biting, damp with industrial mist. The smell is diesel and wet stone.
We pull in.
I expect the marshal’s escort.
I expect paperwork theater.
I expect the usual corrupt handshake.
What I don’t expect is the marshal’s body.
He’s sprawled near the platform edge, face down, one arm twisted wrong, blood pooling dark beneath him.
For half a heartbeat, the world goes quiet.
Jordan’s voice comes through my comm, tight with dread. “Lonari…?”
“Yeah,” I say softly.
Then shadows move.
Nine operatives step out from behind stacked cargo containers, weapons already raised. Their armor is matte black—no insignia, no flags. Just void.
One of them speaks through a modulated mask. “Godfather Kaijen.”
The title makes my scales crawl.
“Cute,” I say, stepping forward just enough that they see me, while Rook shifts behind me, ready. “You killed a marshal to say hello?”
“We killed him because he was inconvenient,” the operative replies. “As are you.”
Morazin whimpers behind us. “This is—this is not—”
I don’t look back. I keep my eyes on the Nine.
Jordan’s voice is urgent, crackling. “It’s a snatch team. They’re trying to force you into a static firefight. You’ll lose the vehicle, you’ll lose Morazin—”
“I know,” I say.
Because they want the location. They want us pinned. They want Morazin handed over clean.
So we don’t fight for the location.
We fight for extraction.
I pivot sharply, voice cutting through the haze. “Retreat. Now.”
Rook’s eyes widen. “But—”
“NOW,” I bark.
The decoy vehicle surges forward, slamming smoke and flash into the platform. The air explodes with light and sound, stinging eyes, burning throats.
Nine gunfire cracks. Sparks fly off metal.
We don’t answer with pride. We answer with movement.
The convoy turns, engines whining, tires spitting grit, and we punch out of the transfer point like we were never there for it in the first place.
Jordan’s voice is rapid, focused. “Safehouse route is live. I’m scrambling cameras. I’m—”
“Good,” I say, blood singing. “Keep us invisible.”
Behind us, the Nine operatives fire into smoke, frustrated.
Ahead, Gur’s industrial veins open up again—dark corridors, stacked containers, narrow bridges.
And Morazin is still alive.
That is the only thing that matters.
As we race toward the hidden Kaijen safehouse, my lungs fill with cold industrial air, and the taste of it is sharp, almost cleansing.
The Nine tried to set the board.
They forgot one thing.
I don’t play for territory.
I play for the piece that tells the truth.
And I will burn every route on this planet before I let them silence him.