Chapter 28
LONARI
The safehouse turns into a throat the second the Nine breaches.
Concrete dust hangs in the air like gray fog.
It coats my tongue, gritty and bitter, and every breath tastes like burned stone and metal shavings.
The lights stutter overhead—one strip flickering like it’s trying to decide whether to die now or later—and the corridor beyond the breach flashes with muzzle light, sharp white pulses that carve silhouettes out of smoke.
I don’t get the luxury of panic.
Panic is what you do when you don’t have people depending on you.
“Choke One, hold!” I bark into Ghostline, my voice steady even as the walls vibrate with impacts. “Two on the left alcove. Don’t let them stack the door.”
Rook’s voice snaps back, clipped. “Copy. They’re pushing hard.”
“They always push hard,” I growl, and I can feel my pulse in my fingertips, not frantic—focused.
I glance down the service tunnel where Jordan disappeared with my escort, her compad clutched to her chest like a life organ. She looks back once, eyes wide in that way humans get when adrenaline turns them feral.
“Go,” I tell her, sharp. “Don’t look for permission.”
Her jaw tightens. She hates being ordered. She hates being protected. She hates all the things that keep her alive.
But she goes.
Good.
Now I can do what I’m good at.
I pivot into the main corridor and the world narrows to geometry.
Cover. Angles. Sound. The way footsteps echo tells me how many bodies are coming. The way the air smells tells me what kind of weapon they’re using—hot ozone means energy discharge, sharp chemical bite means explosives, and right now the air reeks of clean ionization.
Alliance-grade.
Not the sloppy black-market stuff you find in Gur alleys. Not the home-brewed plasma throwers criminals love because they look scary.
This is precision.
This is funded.
A shot snaps past my head, close enough that I feel heat skim my scales. It hits the wall behind me and leaves a neat cauterized crater.
“Yeah,” I mutter. “That’s not cheap.”
I slide behind a concrete support column and signal with two fingers. My team shifts into place like we’ve rehearsed it—because we have, a thousand times, in different rooms, against different enemies. The Nine thinks we’re chaos.
They don’t understand that criminals have to be disciplined, or we die.
“Choke Two, seal the cross corridor,” I order. “Make them funnel.”
Sable answers, voice calm. “Sealed. They’re trying to burn through the lock.”
“Let them,” I say. “Make them spend.”
A thud hits the far wall—something heavy. A breaching charge. The safehouse shudders. Dust rains down.
Someone screams. One of mine. The sound is cut off by the crackle of comm static.
My jaw tightens, but I don’t flinch.
I don’t have time to mourn in real time.
Not yet.
Morazin is the objective. Morazin alive. That’s the whole spine of this thing. If Morazin dies, all we have is rage and rumors. If he lives, he’s a shield no government can pretend doesn’t exist.
A shield made of a man I’d love to tear apart with my own hands.
That’s the joke of it.
Truth forces you to protect the people you despise.
Rook’s voice breaks in again. “They’re through the breach. Five in the first wave. Masked.”
“Let the first wave commit,” I say. “Then collapse the lane.”
I flick my wrist and one of my lieutenants tosses a small fusion block down the corridor—low charge, controlled. It skitters, spins, stops.
The Nine operatives step forward, rifles raised, movement silent and synchronized.
Then the block pops.
Not a big explosion—just enough to flash-blind and concuss. The air slams my chest. My ears ring. The corridor floods with smoke.
My people open fire.
The gunfire is clean, sharp bursts. Bodies hit the floor with dull thuds. The smell of scorched fabric and burned skin rises fast, sweet and sickening.
One operative doesn’t drop. He staggers, then steadies, and I see why—energy diffusers woven into his armor, Alliance military grade.
My stomach goes cold.
“Alliance toys,” I mutter.
Morazin’s words echo in my head: Someone in Alliance High Command needed the war to restart.
This isn’t proof, but it’s a damn good breadcrumb.
A second wave pushes, using the fallen as cover. They’re not here to posture. They’re here to finish.
I snap into Ghostline. “Fallback to Choke Three. Don’t die in the first room.”
“Choke Three is close to the holding cell,” Sable warns.
“I know,” I say. “That’s why we’re moving the asset.”
I key a private channel. “Fyr. Where are you?”
A pause. Then Fyr’s voice, rough and angry. “Where do you think? I’m not letting strangers carve up my house.”
Of course he’s here. Broken ribs and all, still stubborn enough to crawl into a firefight.
“Get to Morazin,” I say. “Now. We’re moving him.”
Fyr spits something that might be a curse. “We should kill him.”
I feel my teeth grind. “No.”
“He brought this to our door,” Fyr snaps. “He’s bait. He’s rot. Cut him out.”
“He’s testimony,” I bark back. “He’s our shield.”
Fyr’s laugh is harsh. “Your shield is a liar in cuffs?”
“My shield is a living witness,” I say, voice low with warning. “A dead Morazin is a problem that disappears into paperwork. A living Morazin is a problem that forces institutions to admit they bled.”
Fyr goes quiet for a heartbeat.
Then, bitterly, “You’re letting Jordan steer you.”
My claws flex. “I’m letting reality steer me.”
A burst of gunfire cracks close. Someone yells. A body slams into the wall and slides down.
I move.
I sprint down the corridor, boots pounding wet concrete, smoke burning my eyes. The safehouse feels smaller now—walls closing in, air thick with heat and metal.
As I round the corner, I see Fyr at the holding room door, one hand on the frame, the other gripping a pistol like it’s an extension of his anger. His posture is stiff with pain, but he’s upright. Always upright.
Morazin is still strapped to the chair inside, blood drying at his mouth, eyes wide now—not smug anymore. He looks like a man realizing he miscalculated the shape of his own death.
Fyr gestures at him with the gun. “Tell me again why this one breathes.”
“Because he talks,” I say.
Morazin’s eyes flick between us. “They’ll kill you,” he whispers, almost gleeful through fear. “They’ll—”
“Shut your mouth,” Fyr snarls.
I step into the room and my nostrils flare.
The air smells different in here—faint brine, damp cold. There’s a service hatch in the floor behind Morazin, sealed with a heavy cover. I can smell water on the other side.
Submerged route.
Good.
I’d forgotten this safehouse had a drainage artery. An old smugglers’ trick: a flooded maintenance tunnel that connects to the industrial runoff network.
It’s disgusting.
It’s perfect.
“Rook,” I bark into comm. “I need smoke in Corridor B. Heavy.”
“On it,” he answers.
I turn to Fyr. “Help me move him.”
Fyr’s eyes blaze. “You’re serious.”
“I’m always serious,” I say, and reach for Morazin’s restraints.
Fyr grabs my wrist. His grip is strong even injured. “Lonari,” he says, voice tight. “This is going to cost us more people.”
I meet his gaze. “It already has.”
He swallows, anger fighting something older—loyalty, grief, fear. “Then let it cost the right people.”
“It will,” I say. “But not tonight.”
Fyr’s jaw works. Then he releases my wrist with a rough jerk.
“Fine,” he spits. “But when this goes bad, don’t pretend you didn’t choose it.”
I don’t pretend.
I choose it with my eyes open.
We unlock Morazin’s chair clamps and haul him up. He’s lighter than he should be—thin, brittle. His fancy cologne can’t hide the stink of panic now. He stumbles, cuffs clinking, breathing fast.
“You’re moving me?” he gasps.
“Congratulations,” I say. “You’re still useful.”
We drag him to the floor hatch. I rip the cover open and cold damp air rolls up, smelling like brine and sewage and rust.
Morazin gags. “No—no, I’m not going in there.”
Fyr shoves him. “Yes you are.”
Morazin scrambles, helpless with cuffs. He tries to brace his feet on the edge.
I lean close to his ear. “If you scream,” I whisper, “I will remove your tongue and let you drown in silence.”
His eyes widen.
He shuts up.
We lower him into the hatch. Water splashes. Morazin shudders violently as the cold hits him.
Fyr grimaces. “This is vile.”
“Welcome to survival,” I mutter.
A comm ping flares in my ear—Sable, urgent. “They’re breaking through Choke Three. We’re losing ground.”
“Hold thirty seconds,” I say. “We’re exiting.”
I climb down after Morazin, boots plunging into frigid water up to my calves. The shock is instant—cold biting deep, making my muscles tense. The tunnel is narrow, lined with slick metal and algae-slimed concrete. The air is wet and stale. It tastes like rot.
Fyr follows, grunting as he forces his injured body into the hatch. He lands awkwardly, pain flashing across his face.
Morazin whimpers. “This is insane.”
“You’re describing my week,” I say.
We start moving through the submerged passage. Water sloshes loud, echoing. Every splash feels like an announcement. My senses strain—listening for pursuit, for the scrape of boots, for any hint the Nine has eyes on this route too.
Behind us, the safehouse above erupts again—an explosion muffled by layers of concrete and water. The sound rolls through the tunnel like thunder.
Then comes a scream.
Not Morazin.
One of mine. A loyalist.
The scream cuts off abruptly, replaced by the static hiss of comm failure.
My chest tightens.
Rook’s voice comes through, ragged. “Lonari—we’re—” static “—lost Venn. He’s—”
Venn.
A name hits me like a fist. Venn was old-guard. Quiet. The kind of loyalist who never asked for credit. The kind of loyalist who dies because he stands in a doorway and decides his body is the price for someone else’s seconds.
I keep moving. I keep my face still. But inside, something tears.
Truth over vengeance.
That’s the choice.
And it costs blood every time.
Fyr’s voice is low behind me, rough. “We just lost Venn for this.”