Chapter 30
LONARI
Morning in the Defrocked Nun is a lie told with sunlight.
The chandeliers still glitter. The casino still breathes—music soft as a whisper, laughter bright as a weapon. Even the air smells curated: citrus cleaner layered over smoke, expensive perfume trying to bully out the truth.
But the building remembers.
I can feel it in the floor under my boots, a faint tremor from the night before, as if the Nun is still digesting gunfire and spilled blood. My tongue tastes like metal and sleep I didn’t get. Somewhere deep below, Morazin breathes behind steel.
Somewhere closer, Jordan is awake—because she doesn’t sleep when she’s afraid she’ll lose the thread.
And I… I am Godfather by default, which means I don’t get to be tired.
I walk into the council chamber and the room goes quiet like it’s been trained.
Captains line the table again—some familiar faces, some new ones wearing dead men’s coats. Their jewelry flashes under harsh white light. Their eyes flick to mine, quick, calculating. They smell like fear wrapped in cologne, ambition wrapped in silk.
This time, nobody makes jokes.
They’ve seen the Nine’s mark on concrete. They’ve heard the whispers about a safehouse breach. They’ve watched the way I didn’t flinch.
I take the head seat, not because I crave it, but because if I don’t claim it, someone else will.
My palms rest on the table. The wood is cool. Solid.
“Alright,” I say, voice low. “Let’s talk about how we stop bleeding.”
Captain Nera leans forward, eyes sharp. “You mean how you stop dragging us into your personal war.”
I don’t blink. “I mean how we stop being a pipeline for someone else’s agenda.”
Murmurs ripple around the room.
Jasker’s chair sits empty. It’s a visible absence. A warning with upholstery.
Captain Orin—newer, younger, hungry—tilts his head. “We heard you stripped Jasker.”
“I did,” I say.
“And you didn’t kill him,” Orin pushes, a little incredulous. “That’s… unusual.”
I smile faintly. “Death is easy. I’m not doing easy anymore.”
Nera’s mouth tightens. “We can’t pause. The Nine hits us, we hit back. That’s how this works.”
“That’s how it’s worked,” I correct. “Which is why they’re comfortable.”
I let the silence stretch. Let them sit in it.
Then I say the words that make half of them stiffen.
“Strategic pivot.”
A captain on the far end snorts. “We’re criminals, Lonari. Not—”
“Not stupid,” I cut in. “Don’t insult us.”
I tap the table once. “Kaijen operations pause expansion. No new territory pushes. No flashy grabs. No ego raids. We focus on counterintelligence and civilian shielding.”
A murmur. Disbelief. Offense.
Orin’s eyebrows jump. “Civilian shielding?”
“Yes,” I say.
He scoffs. “Since when do we—”
“Since we decided we don’t win by becoming monsters for the Nine to point at,” I snap, and my voice sharpens like a blade. “Since we decided we don’t let innocents die because we’re too proud to adjust.”
Nera’s eyes narrow. “This is because of the human.”
I feel heat crawl up my spine.
“Say her name,” I reply, voice dangerously calm.
Nera’s jaw tightens. “Jordan.”
“Good,” I say. “Now hear me: Jordan isn’t the reason the Nine attacked us. Jordan is the reason we can see the attack for what it is.”
Orin leans back, skeptical. “And what is it?”
I gesture toward the projection Senn throws into the air—routes, accounts, supply lines, the shadowy map of our ecosystem.
“It’s infiltration,” I say. “It’s procurement manipulation. It’s a leash.”
I point at a cluster of routes highlighted in red. “These supply channels. Nine relies on them. They like to outsource the dirty work—logistics, distribution, laundering.”
Nera’s eyes flick. “You froze the Orpheline Route.”
“I did,” I say. “And they responded with bullets.”
Orin’s mouth curls. “So we respond with bullets.”
I shake my head slowly. “No. We respond with hunger.”
The room quiets.
I lean forward, elbows on the table. “We’re going to sting their channels. Intercept shipments. Track handlers. Strip their comfort. Make them spend resources defending their own stomach.”
Nera studies me. “You’re turning us into a counterintelligence outfit.”
I shrug. “Call it evolution.”
A captain to my right—old guard, scarred—asks quietly, “And civilians?”
I glance at him. “We shield them. We keep the Nine from turning Gur into a stage again. We don’t give governments easy propaganda.”
Orin scoffs. “That’s going to slow profits.”
“Yes,” I say. “It will.”
He opens his mouth—
“And if you can’t handle slower profits because you’re addicted to expansion,” I add, voice flat, “then you can follow Jasker into exile.”
The table goes still.
Good.
Message delivered.
I stand. “Sting starts tonight. I want the Nine’s next supply shipment intercepted before it reaches its drop.”
Senn looks up from his slate. “We have three suspected high-volume transfers in the next twenty-four hours.”
“Pick the one they’re most confident in,” I say. “The one they think we won’t touch.”
Sable steps out of the shadows near the door. “Dock Nine. Industrial ring. Disguised as medical freight.”
I nod. “That.”
Nera exhales slowly. “If this fails—”
“It won’t,” I say.
Because Jordan is part of this now, whether they like it or not.
And Jordan makes systems scream.
The shipment arrives like a rumor.
A plain cargo container, scanned and cleared through too many “official” channels for a criminal package. It’s escorted by men who wear dock uniforms but move like soldiers. Their eyes don’t linger on distraction. Their hands never leave their line-of-sight.
My team takes it in a quiet corridor between warehouses—no firefight, no screaming. Just doors sealing, comms cutting, and a controlled takedown that lasts forty-two seconds.
When the container’s seals finally pop, the air inside is cold and sterile, the smell of preservative and foam packing.
Sable peels back the first layer.
“Med patches,” she says, unimpressed.
Then she digs deeper, and her posture changes.
“What?” I ask.
She holds up a case.
Alliance-issued.
My stomach drops in the slow, sick way it does when a theory becomes a fact.
Inside the case: encryption modules.
Not civilian grade. Not black-market spares.
Alliance procurement stamps. Serial numbers. Proper packaging. A set of communication keys that can slide into military systems like they belong there.
For a moment, the room goes very quiet.
The air smells like chilled plastic and the faint metallic tang of my own anger.
Nera, standing behind me, whispers, “Those are—”
“Alliance-issued,” I say, voice flat.
Sable nods once. “Fresh. Not old surplus.”
Orin’s eyes are wide now. “So the Nine is—”
“Embedded,” I finish.
The word tastes like poison.
Bribery is one thing. Bribery is messy. Bribery leaves trails.
This?
This is deeper.
This is procurement.
This is communications access.
This is someone inside the Alliance stamping boxes and sending them to the Nine like it’s routine.
Morazin’s smug voice echoes in my head again: Someone in High Command signed the access keys.
I stare at the modules until my vision sharpens around the edges.
“They’re not just bribing officials,” I murmur. “They’re inside the bloodstream.”
Nera’s voice is tight. “Or someone’s selling Alliance stock to them.”
“Either way,” I say, “it confirms the same thing.”
I look up, meeting their eyes one by one.
“We’re not fighting a syndicate,” I tell them. “We’re fighting a structure.”
Orin swallows. “Can we use these?”
“Yes,” I say. “And we will.”
Because leverage is the only language systems understand.
Back at the Nun, I find Jordan in the operations room, posture stiff, compad open, eyes sharp but tired.
She looks up when I enter, and for a second the tension in her shoulders eases—then returns like she hates that it eased at all.
“What?” she asks immediately. “You look like you found a corpse in a church.”
“Close,” I say. “We intercepted a Nine shipment.”
Jordan’s eyes narrow. “And?”
I toss the Alliance case onto the table.
Her fingers snap it open.
She stares at the modules like they’re snakes.
“Holy—” she breathes. “These are real.”
“Yep,” I say.
Jordan’s jaw tightens. “So Morazin wasn’t bluffing.”
“No,” I reply.
Jordan exhales shakily. “This is… this is big. This is—”
“This is proof,” I say. “The kind that makes governments sweat.”
Jordan’s gaze flicks to me. “Do you realize what this means? If the Nine has Alliance comm access, they can spoof—”
“Anything,” I finish. “Yes.”
She swallows hard, then rubs her eyes. “Great. Fantastic. Love that.”
Her compad buzzes.
Her face changes as she reads the incoming ping.
“Clint,” she says, voice tight.
She answers, and Clint’s holo appears—tense, breath quick, eyes darting like he’s in a hallway he doesn’t trust.
“Jordan,” he says. “We’ve got a problem.”
Jordan’s voice is calm but hard. “We always have a problem. Tell me the new one.”
Clint swallows. “Someone inside IHC intel is pressuring me to stop assisting you. They flagged my comm patterns. They’re—” He hesitates. “They’re making it clear I’m being watched.”
Jordan’s face goes pale, then furious. “They can’t—”
“They can,” Clint says quietly. “And they will. If I keep this up, they’ll ruin me or disappear me.”
Jordan’s throat tightens. She glances at me.
I step closer so Clint can see me in the frame.
Clint’s eyes widen slightly. “Lonari.”
“Hello,” I say.
Clint swallows. “This is insane.”
“Welcome,” I reply.
Jordan snaps, “Clint, listen to me. You have to—”
Clint cuts her off, voice strained. “Jordan, I’m not calling to debate. I’m calling because I think they’re about to yank me off the board.”
Jordan’s voice breaks slightly. “Then get out.”
Clint laughs once, bleak. “To where? IHC has my access, my housing, my identity. I’m not exactly built for… syndicate life.”
Jordan’s eyes flick to me again.
I don’t hesitate.
“Come to Gur,” I say.
Clint blinks. “What?”
“I authorize extraction,” I say, voice steady. “Kaijen protection. Ghostline route. You’ll be safer under my roof than under your own government’s knife.”
Jordan’s eyes widen. “Lonari—bringing him here makes us a bigger target.”
“I’m aware,” I say.
Clint stares, stunned. “You’re offering me… asylum?”
I tilt my head. “I’m offering you survival.”
Jordan’s voice turns sharp, almost pleading. “Clint, say yes. Please.”
Clint hesitates—fear battling loyalty and the instinct to cling to the institution that raised him.
Then his shoulders slump, and he says quietly, “Okay. Yes. I’ll come.”
Jordan exhales like she’s been holding her breath for years.
Clint’s eyes lock onto mine through the holo. “If I do this, there’s no going back.”
I nod once. “That’s correct.”
He swallows. “Then… give me the route.”
“Jordan will,” I say, and glance at her.
Jordan’s hands are already moving, typing fast, eyes bright with adrenaline.
“Copy,” she says. “I’ll send you a clean window.”
Clint nods, then his expression tightens. “One more thing.”
Jordan’s fingers pause. “What?”
Clint’s voice drops. “Whoever’s pressuring me… they referenced ‘High Lantern.’ Not by name. But by title. Like it’s… common knowledge in certain circles.”
Jordan’s face hardens. “So it’s real.”
Clint nods, grim. “It’s real.”
The call ends.
The room goes quiet except for the hum of servers.
Jordan stares at her screen like she wants to punch it. “They’re going to treat him like they treated me.”
“Which is why he’s coming here,” I say.
Jordan’s voice is tight. “We’re stacking targets on ourselves.”
“Yes,” I say. “Because the alternative is letting them pick us off one by one.”
Jordan’s jaw works. She looks up. “You’re really doing this.”
“I told you,” I say quietly. “Hard path.”
Jordan swallows, then nods once like she’s accepting a truth she hates.
Then a sound breaks through the calm—faint, low, mocking.
A laugh.
It comes from the comm panel tied to the vault.
Morazin.
Jordan’s head snaps toward it, eyes blazing.
I tap the channel open.
Morazin’s voice slides into the room like oil. “Ohhh, this is adorable. Little alliances. Little plans. You think you’re clever.”
Jordan snarls, “Shut up.”
Morazin chuckles. “I will, once you stop pretending you have control.”
I lean toward the mic, voice cold. “Say what you want.”
Morazin’s laughter softens into something sharper. “I have a bargain.”
Jordan’s expression goes rigid. “No.”
Morazin ignores her. “I will name High Lantern,” he says, voice almost singsong, “if you surrender Jordan to the Nine.”
The room’s temperature drops.
Jordan goes perfectly still, like her body just turned to glass.
I feel something in my chest snap into clarity so clean it’s almost calm.
I don’t need to think.
I don’t need to weigh.
I answer immediately.
“No,” I say.
Morazin pauses, as if he expected negotiation. “Consider—”
“No,” I repeat, voice like steel. “Not now. Not ever.”
Jordan exhales sharply, a sound that might be relief or rage. Her eyes flick to me, searching for something.
Morazin laughs again, darker. “You sentimental fool. You’d rather burn than trade.”
“Yes,” I say. “Because I don’t barter people.”
Morazin’s voice turns thin. “Then you’ll never get the name.”
I smile, slow. “You think the name is the only leverage.”
Morazin goes quiet.
I lean closer to the mic. “You’re wrong.”
I end the channel.
Jordan stares at me, still frozen.
“You said no,” she whispers.
I look at her. “I said no.”
Her voice cracks, angry and raw. “You didn’t even— you didn’t even hesitate.”
I shake my head. “I don’t hesitate when it’s you.”
Jordan’s throat tightens. She looks away fast, as if her emotions embarrass her.
I keep my voice low. “Morazin thinks we’re begging. He thinks we need permission from governments. He thinks we need a name handed to us like charity.”
Jordan’s fingers curl around her compad. “We don’t.”
“No,” I agree. “We break the system with leverage.”
Jordan meets my eyes again, and something fierce sparks there—tired, bruised, but alive.
“Okay,” she says, voice steadier. “Then we build a case they can’t bury.”
“Yes,” I say.
I glance toward the vault door, deep below, and I can almost hear Morazin breathing behind steel, waiting for us to blink.
We won’t.
Act III is over.
Now it’s time to dismantle what thinks it can’t be dismantled.