Chapter 31
JORDAN
Clint looks like a man who’s been running on caffeine, fear, and sheer stubbornness—and just realized stubbornness doesn’t stop bullets.
He comes through the service entrance under Kaijen escort with his collar pulled up and his eyes scanning everything like the walls might whisper.
Gur’s industrial air clings to him—diesel, damp metal, the sour tang of nerves.
His hair is a mess. His jaw is unshaven.
He’s carrying a small bag like it’s all the life he’s allowed to keep.
The Kaijen guards peel off without a word, leaving him standing there in a corridor that smells like bleach fighting old smoke.
I step forward before he can talk himself into bolting.
“Clint,” I say, and my voice comes out steadier than I feel.
His face cracks—relief first, then something darker. He swallows hard like he’s forcing emotion down his throat with both hands.
“Jordan,” he says. “Holy hell.”
I give him a crooked smile. “Welcome to the worst vacation destination in the sector.”
He tries to laugh. It fails halfway. “Yeah. Cute.”
His eyes flick past me, taking in the security layers—the cameras that aren’t cameras, the guards who don’t look armed but definitely are, the subtle way the air pressure shifts when a door seals behind him.
“You’re really doing this,” he murmurs.
“I’m really doing this,” I confirm.
Clint’s gaze locks onto mine. “They’re going to call you a terrorist forever.”
I shrug, but it’s sharp. “They already did.”
He exhales. “Right.”
We stand there for a second, two people holding the same grief-shaped history, and it hits me—harder than it should—that he actually came. He didn’t stay behind his badge. He didn’t cling to the institution like a life raft.
He chose me.
Or maybe he chose the truth.
Either way, it costs.
I tilt my head toward the inner corridor. “Come on. You look like you need water and a chair and possibly a therapist.”
Clint walks beside me, and his voice drops low. “Jordan… IHC intel is split.”
My stomach tightens. “Split how?”
He glances around as if the walls might be listening. Then he says, quietly, “There’s a faction that wants you contained permanently.”
The words land like ice water poured down my spine.
“Contained,” I repeat.
Clint’s mouth twists. “Yeah.”
“Permanently,” I echo, because my brain is trying to force it into something softer.
Clint doesn’t soften. “They’re using that phrase on purpose.”
I stop walking.
The corridor light hums overhead. Somewhere far away, the casino laughs at a joke that isn’t funny.
Clint stops too, and when I look at him, his eyes are bleak.
“They don’t care about the truth,” he says. “They care about control. They’re calling you unstable, radicalized, compromised. They’re framing your broadcast as an attack on national security.”
I swallow. My throat feels too tight, like my body wants to reject oxygen.
“So… I’m a problem,” I whisper.
Clint nods once. “And the kind of problem they erase.”
I stare at him for a second, remembering the way Lonari told me the world doesn’t have a free truth. It has truth that costs.
I exhale slowly. “Okay.”
Clint blinks. “Okay?”
I force a humorless smile. “Yeah. Okay. That tracks.”
He looks like he wants to argue with my calm. Like my calm makes it worse.
“It’s not funny, Jordan,” he says sharply.
“I know,” I say. “I’m not laughing because it’s funny. I’m laughing because if I don’t, I’ll scream.”
His jaw tightens. Then he nods, like he understands in the way only someone who’s been close to a machine can understand.
“Show me,” he says.
I lead him into my workroom—my little bunker of screens and encryption and paranoia. The air inside smells like coolant and citrus and the faint metallic bite of overworked electronics.
Clint steps in and freezes.
The holo projection above my table is alive with layers: the evidence vault architecture, the dead-drop release triggers, the chain maps, the relay routes, the “High Lantern” alias threads, the partial biometric imprint file flagged and sealed behind multiple keys.
He stares like he walked into a storm made of data.
“Jesus,” he whispers.
“Yeah,” I say. “That was my reaction too.”
I gesture to the vault interface. “This is the system. It’s redundant. Mirrored across Kaijen servers, civilian clouds, dead storage, and a dead-drop protocol that auto-releases if my biometrics flatline.”
Clint’s eyes flick sharply to me. “You built a dead-man’s switch.”
“Dead-woman’s,” I correct. “And yes.”
His mouth opens, then closes. He looks impressed and horrified simultaneously.
“That’s… that’s not normal,” he says.
“Neither is being hunted by your own government,” I shoot back. “So we’re all expanding our horizons.”
Clint swallows. “Okay. Show me the High Lantern chain.”
I swipe, and the holo shifts—threads of authorization tags, transaction approvals, access keys that appear in the right places at the right times like someone guiding a hand.
High Lantern.
High Lantern.
High Lantern.
It’s never a full name. Always a title. Always just enough.
Clint leans in, eyes narrowed. “This is… layered. Whoever built this wanted to be seen only by people who already knew to look.”
“Exactly,” I say. “It’s like an internal signature. A calling card for the powerful.”
Clint’s gaze snaps to the biometric file. “That’s from Morazin’s beacon?”
“Partial trace,” I confirm. “Authorization layer residue. It’s not a full identity print, but it’s… something. Enough to search restricted channels.”
Clint hesitates, then looks up at me. “If I run this through IHC channels… it’ll touch the system.”
I hold his gaze. “I know.”
“And if they’re watching me—”
“They’ll see it,” I finish. “Yeah.”
Clint exhales slowly. “So running it triggers an alarm.”
“It might,” I admit. “But not running it means we stay blind.”
Clint’s eyes sharpen. The old Clint I know surfaces—the one who hates being cornered, the one who gets mean when he’s scared.
“Give me the file,” he says.
I transfer it to his secure terminal—a hardened unit Kaijen provided, air-gapped until he physically links it to a restricted uplink node.
Clint plugs in the uplink. His fingers move with practiced speed, but I can see the tremor in them.
“This is a bad idea,” he mutters.
“Most good ideas are,” I say.
He snorts once. “You’re rubbing off on me.”
“Gross,” I reply automatically, and it earns the ghost of a smile from him—gone as soon as the terminal lights shift.
He types a restricted query. The terminal hums. The holo interface shows a progress arc crawling forward like a cautious insect.
Clint’s eyes are locked on it. His jaw clenched so tight the muscles twitch.
Then—
PARTIAL MATCH FOUND.
My heart stutters.
Clint inhales sharply. “No way.”
The system returns a fragment: not a name, not a face—just a partial ID string and a classification bracket.
COUNCIL-TIER ACCESS (ALLIANCE-LINKED) — CROSS-JURISDICTION CLEARANCE
My breath catches.
“Council-tier,” I whisper, and it feels like stepping onto a deeper layer of hell.
Clint’s eyes widen slightly. “Alliance-linked. That means—”
“That means Morazin wasn’t bluffing,” I say. “Someone high enough to touch both systems.”
Clint’s fingers hover over the keyboard, ready to dig deeper.
“Don’t—” I start, but it’s too late.
He clicks.
The terminal locks.
Instantly.
The screen flashes red.
SECURITY brEACH DETECTED. INTERNAL WATCHDOG TRIGGERED. USER SESSION FLAGGED.
A cold wave floods my body so fast my skin prickles.
Clint goes rigid. “Oh no.”
My stomach drops like an elevator with cut cables.
“Clint,” I say, voice tight, “tell me that didn’t just—”
“It did,” he whispers. “It flagged. It triggered internal security protocol.”
The holo displays a spinning icon—then a single line that makes my blood freeze.
ALERT ROUTED TO OVERSIGHT AUTHORITY
Oversight authority.
That’s the polite phrase for the person who owns the trap.
I stare at the locked terminal. My brain races, connecting dots that feel like barbed wire.
“They know,” I whisper.
Clint’s voice cracks slightly. “They know I ran it.”
“And they know we’re close,” I say, breath coming faster now. “Which means we didn’t just trigger an alarm—we notified the very person we’re hunting.”
Clint swears under his breath, raw. “Jordan, I’m sorry—”
“Don’t,” I snap, not because I’m angry at him, but because panic is trying to eat me and I need somewhere to throw it. “You didn’t do anything wrong. The system is designed to punish curiosity.”
Clint’s eyes flick to me. “What now?”
Before I can answer, the door opens.
And the air changes.
Lonari steps in with that controlled urgency that makes my nerves stand at attention. He smells like smoke and steel again, like he just left a war room.
His eyes flick to Clint, then to the red terminal screen, and his jaw tightens.
“You triggered something,” he says.
Clint swallows. “Yeah.”
Lonari’s gaze shifts to me. “We have incoming.”
My heart clenches. “Define incoming.”
Lonari’s voice is calm, which is somehow worse. “Nine agents. Entered Gur disguised as trade reps. They’ve checked into three hotels near the industrial ring. They’re asking questions.”
Clint’s face drains of color. “About what?”
Lonari’s eyes lock on mine. “About you. By name.”
The room goes very still.
My skin prickles as if the name itself is a beacon.
Clint whispers, “They know she’s here.”
“They always knew she was on Gur,” Lonari replies. “But now they’re hunting with intent, not rumor.”
Because we rang the bell.
Because we reached for High Lantern and the system heard us.
I exhale slowly through my nose, forcing my panic into a box.
A small box. For later.
Lonari watches me like he’s waiting for me to say, Hide me. Protect me. Put me in a bunker.
Instead, I straighten.
“No,” I say.
Clint blinks. “No what?”
“No bunker,” I say. “No hiding in a hole while they circle.”
Lonari’s eyes narrow slightly—half approval, half warning. “Jordan—”
“I’m not being stubborn for fun,” I cut in, voice sharp. “If we hide, they’ll tighten. They’ll take hostages. They’ll hit civilians. They’ll squeeze Kaijen until someone offers me up.”
Clint’s jaw tightens. “She’s right.”
Lonari’s gaze flicks to him briefly, surprised, then back to me. “What are you proposing?”
I swallow hard. My mouth tastes like metal again, like fear is a coin I keep chewing.
“We bait them,” I say.
Clint’s eyes widen. “Jordan—”
I hold up a hand. “Listen. They’re asking for me by name because they think I’m the lever. Fine. Let them think that. Let them move openly.”
Lonari studies me, silent.
I keep going before my courage has time to evaporate.
“I become the decoy,” I say. “I show up somewhere public enough that they can’t just vanish me without witnesses, but controlled enough that Kaijen can lock it down. You run containment. Kill-box logistics. Quiet shooters. Exit routes.”
Clint stares at me like I just proposed juggling grenades.
Lonari’s voice is low. “You’d be the bait.”
“Yes,” I say, and my hands shake slightly so I curl them into fists. “Because if they’re here, they have to communicate. They have to coordinate. They have to touch systems. We can catch their comm chain. We can trace it back toward High Lantern.”
Lonari’s eyes sharpen. “Digital bait.”
I nod quickly. “I’ll plant a false data packet—something that looks like the full biometric imprint plus a location tag. Something that screams ‘High Lantern evidence is here.’ If the Nine bites, they’ll ping their handler. They’ll pull resources.”
Clint swallows. “And if they don’t bite?”
“Then we move again,” I say. “But we don’t sit still.”
Lonari’s mouth tightens as he weighs risk.
“You just survived a market hit,” he says.
“And I learned something,” I snap. “They weren’t trying to kill me. They were trying to steal my compad. They want keys. They want control. They want the evidence.”
I point at the locked terminal. “We just told High Lantern we’re close. That means they’ll accelerate. If we don’t force them into the open, we’ll be reacting forever.”
Clint rubs a hand over his face. “This is insane.”
“It’s necessary,” I say.
Lonari looks at me for a long moment. In his gaze I see calculation, yes, but also something else—respect edged with worry, the kind of worry that doesn’t feel like a leash.
Finally, he says, “Alright.”
Clint’s head snaps up. “Alright?”
Lonari nods once. “We build the trap.”
My chest loosens by a fraction, then tightens again because agreement makes it real.
Lonari steps closer to the table and gestures at my holo system. “You handle digital bait. I handle physical.”
“Kill-box logistics,” I say, and my voice shakes with adrenaline.
Lonari’s mouth curves faintly. “Exactly.”
Clint looks between us. “What the hell have I walked into?”
I glance at him. “The part where we stop asking nicely.”
He swallows hard. “Okay. So what do you need from me?”
I blink, surprised by the immediate loyalty—then I remember he’s already crossed the line. There’s no going back.
“Help me write the bait packet,” I say. “Make it believable in IHC syntax. Something the Nine would forward up the chain without thinking twice.”
Clint exhales. “I can do that.”
Lonari points at the room’s security monitor. “And you,” he says to Clint, “stay under Kaijen escort. You’re a target now.”
Clint gives a bleak laugh. “Yeah. I figured.”
I pull up a new holo window and start building the trap—false metadata, controlled leak timing, a breadcrumb trail through public networks that looks accidental but isn’t.
My fingers move fast. My heart moves faster.
Because somewhere on Gur, Nine “trade reps” are asking for me by name.
And somewhere behind them, someone Council-tier is watching the alarm we just triggered—deciding whether to crush us quietly or take the bait.
I look up at Lonari.
“Containment plan?” I ask.
Lonari’s eyes are hard, steady. “I’ll build a box so tight they’ll think the universe shrank.”
I swallow, then nod once.
“Cool,” I whisper. “Let’s make them move.”