Chapter 32 #2
I look at the agent. His eyes are still burning with hatred, locked on mine like he’s trying to memorize my face for the afterlife.
“You won’t talk,” I say.
He doesn’t blink.
“Fine,” I reply. “We don’t need your mouth.”
Sable pings again. “I’m seeing embedded directives in the packet. I can’t decrypt, but I can read the top-level header.”
“Read it,” I order.
Her voice is tight, reverent in the way people get when they touch something above their pay grade.
“Directive: deliver proof to Alliance High Command liaison.”
I go very still.
My tongue tastes like metal again.
Alliance High Command liaison.
So Morazin didn’t just have a handler. He had a pipeline. And the Nine isn’t merely cooperating with corruption—they’re exchanging deliverables with someone inside command structure.
We can’t just expose the Nine.
We have to expose the bridge.
The intergovernmental throat that keeps feeding them.
If we cut the Nine without cutting that, the system just grows another head.
I exhale slowly and look at my team. “Bag him.”
Rook’s eyes flick to the agent. “Alive.”
“Yes,” I say. “Alive.”
Fyr’s voice is furious. “Lonari—”
I cut him off. “Enough, Fyr.”
A beat of silence on the comm.
Then his voice, colder: “You’re going to regret this.”
“Maybe,” I say. “But regret is cheaper than ignorance.”
We load the agent into a restraint capsule—sealed, shielded, monitored. His implant continues pulsing faintly, a threat and a gift.
I wipe wet stone grime off my hands and start moving back through the tunnels toward the Nun, boots splashing, mind already racing with the packet’s implications.
Jordan’s voice crackles through Ghostline, sharp and immediate. “You caught one.”
“Yep,” I answer.
Her breath is tight. “Alive?”
“Yes.”
A pause. Then: “Good. What’d you find?”
“Jaw implant,” I say. “Dead-man data packet keyed to High Lantern.”
Jordan goes quiet for half a second, which for her is basically a prayer.
Then she exhales. “Oh my God.”
“And the directive,” I add, “says deliver proof to an Alliance High Command liaison.”
Jordan’s voice sharpens into something almost feral. “So it’s not just the Nine. It’s the bridge.”
“Yes,” I say.
Jordan’s tone turns urgent. “Bring it back. Now. I want to—”
“Jordan,” I cut in. “Stay inside the Nun.”
She scoffs. “I am inside the Nun.”
“I mean inside,” I emphasize. “Not in corridors. Not in service tunnels. Not playing decoy again.”
Her voice turns sweet in the way humans get when they’re about to do something reckless. “Lonari. I’m not going anywhere.”
“I know you,” I say flatly. “That’s why I’m telling you.”
Jordan huffs. “You’re adorable when you think you’re in charge.”
“I am in charge,” I reply.
She laughs once, sharp. “Sure, boss.”
Then she adds, too casually, “Send me the packet metadata.”
I narrow my eyes even though she can’t see it. “No.”
“Lonari,” she whines, and the sound is half sarcasm, half genuine frustration.
“No,” I repeat. “You’ll start decrypting it right now.”
Jordan’s voice turns innocent. “I would never.”
I can practically see her typing with one hand while she says it.
I sigh, long-suffering. “Jordan.”
She relents—kind of. “Fine. I won’t start until you get back.”
“Thank you,” I say, not believing her for a second.
We reach the Nun’s underlevels and transfer the agent into a secure holding room adjacent to my vault. The air down here is cool and clean, metallic, the smell of power systems and sealed doors. The building feels like a fortress in its bones.
As my team locks the restraint capsule into place, I glance toward the operations corridor where Jordan is waiting—because I can feel her there like a magnet.
She’s already too deep in the hunt.
And now we’ve rung the bell loud enough that High Lantern themselves might hear it.
The Nine struck exactly where I predicted.
Which means we predicted each other.
Now the question is who adapts faster.
I pull my hood down as I walk, tasting dust and steel and the faint sweetness of the Nun’s perfume filtering down through vents.
By the time I step into the operations room, Jordan is already standing over a terminal, eyes bright, posture tense, fingers hovering like they’re itching to tear the universe open.
“Don’t,” I say before she can speak.
Jordan looks at me, deadpan. “Hi.”
I point at her hands. “Don’t.”
She lifts both hands in surrender, exaggerated. “I’m not doing anything.”
“Liar,” I reply automatically.
She grins, all sharp edges. “Okay, fine. I am doing something.”
I exhale, half furious, half—against my will—admiring. “Of course you are.”
Jordan leans closer, voice low. “Lonari… this packet is keyed to High Lantern. If we crack it, we don’t just get a name. We get a path.”
“I know,” I say.
“And we don’t have time,” she adds. “Because the moment that agent doesn’t report back, they’ll realize the trap snapped.”
I stare at her, feel the weight of it settle in my chest.
She’s right.
She’s always right in the way that gets people killed.
I step closer to the terminal, lowering my voice. “You stay in the Nun.”
Jordan’s eyes flash. “I am.”
“And you let my people handle perimeter,” I continue.
She rolls her eyes. “Sure.”
I give her a hard look. “Jordan.”
She sighs, then nods once. “Fine. I’ll stay in your giant crime hotel. Happy?”
“Ecstatic,” I mutter.
Then I glance at the locked IHC terminal Clint was using earlier—still flagged, still red.
We’ve triggered alarms. We’ve caught a messenger. We’ve uncovered a directive pointing straight at High Command.
We’re no longer just hunting the Nine.
We’re hunting the bridge that feeds them.
And the bridge just felt us touch it.