Chapter 7
JOLIE
The trick to watching something without being seen is pretending you’re not watching it at all.
That’s easier said than done when your entire job revolves around watching everything.
The heat presses down hard on the line today, thick enough that it warps the air just above the ground and makes movement on the horizon ripple like it’s not entirely real.
The fence hums steady between us, the low vibration settling into my bones as I move through my patrol route, every step measured, every glance accounted for.
I don’t look at him when I pass his position.
Not directly.
Not in a way anyone else would clock.
But I feel him.
Same place. Same posture. Same deliberate stillness that reads as lazy if you don’t know better.
We don’t acknowledge each other.
Not out loud.
Not yet.
That would draw attention.
Instead, I slow near the midpoint of my route, crouching slightly as I run a gloved hand along the base of the fence like I’m checking for structural stress. The metal is warm under my fingers, the faint vibration of the current threading through it steady and unchanged.
“Your left sector’s drifting,” Hrask says from across the fence, his voice pitched just loud enough to sound like casual commentary rather than directed communication.
I don’t look up.
“Your patrol’s early,” I reply, keeping my tone flat. “That’s not standard.”
“Adjustments,” he says.
“Convenient.”
“Timing matters,” he adds, and there’s just enough weight under the words to make it clear he isn’t talking about patrol schedules anymore.
I shift my stance, rising back to my feet as I glance down the line, tracking the movement of both sides.
He’s right.
The pattern’s off.
Coalition units are rotating just slightly ahead of their usual cycle, while ours are lagging by a margin that wouldn’t raise flags on paper but creates gaps in real time.
Overlapping gaps.
That’s not accidental.
“That corridor you mentioned,” I say, keeping my voice low as I step closer to the fence, angling my body like I’m checking alignment. “You see movement?”
“Yeah,” he replies. His claws tap once against his gauntlet before going still again. “Same direction. Same interval.”
“Toward the fence?”
“Every time.”
I follow the line of sight, tracking the angle without turning my head too obviously.
There.
A cluster of movement deeper in Coalition territory, just at the edge of visibility where the heat distortion makes details harder to pin down.
Too consistent to ignore.
“They’re funneling something,” I murmur.
“Or someone,” he replies.
I don’t like that answer.
I don’t like how well it fits.
“Next rotation,” I say, keeping my gaze forward. “We watch closer.”
“You’re going to do more than watch,” he says.
It’s not a question.
I don’t answer right away.
Because he’s right.
And we both know it.
—
The next shift settles in with the same oppressive heat, but the tension underneath it feels sharper now, more focused.
I adjust my patrol timing just enough to align with the pattern we tracked earlier, letting my route drift closer to the edge of the blind zone without making it obvious. Every movement is calculated, every pause placed where it won’t draw attention.
Across the fence, Hrask mirrors it.
Not exactly.
Not in a way anyone else would recognize.
But it lines up.
Too clean to be coincidence.
I crouch again near the base of the fence, pretending to check a fault in the lower wiring as I glance toward the corridor intersection we marked.
Movement.
There it is again.
A pair of Coalition figures moving through the edge of the blind zone, their path angled toward the fence before cutting away at the last second.
Not random.
Not patrol.
Transport.
“What do you see?” Hrask asks, his voice low.
“Two,” I reply. “Same route. Same timing.”
“Yeah,” he says. “They’re consistent.”
“Too consistent.”
I shift my weight slightly, my pulse ticking up as I track their movement.
“If I move in,” I say, keeping my tone neutral, “you can cover it?”
There’s a pause.
Not hesitation.
Calculation.
“I can make noise,” he says. “Draw eyes.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“It’s what you’re getting.”
I exhale slowly.
“Fine,” I say. “Make it count.”
“Always do.”
I wait until the next patrol rotation begins, the shift subtle but noticeable if you’re watching for it. Our side adjusts first, pulling attention toward the far end of the line, while Coalition units reposition in response.
That’s the window.
I move.
Not fast.
Not obvious.
I let my patrol carry me closer to the edge of the blind zone, my steps measured, my posture unchanged. Anyone watching would see routine movement, nothing more.
The moment I cross into the gap, everything changes.
The weight of the cameras disappears.
The weight of observation lifts.
It’s quieter here.
Too quiet.
I keep moving, my senses sharpening as I follow the path the Coalition figures took earlier. The air feels different, heavier, like it’s holding onto something it shouldn’t.
Voices carry faintly from further ahead.
Low. Controlled.
Not patrol chatter.
I slow, pressing closer to the wall as I edge forward, my breathing steady despite the way my pulse has started to climb.
“You’re drifting,” a voice says behind me.
I freeze for half a second before turning.
One of our patrol officers stands a few meters back, his gaze fixed on me, suspicion threading through his posture.
“Checking a fault in the line,” I reply, keeping my tone even as I straighten slightly.
“That’s not your sector.”
“It is now.”
He doesn’t buy it.
I can see it in the way his stance alters, the way his hand hovers just a fraction too close to his comm unit.
“Lieutenant—”
A sharp crash cuts him off.
Metal slamming against metal, loud enough to echo across the sector.
Both of us turn instinctively toward the source.
Across the fence, Hrask is in motion.
He’s got another Coalition soldier pinned halfway against a support post, their bodies colliding with enough force to send a jarring vibration through the structure.
The other soldier shoves back, snarling something I can’t quite make out, and the two of them square off in a way that draws immediate attention from everyone nearby.
“What the hell—” my patrol officer mutters, his focus snapping away from me.
“That’s your problem,” I say, stepping back slightly, already moving away. “Handle it.”
He hesitates for a fraction of a second, torn between me and the escalating situation across the fence.
Then he turns and moves toward the commotion.
Just like that, I’m clear.
I don’t waste the opening.
I slip deeper into the blind zone, moving faster now but still controlled, following the path I tracked earlier. The corridor ahead opens into a narrow access point that leads closer to the fence than any standard route should allow.
And that’s where I see it.
A concealed transfer point.
Not marked.
Not logged.
Just a narrow gap in the infrastructure where something—or someone—could be moved between zones without ever appearing on official records.
My stomach tightens.
This is it.
This is what they’ve been hiding.
Voices approach from the far end of the corridor, and I pull back into the shadows, pressing myself against the wall as two figures move into view.
Coalition.
Carrying something between them.
No—someone.
The shape is slumped, unmoving, partially obscured, but the outline is unmistakable.
Transport.
I watch them pass, their footsteps echoing softly in the confined space.
This isn’t just surveillance manipulation.
This is extraction.
The moment they disappear from view, I move back the way I came, retracing my steps with the same alacrity, my mind racing ahead of me.
By the time I slip back out of the blind zone, the commotion at the fence has escalated into a full argument.
Hrask stands squared off against the other soldier, his posture loose but ready, his voice carrying just enough to keep attention locked on him.
“You want to say that again?” he’s saying, his tone edged with something dangerous.
“I said you’re out of line,” the other soldier snaps.
“Funny,” Hrask replies. “I was thinking the same about you.”
Their voices overlap, tension spiking just enough to keep everyone focused on them instead of anything else.
I step back into my patrol route like I never left it.
Like I was never gone.
Our eyes meet for a fraction of a second.
Just long enough.
He knows.
I know he knows.
The argument breaks shortly after, the other soldier backing off under the weight of attention, the moment dissolving as quickly as it formed.
Hrask steps back, rolling his shoulders like it was nothing.
Like it didn’t matter.
Like he didn’t just cover for me.
I make another pass down the line before stopping across from him again, the fence humming between us.
“You’re reckless,” I say quietly.
“You’re welcome,” he replies.
“That wasn’t part of the plan.”
“You didn’t give me a plan.”
I exhale slowly, the tension still tight in my chest.
“There’s a transfer point,” I say. “Unmarked. Hidden in the blind zone.”
His expression sharpens immediately.
“Moving what?” he asks.
“People,” I reply.
That lands.
“Alive?” he asks.
“I didn’t get close enough to check.”
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “That makes sense.”
I study him for a moment, something shifting in my chest that I don’t like.
“I needed that distraction,” I say.
“I figured.”
“You didn’t hesitate.”
“No,” he says.
“Why?”
He tilts his head slightly, like the answer should be obvious.
“Because you asked,” he says.
That shouldn’t matter.
It does.
I look away first, forcing my attention back to the line, back to the routine that’s starting to feel more like a cover than a job.
“This just got bigger,” I say.
“Yeah,” he replies. “It did.”
I hesitate, then add, “I couldn’t have gotten that without you.”
The words feel heavier than they should.
He doesn’t respond right away.
When I glance back at him, his expression has shifted, just slightly, something quieter settling behind it.
“Don’t get used to it,” he says.
“Wasn’t planning to.”
But as I move down the line again, my focus sharper, my awareness split between the fence and the space beyond it—
I realize I already am.