Chapter 36
HRASK
The safehouse doesn’t stay safe once you know how thin the walls really are.
The air shifts first, subtle but wrong, carrying a sharper edge through the stale interior, and I feel it before I hear anything concrete. I push off the wall where I’ve been standing near the door, my focus snapping back into place.
“We don’t have as much time as I wanted,” I say, already moving toward the panel.
Jolie straightens from where she’s been leaning against the table, her posture tightening despite the way her body protests it.
“You hear something?” she asks.
“I feel something,” I reply, cracking the panel just enough to check the exterior feed.
The screen flickers, then stabilizes.
Movement.
Organized.
Fast.
“Yeah,” I mutter. “That’s not random.”
She steps closer, her shoulder brushing mine as she looks at the display.
“That’s not a sweep,” she says.
“No,” I agree. “That’s a net.”
“He’s not wasting time,” she mutters.
“Driscoll doesn’t strike me as patient,” I reply, sealing the panel again. “We move now.”
“Where?” she asks, already grabbing the device and securing it.
“Not out the front,” I say. “We go deeper first, then cut sideways.”
“That’s not an exit,” she counters.
“It is if you know who’s waiting at the other end,” I reply.
She narrows her eyes slightly.
“You’ve got something lined up,” she says.
“I’ve got a possibility,” I correct. “Kilgari privateers run cargo out of the lower sectors. They don’t ask questions if the price is right.”
“And you’ve got that kind of relationship?” she asks.
“Let’s call it professional understanding,” I say, moving toward the rear access hatch.
“That’s not reassuring,” she mutters.
“It doesn’t need to be,” I reply. “It just needs to work.”
I trigger the hatch, and it slides open with a low mechanical grind, revealing a narrower tunnel behind the safehouse, darker and less maintained than the ones we used before.
“After you,” I say.
She gives me a look.
“You first,” she replies. “If this goes bad, I want to see it coming.”
“Fair,” I mutter, stepping through.
The tunnel air is heavier here, less circulated, carrying the scent of old fuel and rust, and the ground slopes downward slightly, pulling us deeper into the understructure. The sound of movement above grows sharper as we move, boots and voices bleeding through the layers of metal and stone.
“They’re closing fast,” Jolie says behind me.
“Yeah,” I reply. “That’s why we don’t stop.”
We move at a controlled pace, fast enough to stay ahead, not fast enough to trip over the uneven ground, and I adjust our path twice, cutting through side passages that narrow and twist in ways that would disorient anyone who hasn’t spent time down here.
“You’ve definitely done this before,” she mutters.
“Yeah,” I say. “Just not with this much at stake.”
“That’s comforting,” she replies dryly.
The tunnel opens into a wider junction, the ceiling lifting just enough to let sound carry differently, and I slow, raising a hand.
“Hold,” I say.
She stops immediately, her breathing controlled despite the strain.
“What?” she asks.
I tilt my head slightly, listening.
Voices.
Closer now.
Ahead.
“Not ours,” I murmur.
“Alternative?” she asks.
I glance to the left, then the right, mapping the options.
“Left’s shorter but exposed,” I say. “Right’s longer, tighter, harder to follow.”
“Right,” she says immediately.
“Yeah,” I nod. “Figured.”
We shift direction, slipping into the narrower passage, the walls closing in enough that we have to move single file again.
“You trust these privateers?” she asks after a moment.
“Not even a little,” I reply.
“Great,” she mutters.
“But they trust me enough to listen,” I add.
“That’s not better,” she says.
“It’s what we’ve got,” I reply.
The tunnel slopes upward this time, the air shifting again as we approach the outer edge of the understructure, and faint light filters in ahead, not the sterile brightness of the base, but something harsher, more industrial.
“We’re close,” I say.
“To what?” she asks.
“Docking sector,” I reply. “Unofficial.”
“Of course it is,” she mutters.
We reach the edge of the tunnel, and I slow, checking the exterior before stepping out.
The docking area sprawls in controlled chaos, cargo containers stacked in uneven rows, transport rigs moving in tight patterns, and at the far end—
A ship.
Kilgari design.
Low profile, armored plating layered over a frame built for speed instead of comfort.
“That’s ours,” I say.
“You’re sure?” Jolie asks.
“No,” I reply. “But I’m hopeful.”
She huffs a breath.
“Good enough,” she says.
We move.
Fast.
Staying low, using the containers for cover as we cut across the open space.
“Hey!” a voice calls out from near the ship.
I look up.
A figure steps forward, tall, broad, with the distinct silhouette of Kilgari armor.
“Hrask,” he says, his tone edged with something between recognition and annoyance. “You’ve got terrible timing.”
“Yeah,” I reply, closing the distance. “I’ve been told that before.”
“You’re not welcome here right now,” he says, crossing his arms.
“I don’t need welcome,” I counter. “I need passage.”
He glances at Jolie, then back at me.
“That’s not a simple favor,” he says.
“It never is,” I reply.
Movement spikes behind us.
Shouts.
“They’re here,” Jolie mutters.
“Yeah,” I say. “That’s why we’re not negotiating for long.”
The privateer studies me for a second, then exhales.
“You still owe me,” he says.
“I know,” I reply.
“This doubles it,” he adds.
“Fine,” I say immediately.
Jolie glances at me.
“You didn’t even ask what that means,” she mutters.
“Doesn’t matter right now,” I reply.
The privateer nods once.
“Get on,” he says, stepping aside.
Gunfire cracks across the docking bay.
“They found us,” Jolie says.
“No kidding,” I mutter, grabbing her arm and pulling her toward the ship.
We sprint the last stretch, shots sparking off metal around us as the distance closes fast.
“Move!” someone shouts from the ship.
“I’m moving!” I shoot back.
Jolie stumbles slightly, her leg catching, and I tighten my grip, pulling her forward instead of letting her fall.
“Don’t stop,” I say.
“I’m not trying to,” she snaps.
We hit the ramp just as another volley of shots tears through the space behind us, the sound sharp and immediate.
“Inside!” the privateer barks.
I shove Jolie up first, then follow, the ramp slamming shut behind us with a heavy clang.
The interior vibrates as the engines kick, the throbbing sound building fast into something louder, more powerful.
“You picked a hell of a time to show up,” the privateer mutters.
“You let us on,” I reply.
“Yeah,” he says. “I’m questioning that decision already.”
Jolie leans against the wall, breathing hard, her grip still tight on the device.
“We made it,” she says.
“Not yet,” I reply, glancing toward the cockpit as the ship lurches.
The engines roar.
The floor shifts under us as the ship lifts.
“Now we’re getting there,” I add.