The Trap Snaps Shut
The red strobe light pulsed every second across our naked, sweat-slicked bodies.
The shrill, asynchronous wail of the alarm sirens drilled into my eardrums like an ice pick.
The command center—moments ago the epicenter of our intimate devastation—transformed in a heartbeat into a cold, metallic bunker on red alert.
Kael was dead. But his betrayal was a virus that had burrowed deeper into the fortress's guts than my algorithms had predicted.
I pushed myself off the edge of the tactical table.
My bare feet slapped against the ice-cold floor.
My muscles still trembled from the aftershocks of orgasm.
The wetness between my thighs cooled rapidly, but adrenaline locked down any physical weakness.
I grabbed my combat pants from the floor, pulled them over my legs in one fluid, hard motion, and yanked the fastener up.
My tactical shirt followed. No time for boots.
Raze didn't waste time. He didn't turn for his clothing.
He wore only his heavy military pants. The matte black titanium forearm guards still gleamed wet with the blood of his previous victims. He bent down, the massive cords of muscle across his broad back tensing under deep violet skin, and tore the heavy war hammer from the floor with one hand.
The energy core hummed to life immediately, an aggressive, deep rumble that nearly drowned out the sirens.
“This isn't just the jungle king,” he growled.
His amber eyes scanned the flickering monitors on the console.
Red signature points clustered in the corridors directly outside the command center's primary armored door.
“Kael's most loyal troops. They're using the perimeter breach as cover. They're coming for my head.”
“They'll get plasma,” I replied.
I snatched the imperial blaster from the table—the one he'd given me earlier. My hands closed around the ergonomic grip. The weapon sat hot and perfectly balanced in my fingers. I disengaged the safety. The hard, mechanical click sounded like a promise.
I ran to the rear console, jumped onto the steel terminal, and took cover behind a thick support beam.
From here I had a clear view of the entire room—the tactical table in the center, the heavy double door at the entrance.
A flawless, elevated firing position. My mind slipped into a cool space of variables and vectors.
No fear. Only crosshairs and blind spots.
Raze positioned himself dead center in the room. He didn't seek cover. He was the cover. A colossus of pure, compressed force of nature. His thick, armored tail swept slowly and deliberately across the floor, scales scraping softly against stone.
“Stay up there, little strategist,” he snarled over his shoulder. Not a request. A strict tactical order.
“Don't block my sightline, Boss,” I shot back, pressing the stock against my shoulder and aiming at the door.
Then the steel burst.
It wasn't hammering. It was a concentrated thermal charge. The ton-heavy armored steel bulkheads bulged inward under the extreme heat, metal glowing white at the center before being torn to pieces with a deafening, bone-rattling bang.
A pressure wave of black smoke, ash, and burning ozone swept through the room. I ducked behind the beam, felt the heat sear across my hair.
Before the dust could settle, they stormed in.
At least a dozen mutineers. Heavy infantry. Thick gray skin, armor, plasma burners at the ready. They screamed guttural battle cries, a primitive barking that died the instant he crossed the room.
He didn't wait for them to form up. He launched himself like a wrecking ball straight into their center.
The kinetic force of his attack was inhuman.
The war hammer plowed through the rising smoke and struck the first attacker square in the chest. The centimeter-thick armor shattered like cheap glass.
The energy core discharged with a blinding flash that imploded the mutant's ribcage.
The body flew five meters through the air and smashed a holographic projector on the side wall.
Two more mutineers hurled themselves at him from the left, vibrating blades drawn.
The warlord didn't even lift the hammer.
His tail shot forward. The thick violet appendage wrapped lightning-fast around the first attacker's throat.
A brutal, unstoppable jerk from the hip, followed by a loud, wet crack.
The neck snapped instantly. He used the corpse as a ballistic shield, swung the body around on his tail, and rammed it full force into the second attacker.
Both crashed into a stack of steel supply crates.
I aimed. My blaster's crosshairs flickered green.
A saboteur crawled into position on a grated walkway to Raze's right, raising a heavy plasma launcher to hit him from his blind spot.
I exhaled halfway, held it. My finger curled. I squeezed.
The recoil slammed hard against my shoulder. The hot blue-white plasma bolt cut through the air and struck the shooter's unprotected neck dead-on. Flesh and bone vaporized in a red mist. The corpse pitched forward, his launcher discharging wild and burning a hissing hole in the ceiling.
The warlord registered the kill. He didn't turn his head, but a deep laugh rumbled through the room, briefly drowning out the chaos of combat.
“Good shot,” he rumbled, yanking the hammer up and pulverizing the next enemy's jaw.
“Focus on the front!” I screamed back, cycling the action and acquiring the next target.
The dynamic between us locked into place like a perfectly oiled machine.
He was the meat grinder—the absolute, unstoppable front line that crushed everything within arm's reach.
I was the scalpel. From my elevated position, I read the chaos of combat as a geometric grid.
Every time an enemy tried to flank him, every time a rifle barrel emerged from the smoke aimed at his broad back, my plasma burned a hole through the attacker's armor.
The stench of charred flesh and molten metal turned my stomach, but my mind ruthlessly filtered out the nausea.
Two mutineers tried to creep along the wall toward my position. They'd spotted my muzzle flash.
I didn't wait for them to find an angle. I dove over the console, slid on bare knees across the smooth steel, and fired two quick bursts from the hip. The first dropped with a glowing crater in his chest. The second raised his burner.
Before he could pull the trigger, Raze threw his weapon.
The massive war hammer spun through the air like a deadly propeller. It struck the saboteur square in the gut, slamming him against the steel wall with brute force and pinning him there.
Raze stood unarmed for a second amid the carnage.
Four attackers saw their chance. They rushed him at once, drawing vibro-blades that hummed with high-frequency menace.
I reloaded. The energy cell clicked into place. He didn’t need a weapon. He was the weapon.
He grabbed the first attacker by the throat, yanked him into the air with one hand, and used the armored body as a battering ram against the second.
His thick tail lashed behind him, caught the third attacker, coiled tight around his leg, and hurled him like a rag doll across the room—straight into the burning remains of the entrance door.
The fourth mutineer ducked under his reach, blade drawn, ready to drive it into the unprotected hollow of his knee.
I jumped from the console. My feet found instant purchase on the warm metal floor. I ran three steps, threw myself flat on my stomach, and slid under the rising smoke. My blaster was up. I fired at knee height.
The bolt hit the attacker’s joint. His leg buckled with a wet, ugly sound.
He pivoted fluidly, planted his massive boot on the falling enemy’s chest, and crushed the ribcage with the weight of a dropping anvil.
He looked at me. His chest heaved. The blood of his enemies clung in dark splatters across his violet torso, mingling slick and glossy with the sweat from our sex.
In this room, surrounded by corpses and wailing sirens, there was no longer any line between his animal nature and my tactical mind.
We functioned as a single, deadly organism.
A new squad stormed through the blown entrance. Six men. Heavily armored units with kinetic shields that shimmered blue, impenetrable.
“The shields absorb plasma!” I called over the noise. “You have to force them into close combat!”
He growled in agreement. He didn’t retreat. He charged straight at the shield wall.
I flanked him immediately. My thoughts raced. Kinetic shields reacted to mass and velocity. A plasma charge would bounce off, but slow, physical penetration could overcome the barrier. I drew my heavy, serrated survival knife from the holster I’d strapped on earlier.
Raze slammed into the center of the shields.
The impact made the blue energy fields flare blindingly bright.
He pressed against the barrier with sheer muscle power, his black claws digging into the shimmering field, his tail lashing aggressively behind him.
He drew their full attention. They braced against him, pressed their heavy boots into the floor, absolutely fixated on the gigantic monster before them.
A fatal mistake.
I slid in from the side. The perfect blind spot. I raised the blade.
Kinetic shields blocked extreme velocities. A plasma bolt shattered against them. A forceful blow bounced off. But slow, physical mass penetrated the energy field.
I pressed my survival knife against the shimmering blue light at the edge of the formation. The resistance felt like viscous, hardening tar. I forced my muscles to stay calm and pushed my arm forward in a slow, steady motion. The blade slid through the barrier.
The mutineer noticed me a heartbeat too late.
He whipped his head around. Before he could shout a warning, I rammed the serrated steel deep into the soft gap between his helmet and chest plate. I severed the carotid artery and ripped the blade out with a hard sideways wrench.