“It is. You applied the northern escort cost to the eastern support run, then counted the same fuel charge twice. I assume by mistake.”
His eyes lift to mine. If he takes it, everyone gets to pretend no one tried to skim a few thousand dollars from a joint operation. If he doesn’t, Bricks is standing six feet away and already bored.
Fenn takes it. “Clerical issue,” he says.
“Of course.”
Demo makes a small impressed sound behind me, which I pretend not to hear. The handoff takes twenty minutes longer than it should because Rogue records are exactly as irritating as I remember. I correct three figures, initial two changes, and make Fenn call someone inside to verify a route code that hasn’t been active since before the alliance was signed. By the end of it, Bricks looks ready to start charging everyone by the breath.
Fenn disappears through the bay door to get the corrected copy, leaving us in the yard with a gust of wind carrying the all too familiar smells of a place I called home. Demo shifts from one foot to the other behind me.
“You okay?” he asks quietly.
“Yes.”
“That sounded like your polite yes.”
I glance back. “I have different versions?”
“At least four.”
Bricks says, “He’s right. That was number two.”
I hate that I want to smile. “What’s number one?”
“The one you use when Saint asks if you’re sore at breakfast,” Bricks says.
Demo chokes on air.
My face goes hot. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that.”
“I’d appreciate that,” Bricks says. “It got weird in my own mouth.”
Fenn returns with the corrected page and a look that says someone inside yelled at him before sending him back out. I sign the verification, close the folder, and tell myself the tightness in my chest will loosen once we’re back in the car. The run is nearly done. Nothing has happened. No Canon. No Varina. No ambush hiding behind the garage door.
Then I hear my sister’s voice coming from inside the bay, carried through a half-open side door near the office hall.
Bricks notices immediately. “Oisín.”
I lift one hand, asking for a second, and move toward the edge of the bay before he can tell me no. I don’t go far enough to vanish from sight, only close enough for the words to separate from the noise of tools and wind.
Varina is angry, which alone, isn’t new. Her anger has always been one of the more reliable forces in the world, like gravity or Canon’s disappointment. But this is different. This isn’t the clean, weaponized irritation she wears in rooms full of men. This is frayed.
“You’re moving too fast,” she growls out.
Canon’s reply is lower, but I know that voice better than I wish I did. “We’re moving while there’s an opening.”
“There isn’t an opening! There’s a reaction window, and Saint already knows the Reapers are pushing. If you hit the eastern corridor now, he’ll assume it’s connected.”
“He’ll assume what I tell him to assume when there are bodies and broken routes in front of him.”
Varina says something I can’t catch, then louder, “This was supposed to be pressure, not a strike.”
Canon’s voice hardens. “This was supposed to be you in his bed and our hands inside his operation. That didn’t happen because Saint decided my son was worth more than I thought. Fine. We adjust.”
Varina snaps, “You don’t get to say that like you didn’t throw him away first.”
Silence follows and then Canon breaks it. “You’re getting sentimental.”
