He nods. His men swivel racks, begin handing me modules: power packs, explosive sticks, plasma cartridges, micro-scouts, cloaks. I grab them, belt them on. The hum of energy fields warms against my skin.
Axvel leans close. “You’re going after Marrok, aren’t you? I admire the courage—or the foolishness.”
My jaw twitches. “This is personal. My family’s in there.”
He tilts his head. “Tragic. But profitable for me. I’ll close shop tonight, or maybe not. Just watch your step. Use everything I sold you—but don’t kill me before paying me in full.”
He gives a curt nod. “Go. Save them.” Then he steps back, arms folded, his suit immaculate, expression unreadable.
I turn toward the door. My weapons hum. Each strap, each grenade—it’s promise. I step into the corridor, rain slamming against outer walls, wind howling like an engine. The warehouse seems to exhale.
As I charge out, I tap my comm. “Larek—status?”
Static. Then: “All channels nominal. Recon drones up. Satellite cams active. You’re locked.”
I barge into night air. A gust crashes over me like a challenge. Rain lashes my face. My skin tastes of salt and grit. I clench my fist.
This is the beginning of the end.
No turning back.
CHAPTER 38
ALAINA
The mall has gone so still it feels like it’s holding its breath.
Every sound is sharp—the drip of leaking pipes, the tick-tick-tick of some damaged holo-sign, the shuffle of boots. Even Caelix’s tiny breaths against my collarbone sound loud. The stench of fried circuitry and sweat is so strong I can taste it, bitter on my tongue.
Marrok’s pacing back and forth across the food court tiles. Each pass is faster, more jerky than the last. His boots slap, scrape, slap—like a metronome wound too tight. The pistol in his hand swings like a pendulum, catching the light in quick, deadly flares. His cyber-eye glows brighter with each turn, a pulsing red beacon. The rest of his face is pale and slick with sweat.
No one dares speak. The other gunmen stand stiff against the walls, rifles angled down but ready, fingers itching on triggers. Even they keep glancing at him, uncertain, like they’re standing near a lit fuse.
He’s muttering again, louder now. Not words at first, just fractured syllables, a sound like a man gnawing on his own memories. I can make out a few scraps—names, numbers, curses.
Then he barks it out. “Horus Four. HorusFour! You think you’ve seen hell? I built it with my own hands!” He whirls, pointing the pistol at a random hostage, then swinging it back up at the ceiling, waving it like a conductor’s wand. “We were ghosts in hallways, bleeding out while the sky burned red. Plasma tearing through the walls—my men screaming in my ears. They called for reinforcements. I called for reinforcements. The IHC fed me silence. Silence!”
His voice cracks. He slams the pistol butt against his palm, hard enough to make the metal ring. “I watched Sergeant Knorr go first. His insides on the outside. I watched Cole—young Cole, always grinning—bleed out while I screamed MOVE MOVE MOVE!” His cyber-eye flickers like a dying beacon. “They froze. They burned. Theydiedwhile I hesitated. Because I still believed in rules. Because I still thought someone cared.”
He stops dead center of the room, breathing hard, eyes glassy. He jerks the pistol toward his own men, sweeping it across them in a wild arc. “Do you think I’ll be weak again? Do you think I’ll stand still and let ghosts drag me down?”
A few of the gang exchange worried looks. One lowers his rifle a fraction, the other’s lips press thin. They’re as scared as we are.
Caelix squirms in my arms, sensing the danger. My shirt is damp under his fists. My heart pounds so hard it feels like it might burst out of my throat.
I force my voice out. “Marrok,” I say softly but clear enough to cut through his ragged breathing. “You’re scaring them. You’re scaring everyone. Me. The child. Even your own men.”
His head snaps toward me, neck tendons tight as wire. “Scared?” He laughs—a hollow, barking laugh. “They should be scared! Fear kept me alive! Fear makes you move before the plasma eats you!”
I take a step closer, though every instinct screams not to. “You’ve been carrying them a long time,” I say. “Carrying the dead. Carrying the silence. You’re tired. I can see it. You’re pacing like a caged thing because you don’t know what else to do.”
His grip on the pistol tightens, knuckles pale. He’s trembling now. His cyber-eye glows hot red; sweat drips down his temple.
“They weremymen,” he growls. “They trusted me. And I—” He presses a hand to his temple, like he’s trying to hold the memories in. “I left them on the floor of that corridor. I left them.”
The muzzle of his gun swings from the ceiling, to a guard, to me, to the crowd. His finger twitches on the trigger. I see his breath stutter.
His men shift nervously. One mutters, “Boss…” Another takes a half-step forward and then stops, caught between fear and loyalty.
