My palms are slick. My knees tremble. I keep my voice low, steady. “You’re not on Horus IV. You’re here. Right now. You’re scaring people who don’t even know your war.”
Marrok lurches closer, eyes wide, jaw trembling. “War never ends,” he whispers. “It just moves to a new building.”
His gun dips for a fraction of a second. That’s all I get.
Desperation slams through me. My body moves before my brain can second-guess it.
I lunge, grab the barrel with both hands, wrench it sideways and down. The metal scorches my palms. His eyes flare in surprise. I swing the gun back up like a club and smash it into his jaw.
The crack is sickening. His head snaps sideways. He staggers, knees buckling. I swing again, harder. His body goes limp, eyes rolling back. He collapses on the tile, the pistol clattering out of his hand.
Everything stops.
Forty-nine weapons swing to me in unison. Red laser dots bloom across my chest, my face, even across Caelix’s curls. The room is a held breath.
I swallow, my heart hammering against my ribs. My voice comes out louder than I expect, sharp as a blade:
“He was losing it! He was going to get us all killed! He wasn’t helping the cause anymore!” I suck in a breath. “AIV-Justice for life!”
The gang members stare. Scarred faces, masks, glowing visors—silent.
I press on, improvising wildly. “He lost control. You all saw it. I stopped him before he destroyed everything you’ve built. We’re strong now. Together. AIV-Justice for life!”
A murmur. Then another. One man lowers his gun. Another smirks. Then a chant starts, hesitant, growing:
“Justice for life! Justice for life!”
Caelix whimpers into my neck. I force myself to stand straighter, chin up, heart racing.
The scarred lieutenant steps forward, scanning Marrok’s unconscious form. “She’s right. He was cracking. He would have blown it.”
More cheers. Weapons lower. Someone even claps me on the back.
My stomach flips.Shit. Did I just become a terrorist cell leader by accident?
I stand there, surrounded by armed killers cheering my name, Marrok sprawled out cold at my feet, my son clutching me like I’m his whole world, and I think:
Troka, hurry.
Because I’m in deep now.
CHAPTER 39
TROKA
Islither through the sewer shaft like a ghost—cold metal rails, slimy walls, water dripping, echoing. My senses are raw: the stink of rot, the hiss of standing water, the distant rumble of HVAC systems—all telling me I’m close. I pinch my nostrils when the stench turns to something like a mix of waste and chemical cleaner, my boots sliding in muck.
I punch through a maintenance grate into the mall’s back corridors. The lights flicker weakly—emergency backup hum, shadowed halls. I hear two guards ahead, voices muffled. I press close to the wall, muscles coiled.
They come into view: bulky, helmeted, walkie-talking. One is shifting crates. I strike without hesitation. I grab a mop handle leaning nearby—metal core concealed. I twist it viciously into the first guard’s thigh; he screams, drops his rifle. The second swings a baton. I jab under his arm, crack his ribs. He doubles, gasping. I press forward: mop handle meets helmet. Bone shatters. He crumples.
Two down. I drop both rifles. I taste copper from a minor cut on my lip. Flashlight beams carve the darkness. I stalk forward.
A service corridor opens into the kitchen ducting area. I catch movement behind stainless pots and steam pipes. I kicka heavy cart – it slides into two guards in opposing standby. They stumble. I roll forward, elbow into one’s face, knee into the other’s gut. They collapse, groaning. I snatch a cleaning spray canister, twist the nozzle—foam blasts into a guard’s face. He drops, clawing at eyes. I finish him with a broken chair leg.
I pause only to catch breath and wipe sweat off my brow. Steam hisses in vents—heat, grease, pressure. The pungent smell of food and burnt oil stabs my senses. Then I hear it—shouts from above, gunfire, cheering—echoes of chaos.
I burst through a service door behind an ice cream parlor. Neon glows. Guards scattered. One is pouring toffee sauce. I lunge behind him, arm around his throat, yank him over the counter, drop him headfirst into a vat of sticky toffee sauce. He thrashes, chokes. I slam lids, muffling his screams. I yank myself free, boots glistening with sugar.
