“I’m not certain,” I continue, “but I’m confident enough to say this costs you less.”
“And if you’re wrong,” he asks.
“You lose the same people you were already planning to,” I say.
Silence settles again.
Vihl exhales slowly. “That’s not a bad argument,” he says.
Tyrok doesn’t look at him.
He looks at me.
“You’re putting yourself on this,” he says.
“Yes.”
“Why.”
“Because I need you to see it work,” I reply.
The room waits.
He turns back to the projection and adjusts it, not fully and not completely, but enough.
“Secondary team takes the alternate route,” he says.
That’s all I get.
But it’s enough.
I step back, letting the shift settle into place, my pulse steady but sharper than before.
CHAPTER 12
TYROK
The breach detonates clean, the outer seal folding inward with a sharp concussive crack that rolls down the corridor like thunder trapped in metal, and for a fraction of a second everything aligns so perfectly it feels automatic.
My crew moves through the opening without hesitation, boots striking hard against the deck as they fan out, weapons up, spacing tight and practiced. The air inside the structure is hotter than expected, thick with recycled heat and something chemical beneath it, and the first wave of resistance collapses almost immediately under the initial push.
“Entry secure,” someone calls over comms, voice steady.
I don’t answer, because I’m already moving.
Momentum carries us forward, pressure applied before the defenders can stabilize, and the first corridor clears faster than it should, bodies dropping, movement breaking, control shifting in our favor exactly the way it has in every operation like this. The rhythm builds fast and familiar, each step reinforcing the expectation that this will unfold the same way it always has, the sound of fire echoing in measured bursts that match the cadence of our advance.
Then the rhythm drags, not enough to stop momentum, but enough to change the feel of it beneath my feet.
“Left side’s holding,” a voice cuts in, sharper now.
That shouldn’t happen this early, and the shift is subtle enough that someone not looking for it might miss it entirely.
“Push through it,” I say, stepping over debris that skids under my boots, the floor vibrating faintly with residual impact.
“We are,” the same voice replies, tension threading through it now. “They’re not folding.”
I round the corner, the corridor narrowing just enough to force tighter formation, and the smell hits harder here, burned metal and something acrid that catches in the back of my throat. Movement ahead shifts wrong, defenders repositioning instead of retreating, their spacing adjusting in real time like they’re not reacting to us, but anticipating.
