“We’ll be thirty seconds behind you,” Scar tells me. “You won’t see us. But we’ll be there.”
I look at Texon. He hasn’t said anything since Scar started planning. His jaw is tight, his hands curled into fists on the table. “You don’t have to do this.”
“Yes I do.”
He holds my gaze for a long moment, then gives a curt nod. “Then I’m with you. Let’s go.”
Texonand I take the public transport to the edge of the colony.
Somewhere behind us, I know Scar, Rook and Heavy follow in a separate vehicle. I don’t see them, but that’s the point. The rest of the brothers remain at the compound to keep the females and offspring safe.
The transport is crowded with miners heading to the outlying facilities. I stand close to Texon, aware of the weight of the tracker against my collar.
We exit at the last stop and walk the rest of the way. The jungle closes in around us, thick and green and humming with alien insects. Those purple flowers I’ve grown to love bob in the humid breeze. The air smells like rain and blossoms.
The old processing station appears through the trees.
“It’s a relic, abandoned decades ago when the main facility was built,” Texon explains.
Massive rusting equipment hulks between crumbling buildings. The jungle has reclaimed everything. Vines crawl up walls, trees push through collapsed roofs and colorful flowers bloom in the wreckage.
It’s beautiful in a haunted way. It’s also the perfect place for an ambush.
My journalist brain catalogs the details automatically. The way the structures create blind spots. The multiple entry pointsand lack of any clear sight lines. If this is a trap, it’s a good location for one.
Texon scans the location. “I’ll stay back here,” he says, positioning himself near the entrance where the jungle meets the clearing. “You approach. But if anything feels wrong?—”
“I’ll scream.”
His expression doesn’t change. “I’ll hear you before you scream.”
I believe him.
I walk into the ruins alone. My footsteps echo off the crumbling walls. Rust flakes fall from overhead equipment as I pass beneath. I stop in the middle of the clearing and wait. “Hello?” I call out. “I’m here. I got your message.”
Silence. Come on. Someone sent that message for a reason. If this is real, now’s the time to?—
Multiple figures step out from behind crumbling walls, inside collapsed doorways and the shadows of equipment. Four Xylan males in nondescript clothing, faces partially covered with dark fabric. Armed with stun batons and blades.
And then I hear a voice from somewhere behind them. Flat. Bored. Like dealing with me is an inconvenience in his otherwise pleasant day.
“Finish this quickly. I have other matters to attend to.”
Wait, I know that voice.
It takes me a second to place it — the chaos, the fear, four armed males surrounding me. But then it clicks. It’s from the cafeteria. The polished Xylan who offered me access to records. Who agreed that the parents died in a cargo accident when he had to know that was a lie.
Kryzon.
I can’t see him clearly, he’s staying back, half-hidden by a piece of equipment. But I heard him and I won’t forget.
One of the masked males steps forward. “You should have left when you had the chance.”
Oh hells, this is certainly not a whistleblower situation. “Who sent you?” I ask, stalling, trying to gather a bit more information. The tracker is recording and the brothers are hearing this. They’ll understand that this is a bust as quickly as I do. I just need to buy time. “Grytel? Kryzon?”
The speaker tilts his head. “Does it matter? You won’t be around to write about it.”
He steps forward?—
