So does everyone else.
There is the truth of this room. Not alliance. Not trust. Need.
I have become the larger weapon on the table.
My hands close slowly at my sides. “No civilians.”
Cleo’s mouth tightens. “That depends on Ron.”
“It depends on us.”
Arturo nods once. “Agreed. No civilian targets. No apartment buildings. No clinics. No bakeries.”
My gaze snaps to his.
He does not look away. “I am not threatening her, Kauss. I am naming the line.”
“Do not name her unless necessary.”
“Fine.” He taps the projection. “First target. Old courier depot on Vance. Ron’s boys are using it to coordinate runners between Halo and West Market. Guns, money, stolen comm units. We hit it, take the comm grid, and burn the vehicles.”
“Casualties?”
“Poison Memories only. We believe.”
“Believe is insufficient.”
“Then you verify.”
There it is again.
Weapon. Shield. Scout. Executioner if necessary.
I should refuse.
I should walk to Sweet Tooth, stand in front of Evie, and explain everything until she either forgives me or sends me away with cleaner words than before. I should choose the apartment, the magnets, the sauce burned in the trash, the side of her bed that became mine before I understood how wanting could turn into geography.
Instead, I look at the red markers surrounding Halo and say, “We go now.”
The courier depot squats beneath an elevated freight lane where rain falls in dirty sheets through cracks in the overhead structure. The building once served legal deliveries. Now its sign hangs dark, the front shutters welded shut, side doors reinforced. Two boys in Poison Memories colors stand beneath a loading awning smoking and laughing too loudly. Neither sees the black vehicle stop with its lights off half a block away.
Arturo’s men want to use suppressed weapons.
I do not allow it.
“Too much noise afterward,” one whispers.
“Then be quiet,” I tell him.
He looks at Arturo.
Arturo says, “Listen to him.”
We move through rain.
The first guard goes down beneath my hand before his cigarette hits the ground. I clamp him by the throat, cut off sound, and lower him unconscious against the wall. The second reaches for a pistol. I catch his wrist, twist until tendons scream, and drive him face-first into the loading door with enough force to end resistance but not life.
Arturo’s men stare.
