Page 44 of Enslak

"We won't be," Binwee cut in. "I know this ship. I know how to move through it undetected."

"How long will we have?" I asked. I knew shit about brain trauma. Some cops could walk out of a shoot-out, have a beer, and go on with life. Others suffered with PTSD for years.

"Maybe thirty days before I have to tell the Prime where you are," Binwee said. "I won't lie to her forever. But it'll buy you time."

George pulled out a small injector filled with clear liquid. His expression was grave as he handed it to me. "If you can't reach him—if he's still trapped, still dangerous—this will grant him peace. Painless. He'll simply go to sleep."

I took the injector with trembling hands. "I won't need this."

"Take it anyway," George said gently. "Just in case."

I slipped it into my pocket, trying not to think about what it represented.

"I'll update his translator," George said. "Make sure English is added to his language database. And I'll gather the rest of the medical supplies you might need."

"I'll prep the ship," Binwee said. "We move in two hours. The family will be preparing for the ceremony—security will be focused elsewhere."

"Two hours," I repeated, looking down at Enslak's peaceful face.

Two hours to save his life.

Two hours to prove I was right.

The next few hours passed in a blur of preparation and mounting terror.

George worked on Enslak's translator and gathered medical supplies. Binwee disappeared to arrange the ship and supplies, moving through the Bardaga's corridors like a ghost—or maybe a general. I couldn't decide which.

And I sat beside Enslak, holding his hand, trying not to think about everything that could go wrong.

We were stealing the son of the Alliance Prime. Defying the Prime herself. Betting everything on my belief that Enslak could heal, that I could reach him, that the connection between us—whatever it was—was real and strong enough to break through a century of trauma.

If I was wrong...

If I was wrong, I'd be responsible for his continued suffering. For prolonging his pain instead of granting him peace. For choosing my hope over his mercy.

But I couldn't let them kill him. I couldn't stand by and watch them give up on him when I knew—knew—he was still in there.

My brother's face flashed through my mind. Danny, bleeding out while I screamed for help that came too late. I'd have given anything to save him. Anything. Every dime I had, every favor I could call in, every experimental treatment or risky procedure. But there'd been nothing. No medical intervention could reach him in time, no miracle cure, no second chance.

Just me, holding his hand as the light left his eyes, helpless and broken and too fucking late.

I couldn't save Danny.

But maybe—maybe—I could save Enslak.

"I won't let you down," I whispered, my thumb tracing circles on the back of his hand. "I promise. Whatever it takes, I'll reach you."

His hand was warm in mine. Solid. Real.

Alive.

And I was going to keep him that way.

George finished with the translator just as Binwee returned, slightly out of breath but grinning.

"Ship's ready," she said. "Loaded with supplies, autopilot programmed, tracker disabled. We're good to go."

"How do we move him without being seen?" I asked.