Page 18

Control. I survive through control. I killed five warlords in one night using just my wits. I do not get flustered. I do not lose my breath over an extraterrestrial soldier who’s sticking his nose into every aspect of this operation.

I drop my hands, open my eyes, and pull a small silver compact from my trouser pocket. The mirror reflects a woman on the edge of a fracture. My deep-red lipstick is flawless, but my pupils are dilated, my heart pounding visibly at my neck.

I snap the compact shut and shove it away. Then I smooth the front of my blouse, adjust the cuffs over my wrists, and ensure the jagged white bite scar on my left forearm remains perfectly hidden beneath the cotton.

The fortress is resealed.

I walk out of the war room and stride down the concrete corridor toward the primary communications hub. The air here smells of stale coffee and the ozone tang of overworked electronics. Banks of scavenged CRT monitors cast a pale glow over the faces of my operators.

“Status,” I demand, stopping behind the lead radio technician, Jenkins.

Jenkins pulls one side of his headset off, his face pale. “Charlie-Six is taking heavy contact, ma’am. Underground. The Bakerloo line tunnels near Waterloo.”

My jaw tightens. “They were supposed to be sweeping the surface ruins for supplies. What the hell are they doing in the tunnels?”

“They chased a straggler, ma’am. Thought it was a lone husk.” Jenkins swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “It wasn’t. They tripped a nest. Sounds like a massive cluster of husks.”

A cold weight drops into my stomach. A nest in the confined space of a subterranean tube station is a death sentence. There is no room to maneuver, no high ground to take. Just darkness, concrete, and teeth.

“Get them out,” I order, leaning over his console. “Tell Captain Miller to abandon the sweep and fall back to the surface. Send the rapid response team in armored Rovers to extract them.”

“I’m losing the signal. The interference down there is⁠—”

“I require transport.”

I turn. Orien stands in the doorway. The thin, form-fitting clothes are gone, replaced entirely by his retractable armor. The matte-black exoskeleton encases him, looking sleek and lethal, the orange neural filaments pulsing along his jaw and neck. He looks like a shadow forged in a dying star.

“You require transport?” I arch an eyebrow, refusing to acknowledge the lingering heat in my blood. “I wasn’t aware we offered a taxi service.”

He crosses the room in three long strides. The ambient noise in the hub drops. My operators stare at him, intimidated by the sudden presence of an apex predator in their workspace.

“Your men are trapped in a subterranean structure,” Orien states, his amber eyes locking onto mine. He points a gauntleted finger at Jenkins’s radio console. “I can hear the frequency modulation from the hallway. You lack the firepower to clear a husk nest in close quarters. I do not.”

“It is a meat grinder down there,” I counter, crossing my arms. “You don’t know the layout of the London Underground.”

“I know how to slaughter the creatures infesting it.” He tilts his head, the deadly grin returning. “Are you denying me permission to save your soldiers, Maggie?”

He wields the shortened form of my name like a blade, perfectly aware I haven’t granted him the right to use it.

I weigh the tactical reality. Sending my rapid response team means risking another twenty men. Sending the near-immortal alien with a plasma sword and a penchant for violence changes the odds entirely.

“Jenkins,” I bark, not breaking eye contact with Orien. “Prep the armored Rover in bay three. Give him the route to Waterloo.”

I step closer to the spymaster, lowering my voice so the room cannot hear. “You will follow Miller’s lead once you reach them. You are an asset, not a commander. You do not issue orders to my men.”

Orien leans down. The heat rolling off him is palpable. “I will bring your toys back to you, Maggie. Try not to miss me too much.”

“Don’t die,” I deadpan. “The paperwork is atrocious.”

He chuckles, a low vibration that rattles right through my ribcage. The armor’s faceplate slides up, covering his striking features with a visor.

He turns and vanishes through the blast doors.

I stare at the empty space he left behind, the air still crackling with his residual energy. Then I pull a spare headset from the console and plug it into Jenkins’s auxiliary port. If the Avaren is going to throw himself into a subterranean nightmare, I need to monitor so I can report to his commander.

The next forty minutes drag like molasses.

I pace the narrow stretch of concrete behind the comms bank. The radio feed from Waterloo is a chaotic mess of static, human shouting, and the distinct, guttural roars of the mindless husks. It sounds like the inside of a slaughterhouse.