The laser sights, five scarlet points of judgment, danced across the wall like malevolent fireflies before settling. One on Calder’s still chest. One on Saskia’s face. Three on Bram. The sudden, absolute pitch of the room choked out the skyline. Only rapid breaths scraped the silence.
“Get down!” Saskia didn’t shout, but the words were a raw, desperate command, her voice low and tight. She shoved Bram hard, sending him sprawling behind the overturned desk he’d been using, then tackled Calder’s heavier form off the couch, dragging him to the floor with a grunt, shielding him with her body as much as possible.
Glass spiderwebbed in the window as a high-velocity slug bit into the pane, then another, precisely where Saskia’s head had been a second before. Ozone and pulverized brick filled the air. Rapid bursts erupted, tearing through the thin drywall near the frame, peppering the plaster in a chattering cadence.
“Bram, you get that hardline running, now!” Saskia roared over the din, flattening herself against the cheap laminate flooring, the Glock, heavy and cold, clutched in her hand. “I’ll buy us time.”
“I’m trying!” Bram’s voice was a strained gasp from behind the desk, the frantic click of tools audible even amidst the gunfire. “It’s raw fiber! I need to strip it, I need…”
Saskia didn't hear the rest. Her gaze adjusted to the gloom, scanning the opposing balconies across the alley. Two figures crouched in the pre-dawn murk against the city's distant glow. Marksmen from the Directive.
She reached into her pocket, fumbling for her comm-pad. It was a basic model, but its firmware was custom-tuned, a ghost in the machine she’d built over years of mundane but critical logistics work. It was her lifeline, her sword, her shield. She just had to figure out how to wield it.
Her thumbs flew across the backlit screen, a blur of motion. She wasn’t calling for help; help didn't exist for them. She was calling in a favor, a digital one, from a system that didn’t know it owed her. She tapped into the syndicate's public-facing freight terminal, the same interface she’d manipulated for countless routine reroutes. The network's robotic haulers roamed every corridor of the city, shifting cargo on continuous loops.
*“Dispatch code 7-Gamma-9. Priority reroute. Immediate execution. Destination: Sector K-44, grid 7, apartment 213. Obstruction clearance protocol 4. Full velocity. Acknowledge.”*
The interface flickered. A green light confirmed. A synthetic monotone chimed back: *“Acknowledged. Re-routing ‘Freight-717. Estimated arrival: 27 counts.”*
Saskia set her teeth. “Twenty-seven counts, you bastards,” she muttered. She knew the vector, the flight path across this grid, and the six-ton curb weight of a fully loaded haul chassis. It was a beast of burden, designed for efficiency, not delicacy. And it was about to become a very large, very fast, very lethal projectile.
The shooters on the ledge kept up their steady suppression fire. Plaster dust snowed down. Calder groaned beside her, his body spasming. His breath was shallow, ragged. “Saskia…” he rasped, his eyes fluttering open, clouded with pain and a familiar, desperate concern.
“Stay down, Calder,” she commanded, cupping the base of his skull, fingers slick with wet heat. “Just stay down.”
“Incoming!” Bram’s voice sliced through the tension, high-pitched with awe and terror. Past the shattered pane, a colossal angular hull eclipsed the skyline. An industrial lifter howled through the slot between towers, its guidance package locked blindly onto her spoofed transponder.
With a shriek of shearing struts, the carrier slammed into the opposing brick face. The power core ruptured in an orange fireball, tearing loose concrete slabs and rebar. The outer ledge sheared away where the riflemen had stood. Two screams, cut short, were devoured by the roar of collapsing masonry.
The gunfire from the windows ceased. Utter, horrified silence descended, broken only by the settling dust and the distant wail of sirens, too far away, too late. Saskia didn’t wait. “Now, Bram! Go, go, go!”
“I’m in!” Bram yelled back, fingers flying over the console. “Spliced! Initializing upload! Fifty counts to first packet broadcast!”
Just as Bram spoke, the apartment door, old and flimsy, exploded inward. Splinters flew. Vance stood framed in the yellow strobe of the hallway emergency lamps. He was clad in heavy tactical armor, his face grim, a fresh bandage visible beneath his jaw where the EMP blast had likely singed him. His eyes, cold and merciless, swept the room, pausing on the devastated window, then the prone figures of Calder and Saskia.
“You always make things difficult, Fenrik,” Vance growled, his voice a low rumble. He hefted a heavy-caliber combat rifle. “But all roads lead to the same destination. This ends here.”
He opened fire. Muzzle flashes strobed through the living quarters. Saskia returned fire, precise and controlled, aiming for the gaps in his armor. Bullets ripped into the walls around them, sending plaster flying. The Glock bucked in her hand, its recoil a familiar friend. Vance, for all his bulk, was fast, moving with a predator’s grace, using the remaining doorframe for cover, returning fire with brutal efficiency. Bram crouched lower, a small target, his face illuminated by the green progress bar on his comm-pad.
“Thirty ticks!” Bram shouted, voice cracking.
Vance roared, advancing, a bullet grazing Saskia’s arm, a searing flash of pain. She gritted her teeth, firing again. He moved too quickly. He rounded the desk, his weapon tracking. He aimed directly at Bram, a kill shot.
“No!” Saskia screamed, lunging forward, but she was too slow.
Before she could react, Calder, still weak, still bleeding, surged up from the floor, a guttural cry escaping his lips. He threw himself between Bram and Vance, a human shield. The crack of Vance’s rifle was deafening in the confined space. Calder staggered, a choked gasp leaving him. A dark, blossoming stain appeared on his side, near his ribs, rapidly expanding.
He collapsed, falling heavily, his eyes fixed on Saskia, filled with an agony that transcended the physical. Vance stepped over Calder, driving a heavy boot down between the man's shoulder blades to pin him to the floorboards. He advanced on Saskia, his rifle barrel leveling. Its cold, black eye stared at her. The air crackled with the metallic tang of blood.
“The decryption key, Fenrik,” Vance snarled, grinding the muzzle against her forehead. “Now.”