“I hid it. Inside the Belzanto 9th Precinct’s evidence locker.” Senna felt the words land like a physical blow. The 9th Precinct. Halm’s domain. The last bastion of order in a city crumbling under cartel rule, yet a viper’s nest of corruption for those who knew its true nature. Brida’s face swam before her, slick with snot and desperate remorse. “You put it in a police station,” Senna stated, her voice flat, devoid of its usual warmth. Fury lodged behind her ribs. It was the specific precinct station where Halm held sway, where he had tried to strong-arm her into becoming his pawn. The irony, the sheer reckless abandon of it all, burned. Brida flinched. “I thought… I thought it was the one place they wouldn’t look. It seemed impenetrable.” Levon, who had been listening from the periphery, his presence a silent, heavy weight, stepped forward. His gaze drifted toward Senna, tracking her stance. “The municipal station,” he echoed, tone level. “A bold move.” He turned to Brida. “How do you know it’s still there? Impounded property gets shuffled.” “Halm,” Brida said, her voice a strained croak. “He took personal charge of the ‘discovery.’ Claimed it was a high-value, unexplained find. He has it locked in the deep vault. His own private trophy room, for items too sensitive or valuable to disappear into the regular system.” Senna’s mind spun, calculating. Halm. Of course. He’d known, or at least suspected, the significance of the cooler. He’d kept it, not out of duty, but leverage. Another card in his grimy hand. “We’re going in,” Senna declared, the words leaving her lips before she’d fully processed them. The audacity of hitting municipal ground rattled through her, but when she met Levon’s gaze expecting resistance, she found only raw focus. “Station Nine is reinforced concrete,” Levon said, stating facts rather than objections. “But every fortress has its cracks. Give me an hour.” He didn’t wait for her reply, simply turned and strode out, his lieutenants falling into step behind him. The air crackled with a new, terrifying energy. Senna watched him go, a strange mix of disbelief and potent admiration swirling within her. He hadn’t questioned her. Hadn’t hesitated. He had simply accepted her decree and moved to execute it with brutal efficiency. Within the hour, the Karras war room hummed with armed preparations. Floor plans of the municipal station, drafted on crinkled blueprint paper, lay pinned across the steel table. Levon moved among his captains, his voice a low rumble of commands, his gestures precise and deadly. He wasn't just planning a raid; he was orchestrating a symphony of destruction. “The north side, the old service tunnel,” Levon pointed with a pen, tracing a line on the map. “That’s our entry point. Small team, silent approach. Disable comms, then the alarms. The main force hits the front, diversionary, high impact. We draw their fire, create chaos. Senna, you and I, we’ll move through the tunnel, direct to the evidence vault. Tomas, you’re with us. You know the transport box, its specific serial latch.” Senna’s head snapped up. “Tomas is not coming,” she stated, her voice firm. “He’s a liability. He needs to stay here, safe.” Levon’s gaze was unyielding. “He started this. He finishes it. His presence might even be useful. Halm will recognize him, react predictably. He’ll be under my direct protection. No arguments.” His tone closed off any further debate. He had submitted to her goal, but the execution remained his. At precisely 02:00, the night sky over the Dockside district tore open with a cacophony of gunfire and explosions. Station Nine, a brutalist concrete monolith, shook beneath the sudden siege. Senna, riding in an armored transport with Levon and Tomas, watched the glass entrance disintegrate into mortar dust under strobing muzzle flashes and burning fuel. Karras enforcers, a faceless tide of tactical gear and automatic weapons, poured from vans, laying down suppressing fire, their movements disciplined, precise. “Now,” Levon’s voice cut through the comms. Their transport peeled off, heading for a forgotten service entrance hidden down a grimy alleyway. The steel door, rusted and scarred, disintegrated under a shaped charge, revealing a dark, dust-choked tunnel. Senna, clad in a lightweight tactical vest Levon had insisted upon, felt a cold surge of adrenaline. The smell of ozone and burnt concrete filled her nostrils. They moved fast through the flooded pipeways beneath the foundation. The distant sounds of the main assault, a relentless drumbeat of violence, grew steadily louder. They breached a back stairwell, rising into the main building just as a squad of Karras enforcers detonated a flashbang at the end of the hall, temporarily blinding a cluster of panicked officers. Smoke billowed, thick and acrid, swirling around them. Gunfire echoed off the polished linoleum floors. Senna kept her head down, following Levon’s lead, her hand instinctively on the grip of the small pistol he had given her. She had no illusions about her combat prowess, but she would not be a helpless bystander. Not this time. They moved deeper, toward the basement lockers. The air grew thicker with the scent of gunpowder and burning rubber. Then, a figure emerged from the smoke, a familiar, sneering face distorted by the flickering emergency lights. Halm. He was bleeding from a cut on his forehead, his uniform torn, but his eyes burned with a manic intensity. “Well, well, well,” Halm coughed, raising a heavy-caliber pistol. “The Karras whore and her little errand boy. Come to clean up your mess, Korvath?” He aimed, not at Levon, but at Tomas, whose chin dropped in paralyzing shock. A shot cracked, impossibly loud in the confined space. Tomas cried out, clutching his left shoulder as a dark stain bloomed on his tactical vest. He crumpled against the wall, a whimper escaping his lips. Senna saw red. All the suppressed rage, the fear, the pressure of weeks under Halm’s thumb, exploded. This man, this corrupt, venal snake, had pushed her too far. He had hurt Tomas. Her **brother**. Before Levon could react, Senna surged forward, a primal scream tearing from her throat. She tackled Halm low, slamming into him with the force of a desperate animal. The pistol flew from his hand, skittering across the floor. Halm grunted, caught off guard, and they both went down in a tangle of limbs. Senna scrambled, her fingers closing around something hard and weighted. His nightstick. She ripped it free, a surge of adrenaline coursing through her veins. She raised it, and brought it down. Not once, not twice, but again and again, a controlled, furious assault. The crack of plastic against bone, the guttural sounds of Halm’s pain, were a visceral counterpoint to the distant war. Each strike was a release, a payment for every threat, every manipulation, every moment he had held her existence in his grimy hands. Levon was there in an instant, pulling her back, his hand a steel band around her wrist. “Enough, Senna,” he commanded, his voice rough but firm. Halm lay groaning, a broken mess of twisted limbs and shattered pride. Senna panted, the nightstick still clutched in her hand, her knuckles white. Her chest heaved, the protective fury she kept for Tomas bleeding over into bone-deep retaliation. “Tomas!” she gasped, shaking off Levon’s grip, rushing to her brother’s side. He was conscious, pale, clutching his shoulder. “It’s just a graze,” he whimpered, but the fear in his eyes was real. Levon knelt, his expression grim, checking the wound quickly. “It can wait. The case. It has to be close.” They found the impound vault just ahead, an armored hatch with rotary deadbolts. Levon’s crew breached the hinges with thermite bars, hauling the slab open to expose rows of metal racks filled with tagged confiscations. “There!” Tomas pointed with a trembling hand. A sealed white cryo-chest rested on the center shelf, marked with grease pen: ‘KARRAS – UNCLASSIFIED.’ Senna, Levon, and Tomas pushed inside, boots scraping cold tile. Levon’s men covered the threshold. As Senna reached for the chest, her fingertips grazing the frosted latches, a wet rasp echoed from the shattered doorway. Halm, a bloody, broken ruin, had somehow dragged himself to the main console. His eyes, though bruised and swollen, held a final, desperate triumph. With a ragged, bloody hand, he slammed his fist onto a single, red button. Heavy steel doors, previously unseen, slammed shut from the ceiling and floor, sealing the vault with an ominous clang. A harsh, mechanical hiss filled the space, and vents along the walls began to spew a thick, green gas that immediately stung Senna’s eyes and throat.

Assault on the 9th