A high-pitched *crack* ripped through the stunned silence, followed by the shriek of stress-fractured glass. Zaren moved, a blur of dark fabric and raw speed. He didn’t push Danara, he *slammed* into her, twisting them both hard to the right. The impact threw them against the back wall of the viewing box, Danara’s head snapped back against the paneling. A sharp, burning graze sliced along Zaren’s upper arm, tearing wool and silk.
Below, pandemonium erupted. The single gunshot echoed, amplified by the cavernous hall. Shouts, gasps, and the terrified scramble of hundreds of high-society guests filled the air. Security personnel, already on high alert after the teleprompter hack, swarmed Brevin Kosta. But he moved with a frantic desperation, using the chaos as cover. A table overturned, champagne flutes shattered, and a path cleared for him as he shoved through the panicked crowd. His eyes, still burning with that manic hatred, met Danara’s for a fraction of a second before he vanished into a service corridor, melting away from the scene like a phantom.
Zaren grunted, levering himself off the floor, his fingers pressing into the tear. He checked Danara first, his gaze searching her face for any sign of injury. “You alright, Danara? Any shards?”
Her voice, when it came, was a tight breath. “A bruise. Nothing more. You… the bullet hit you.”
Blood bloomed on the crisp white of his shirt, a stark contrast against the dark suit. “A graze. He’s a terrible shot when he’s furious. More focused on the rage than the aim.” He peeled back the fabric, wincing slightly. “It’s superficial. We need to go. He’s gone, but he won’t be idle.”
As if on cue, Danara’s comm-link buzzed. A text message, no sender ID, only a string of numbers. Her thumb hit the screen. An image expanded: Timo bound to a chair, gagged, a tall shadow looming over him. Below the image, chilling words:
*Surrender all Tassion Corp shares. Tassion rooftop terrace. Midnight. Come alone. Delete the data cache. Or your brother takes the long way down.*
Danara stared at the glowing pixels. The Tassion residence roof terrace. The precise ledge where she had been thrown to the pavement in another life. He hadn't just taken Timo; he was recreating the scene of her murder. A test, a twisted reenactment designed to break her.
“He has Timo,” she stated, her voice flat, devoid of emotion, a dangerous calm settling over her. “He wants the shares, and for me to delete the predictive market data. He chose the rooftop terrace.”
Zaren’s expression hardened, his jaw setting. “The roof terrace… of course. He wants to stage it where he struck before. A sick game of dominance.” He reached for his own comm-link, his movements precise despite the injury. “I’m mobilizing extraction teams for Timo’s last known location. He must have had an accomplice waiting.”
“No,” Danara said, her gaze fixed on the text. “He already moved Timo. This isn't about extraction. This is a trap, Zaren. A lethal one. For me.” She looked up, meeting his intense gaze. “He’s expecting me to come alone. To break. He doesn't know what I am now.”
Her mind raced, a whirlwind of strategies, contingencies, and precise calculations. She couldn’t repeat history. She wouldn’t. “I need a team. A breach team. The best in Morzanto. And I need to be armored.”
Zaren nodded. “The Alastor Vanguard. Independent contractors, loyal to the highest transfer. They would raid the North Citadel for enough scrip. Your liquid capital will cover them. As for armor, my vault keeps low-profile weave rated against small arms.”
Within forty minutes, Danara stood inside Zaren’s armory suite, kinetic-deflection weave strapped snug across her ribs. It was sleek, dark, designed to look like high-fashion formalwear, but beneath the surface, it was a formidable shield. She clipped a compact, non-lethal stun-dart pistol to her hip, its grip cool against her palm. Her comm-bead sat tucked in her ear, patched into a secure channel with Zaren and the vanguard lead.
“Captain,” Danara said, keeping her tone flat, steady, stripped of the old stammer. “You have the schematics for the top floor. Infiltration protocol. Zero casualties on our side, maximum disruption to Brevin Kosta’s hires. Secure Timo first. Unharmed.”
*“Understood, Ms. Tassion,”* the contractor’s voice crackled through the comm. *“Wire verified. We move on your order.”*
Zaren watched her, his upper arm bound beneath clean gauze. He had stationed his terminals to freeze Brevin's domestic holdings the instant the team crossed the threshold. “The moment the vanguard secures Timo, every asset Brevin retains will be frozen and stripped. He won't have enough credit to retain counsel.”
Danara walked over to him, her gaze intense, resolute. The fear for Timo was a sharp ache, but it was overshadowed by a cold, precise fury. “Good. He needs to lose everything, Zaren. Everything he stole, everything he used to hurt us.” She reached up, her hands finding the lapels of his jacket, pulling him gently closer. A red seep darkened his bandage.
“Stay at the console,” she said, her voice dropping. “Oversee the perimeter feed. Coordinate the strike. Don’t follow me up there. If you take another round…”
He cut her off, his hands settling on her waist, pulling her flush against him. “Nothing will happen to me, Danara. Not now. Not ever again. Not while you’re here.” His eyes, usually so guarded, held a raw, fierce devotion. “Just… come back. Both of you.”
She stepped into his space, catching the collar of his shirt, and kissed him hard against the mouth. His hand gripped the small of her back, grounding her against the cold rush of the coming hour. When she drew back, her pulse thudded in her throat.
“I will,” she promised, her voice thick. “I always will.”
She turned and walked toward the hangar bay where an aerodyne waited. The ascent through the coastal fog took less than six minutes. The mercenary lead tapped into the feed, confirming fireteams in place on the lower maintenance catwalks.
Danara stepped onto the open flagstones of the rooftop terrace. Salt wind bit her throat; below, Morzanto’s grid sprawled in cold geometric lines. Brevin stood at the railing, a cruel smile twisting his lips, his hand clamped around Timo’s arm. Her brother dangled precariously over the dizzying drop, his small, panicked whimpers snatched by the wind.
Brevin’s voice, amplified by the wind, carried to her. “Look at you, Danara. Finally showing some spine. But not enough to save him, is it?” He shifted his grip, and Timo cried out, his legs flailing uselessly in the void. “Delete the forecasts, Danara. The entire stolen cache. Now. Or watch him drop.”