The impact of Kholat’s chest armor against Yashira’s shoulder jarred her teeth. He didn't budge. He filled the entire blast door frame, a mountain of hardened combatweave and flex-steel, his presence eclipsing the urgent glow of Jibbs’s comm-feed on her abandoned terminal screen. The air carried the sharp ozone tang of his body augments and scorched copper. “Running, little intern?” Kholat’s voice was a low growl, devoid of his usual mocking lilt. His pale grey irises locked onto hers. The casual mask of the logistics intern, the one she’d worn for months, felt like a flimsy veil, shredded by his gaze. “Commander,” Yashira said, her voice a practiced whisper, even as her muscles coiled. “I… I heard the alarm. Jibbs is in trouble. I need to get to the lower levels, he’s my only friend.” She tried to duck past him, a theatrical tremor in her hand. Kholat’s massive gauntlet shot out, blocking her path with a speed that belied his size. It wasn’t a grab, but a barrier, his fingers splayed wide against the doorframe, inches from her face. “Don’t,” he warned, the word a blade-edge. “Don’t insult my intelligence. Not again.” The feigned innocence evaporated from Yashira’s face, replaced by a cold, calculating stillness. Her gaze flickered to the sidearm holstered at his hip, then to the two heavy guards who materialized silently behind him, their rifles pointed at her chest. She was boxed in. Kholat had known. “The scent,” Kholat continued, his voice softer, more dangerous than before. “The perfume you wore when you walked into my private quarters. A custom blend. Subtle. Impossible to forget once you’ve gotten close enough to taste it.” He took a step closer, forcing her to tilt her head back. “You thought a few days in a logistics bay, surrounded by recycled air, would mask it? You were wrong. It clung to you, Yashira Ravan. It clung to me.” Her alias. He even had that. Bitter irritation spiked through her gut. Every move, every desperate feint, every lie, unraveled. He had known since the safehouse, probably even before, when her father’s voice echoed through the comms. He had played her. “And the tracker, Vektor,” Kholat added, his lip curling. “He didn’t slip. The blood pattern at the scene was a clumsy attempt to mimic an accident. But the thermal burn on his neck, precise and cauterized, told a different story. You used a blade. Your blade.” He paused, his eyes narrowing. “You killed him. The same way you broke the neck of that scavenger in the Underspire, the same way you dislocated your father’s enforcer’s jaw. You’re not an intern. You’re a killer.” Yashira set her teeth. She didn’t deny it. What was the point? The cat-and-mouse was over. “Jibbs,” she stated, her voice flat, devoid of the earlier pretense. “He’s still alive. I can save him.” “You’re not going anywhere,” Kholat declared, his hand already moving toward the comm unit on his wrist. “You’re coming with me. For corporate espionage. For the breach of Aegis security. And for making a fool out of me.” Before his thumb could press the activation stud, Yashira moved. It wasn’t a lunge, not a wild strike. It was a blur of calculated efficiency. Her left hand snatched his wrist, twisting it sharply inward, disrupting his comm. Her right hand, moving in the same fluid motion, was already inside his holster, drawing his own heavy-caliber sidearm. The weapon was cold and solid in her grip, its targeting reticle flaring to life. All of it happened in less than a second. A breath. The guards, trained to react to external threats, were still raising their rifles when Yashira’s thumb clicked the safety off. She brought the muzzle of Kholat’s sidearm to rest against his chin, the bare metal cold against his stubble, the subtle hum of the energized charge a low thrum against his bone. He froze, his eyes locked onto hers, a flicker of genuine surprise, quickly replaced by a predatory glint. The two guards behind him lowered their muzzles, their targeting lasers painting twin red dots on her chest, but they didn’t fire. Not with their commander’s head in the line of fire. “I’m not asking, Kholat,” Yashira said, her voice a low, steady current, echoing in the sudden silence of the corridor. “I’m telling you. You will open this blast door. You will give me a clear path to the lower levels. And you will ensure no one follows. Jibbs is my only friend. I’m saving him.” Kholat’s gaze was an inferno. “You truly believe you can walk out of here, after all this? You’ve proven yourself a rogue element, a prime asset for interrogation.” “And you’ve proven yourself too slow,” Yashira countered, pressing the muzzle harder against his chin. A bead of sweat traced a path down his temple. “Make your choice. Your life, or my freedom to save an idiot scrapper who means nothing to you.” The air shimmered, not from tension, but from something far more violent. A distant rumble echoed through the reinforced walls, growing rapidly into a deafening roar. The floor vibrated. Kholat’s brow twitched upward as realization registered. Before he could speak, before Yashira could react, the massive, reinforced plasteel windows lining the corridor erupted inward in a shower of glittering shards and pulverized shrapnel. A howling wind, thick with dust and the acrid smell of burnt propellant, tore through the space, whipping Yashira’s hair around her face. Grappling hooks, tipped with crackling thermal charges, slammed into the opposite wall, anchoring themselves with explosive force. Figures, clad in sleek, charcoal-grey combat suits, repelled down the shattered window frames, their augments glowing with malevolent crimson. Each carried a heavy-bore scattergun or an energized long-gun. The symbols on their shoulder pads, a stylized crimson fang dripping blood, were unmistakable. The Lyran Vipers. Her father’s elite death squad. They were here. For her. And for Kholat. “OPEN FIRE!” a booming voice, distorted through a comm-piece, echoed from the lead Viper. A storm of energy bolts, red and green, erupted from the rappelling figures, chewing through the corridor walls, vaporizing consoles, and tearing into Kholat’s guards, who were still attempting to reorient themselves. One guard dissolved into a cloud of steam and shattered armor. The other crumpled, a smoking hole in his chest. Yashira shoved Kholat hard, sending him stumbling back, just as a volley of discharge ripped through the space where he’d been standing. Her stolen sidearm barked, spitting a crimson bolt that seared through the shoulder of a rappelling Viper. The mercenary roared, his grip on his gun faltering. “Get down!” Kholat bellowed, pulling her roughly by the arm. He dragged her behind a collapsed data-station, its plasteel casing already riddled with burns. The Vipers were pouring in, a dozen strong, their movements practiced, brutal. Kholat’s remaining mercenaries, caught off guard, were being systematically suppressed, forced into desperate cover or vaporized where they stood. They were hopelessly outnumbered. Ion fire hammered against their makeshift cover, superheating the air around them. Yashira risked a glance over the shattered desk. Three Vipers were already through the window, their scatterguns spraying molten shrapnel. Kholat’s eyes met hers, an unreadable mix of fury and grim amusement. He ejected a thermal magazine from his sidearm, the spent cylinder clicking against the floor. He slid a spare rifle, a compact, heavy-duty firearm, across the floor toward her. “Partners?” he smirked.

Zero Trace