Page 23 of Rescued By the Alien Hit Man

“What is it?” Mia’s voice was a whisper, her face a mask of concern in the dim corridor light.

“Griff,” I said, the name tasting like bile. “The best mercenary in the sector, and he’s glued to Ivor’s side.”

Her eyes widened, understanding the weight of the situation as she peered over my shoulder at the display.

“Can we get past him?”

“Griff’s not someone you simply ‘get past’,” I replied, feeling the weight of my respect for the man clash with the imperative need to protect Mia. “But I’ll do what I must.”

“Then what’s the plan?” She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, a small act of defiance against the chaos that awaited us.

“Stay out of sight, stay alive.” I locked eyes with her, trying to convey all the things I couldn’t say out loud. “If things go bad, I want you hidden. Promise me that.”

Her nod was firm, but her lips pressed into a thin line. I knew she hated the idea of staying back, but this wasn’t the time for arguments.

“Promise,” she whispered.

“Good.” I took a deep breath, the recycled air of the facility filling my lungs, smelling faintly of metal and fear. “Let’s go.”

We crept closer, our shadows merging with the darkness as we approached the door. My hand hovered above the panel, ready to key in the sequence that would bring us face-to-face with destiny. A shiver ran down my spine, anticipation and dread mingling like bitter cocktails in my veins.

“Stay close,” I said, and with a last glance at Mia, whose determination mirrored my own, I pressed the button.

The door slid open with a quiet hiss.

The room was a maelstrom of activity, the hum of machinery and staccato beeps of consoles creating a discordant symphony. But every sound faded to silence as we burst in. Me—a towering figure clad in black—and Mia, following close behind before ducking beneath a desk.

“She’s supposed to be dead.” Ivor’s voice cut through the tension, his finger pointing directly at Mia’s chosen hiding spot.His silhouette loomed like a specter over the array of monitors that bathed him in an eerie glow.

“Keep quiet,” I mouthed to Mia, my eyes never leaving Ivor. She nodded, her green eyes wide but resolute.

Griff stepped forward, blocking Ivor’s view, his imposing form a testament to battles fought and survived. “What brings you here, Cikarius? You rarely meet with the client in person.”

“Step out of the way.” My voice was calm, measured, but the edge was there, sharp enough to slice through the charged atmosphere. “I don’t want to kill you, but I will if I have to.” The memory of past camaraderie with Griff flashed, unwelcome. Now was not the time for sentimentality.

“Can’t do that,” he said, the hint of regret in his tone almost imperceptible.

“Then it’ll be your last mistake.” I narrowed my eyes at Ivor. “You’re going to withdraw the contract on Mia.”

Ivor’s laugh was bitter and hollow. “Not likely.”

The air between us crackled, charged with the inevitability of conflict. I could feel Mia’s gaze on us, her presence both a comfort and a reminder of what was at stake.

“Last chance, Ivor.” My hand hovered near the weapon concealed within my coat, ready to draw in one fluid motion.

“Make me,” Ivor sneered, confident in his stronghold.

“Very well,” I said, and in the next heartbeat, the room erupted into chaos.

I pulled the evidence from my coat, a thin data-slate that glowed faintly against the dim lighting of Ivor’s command center. With a flick of my wrist, the images and documents of his treachery splashed across the wall: transactions, communications, all pointing to one undeniable fact—Ivor Atreus was guilty.

“Corporate espionage, Ivor? And the hit on Mia—” Griff scanned the evidence, disbelief etching lines into his weatheredface. “You told me the contract was on a gang leader supplying weapons to kids.”

“Griff,” Ivor began, his voice dipped in honeyed tones of reassurance, “you know how these things can be misconstrued. Documents can be forged; images altered.”

“Step out of the way,” I repeated, ignoring Ivor’s attempts at deceit. The air felt heavy, thick with the scent of ozone and tension.

“Does she look like a gang leader to you?” I asked Griff, motioning toward the desk. “Mia, stand up.”

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