Page 84 of Over the Edge

The crowd erupted in applause as the swarm formed intricate patterns overhead, a deadly ballet of technology that made our previous opponents look like children’s toys.

“Microdrones,” Oz’s voice crackled back through our comms. “They’re—fuck—they’re networked with a hive mind. One gets a visual, they all know where you are.”

The swarm suddenly froze, then converged into a tight formation that looked disturbingly like an arrow, pointed directly at our position.

“Move!” I shouted, shoving Lyric toward a narrow gap between two planters as the swarm descended.

We scrambled in opposite directions as the microdrones hit our previous position with frightening precision. Instead of darts, they released a fine mist that sizzled when it contacted stone.

Chemical agents.

The swarm split again, half pursuing Lyric while the rest regrouped to track me. My partially paralyzed leg dragged as I lurched toward a decorative fountain, the water our only hope against chemical weapons.

“Nolan’s on approach,” Trent’s voice came through suddenly. “Two minutes out. We need to get you to the helipad on the east side.”

“Little busy at the moment,” I grunted, diving behind a column as three microdrones zipped past.

The swarm hunting Lyric had her pinned behind a stone bench, the tiny machines creating a perimeter that tightened with each passing second. She fired her last round, taking out one drone, but the others immediately adjusted their formation to close the gap.

“Flynn!” Her voice held no panic, just tactical assessment. “I’m surrounded. East corner, no clear exit.”

I scanned the courtyard frantically. Twenty yards separated us, with open ground and at least thirty microdrones between. My leg was regaining sensation, but still unreliable. The pistol I’d been given was empty, and I… didn’t know what to do.

We were fucked.

Then, Nolan’s voice crackled through the earpiece, loud and clear over the sound of approaching rotors. “Cavalry’s here. And I brought the boom.”

His Irish brogue was the best thing I’d ever heard in my life, and I couldn’t stop the grin. If there was one thing Nolan Riley loved more than sex and whiskey, it was making one hell of an entrance.

“About damn time!” I shouted. “What’s your position?”

“Making the rich and criminal very unhappy,” Nolan replied cheerfully as the helicopter swooped low over the courtyard, strafing the crowd with gunfire.

The drones swarmed toward the helo, and Nolan whooped as he led them away from the courtyard, giving us a much-needed breather. But it wouldn’t be long before they remembered their mission and circled back to find us.

“Flynn!” Lyric raced to my side and pointed toward the raised platform where Moreau had been moments ago. The arms dealer was no longer grandstanding. Instead, he was slipping away through a side exit, surrounded by three guards in tactical gear, clutching what looked like a reinforced metal case to his chest.

“The control system for Sentinel,” I said grimly.

“Get out of there!” Nolan shouted. “I can’t hold them off much longer. These fuckers are mean!”

“We need to move,” Lyric said, her eyes tracking the nearest drone as it paused mid-air and seemed to recalibrate. “Use the confusion to find Moreau and get that control module. If Oz can’t hack them, then that module’s our next best option.”

I nodded. “On three. One. Two…” I grabbed her and gave her a hard kiss that left her blinking. “Three.”

We charged across the courtyard as Nolan’s helicopter banked hard, drawing most of the drone swarm in pursuit. The wealthy spectators scrambled for safety, their earlier bloodlust replaced by terror as bullets chewed up marble and shattered champagne flutes. Through the chaos, I spotted a service door where Moreau had disappeared—our ticket out of this hellish arena.

“There!” I pointed, half-dragging my still-partially-paralyzed leg as we sprinted toward the exit.

A guard appeared in the doorway, rifle raised. Lyric didn’t hesitate—she launched herself into a slide, sweeping his legs out from under him before he could fire. I followed through with a savage kick to his temple that left him motionless on the polished floor.

“Grab his weapon,” Lyric ordered, already relieving him of his sidearm and spare magazines.

The narrow corridor beyond was dimly lit and sloped downward—some kind of maintenance passage that would lead us deeper into Moreau’s compound. The walls vibrated with the distant thump of helicopter rotors and the sound of gunfire.

“Oz,” I called into my comm as we moved forward, “any sign of Moreau?”

“Thermal imaging shows a group moving toward the docks. Moreau’s got a boat waiting. You’ve got maybe five minutes before he’s in international waters.”

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