Page 39 of Claimed By the War Brute
Syd snarls under breath. “We need confirmation footage,” she whispers. “Audio of him admitting contracts. His allies who are backing him. Then leak it all.”
I nod once. We settle near the back—small table, pretense of observing. The air hums with murmured assurances and champagne-laced buffers.
At the chime of an intermission bell—a soft gong—I grip her hand. “Time.”
We drift from the crowd, exchanging nods with servants. I signal with my eyes. She follows.
We slip into the hallway, toward his private suite. I count guards: two at the door. I approach, voice cultured: “Excuse me,” I say, lingering behind her as if part of her party. “Our credentials… I think they’re off.”
I fix them with a calm smile and touch their shoulders, applying controlled pressure to knock them off balance. Pressure points—shoulders and knees unfold like wet paper. They slump silent, stunned, unconscious.
Syd flicks the door open. We creep inside.
Inside his suite—rich layers of tech and taxidermy—I breach the comm-line. The holo comm is live, projecting a dim conversation around the corner. Malmount and an unknown corporate overlord negotiate kill-orders.
“He’s igniting unrest in Sector Nine,” Malmount says, voice smooth. “We’ll stage civilian protests. Then clear it under riot control—with casualties. Papers will say accident.” He laughs. “Collateral’s always an option.”
Cold sinks through me. I record it all—data clicking into memory.
Syd reaches to override voice filters. She whispers: “Got it.” Then—“His entire archive is unprotected. I can worm through and download logistics—shipment routes, recipients, bullets.”
I watch her working, fingers sliding over keys. The screen glows with damning proof. A thousand deaths sown for profit.
The file transfer finishes. I unplug the Holocaller from wall node. “Done,” I say, voice a rumble.
Syd turns to me, eyes night-dark. “He’s planning thousands of murders just to protect his brand.”
I take her hand. Firm. “Then we stop him.”
At that moment, alarms ring—hidden sensors triggered. Red lights pulsating. Guards storm down the hallway.
We look at each other. No panic—only focus.
“Service shaft,” I bark. She nods.
We leap into a vented tunnel—cold metal tube. I kick the grate closed behind us. The alarms echo. We run.
I carry her partway as we gain speed. Her arm is still bleeding slightly from earlier reprise, but she fights, breath steady.
We burst onto tarmac, wind biting. Vigil’s End hovers in starlight, systems cloaked.
She opens the hatch. “Go.”
I vault inside. Engines flare. We lift off just as guards pour onto the pad.
I lock the hatch. She presses the comm: “Dowron. We have Malmount’s confession—holocam, logistics. Summit compromised. Sixty-second window to upload.” Her voice is steel.
I hit the climb throttle. The Spire shrinks beneath us—red alarms bleeding into the night.
She watches from the sensor screen. “He'll die for this.” She exhales.
I shift the ship into stealth heading. Cabin hums low. I nod. “Then he better.”
She squeezes my hand, breath catching with relief and rage. “For all of them.”
Silence settles—just our hearts thumping and ship systems coiling into warp sequence.
I lean in. “Let’s break the world now.”
