Page 42 of Claimed By the War Brute
CHAPTER 32
GARRUS
The incoming relay pings like a starting pistol in the darkened comms bay—no headers, no codes, just coordinates and three brutal words: "Eliminate Malmount, Valas Core."
I read it twice. Then I delete it. No hesitation, no pause. This isn’t justice anymore. Not risk management. Not buying time. It’s final. A vendetta written across star systems, forged in betrayal and fire.
I step away from the holo-console and move through the ship’s corridor, metal plating humming underfoot, toward the cockpit. Every step is decisive—no room for doubt. I walk into the Vigil’s End’s command bridge, and the first thing I see is Syd. She’s all posture and purpose, boots propped on the nav console, cleaning a blaster with deliberate strokes. Sparks of light dance off the barrel; her rhythm matches the recoil of the ship’s engines.
I close the distance. “We’ve got him,” I say, low and certain.
She lifts an eyebrow—casual confidence in her whole posture. “That easy?”
“It’s never easy,” I growl, settling behind the helm. My claws grip the cold alloy of the yoke. “But close enough to kill.”
We break from the shadow-warp with no fanfare. The jump scar across space still fresh, but a signal from the black-ops feed tethers us to earth. Galdris-wide assassins would hear the echo in seconds. Good. Let them listen.
Valas Core—neutral. A diplomatic haven ringed by corporate syndicates too deep-laden with credits to risk a shooting war. The entire system bristles with pulse cannons and orbital sentries. If Malmount docks there, he’ll bury himself behind permanent sanctuary. But Dowron doesn’t care about optics anymore. Results matter. I set our course.
Syd moves beside me, tracking his route. The controls glow beneath her fingertips. “He’s fleeing,” she mutters. “That’s desperation. Running for safe harbor.”
“Then we don’t give him harbor,” I reply. My voice echoes fight; hard, implacable.
Her eyes flash. “Then we don’t miss.”
The air thrums with anticipation—engines humming, shields arming, ammo locks clicking. That moment before action when all of fate can still shift.
We drop from stealth just outside Valas Core entry point. The silver silhouette of his cruiser drifts among corporate escorts and civilian shuttles. Sleek. Too confident.
“Syd, the escorts—pattern Delta.” I flick the thrusters; the ship banks, yanking fastports from the field.
Her voice is crisp in the comm. “Got it. Ion spread in three--no, four--two, one…”
She hits the trigger. I feel it in my gut before the control board even registers. Lightning-blue arcs flare across the escorts—pop, pop. One by one they flicker out. The airlock punctures, space empties, ship compartments depressurize. A lull: we’ve punched the hole.
I lock onto the cruiser. “Time.”
I ping the main cannons. They roar, blue-white death beam igniting. The cruiser’s engines blow, she stalls out of warp trajectory, systems cascading in alarms and flashlights.
“Not going anywhere,” Syd calls.
I exhale. “Docking clamps engaged,” I say. “Let’s go introduce ourselves.”
We dock in silence. Docking clamps hiss and lock. The Vigil’s End stands adjacent to Malmount’s crippled personal cruiser, engines still smoldering, lights sputtering with power surges.
Syd loads two blasters. I pocket a plasma carbine. We step through the airlock—command feet forming paces.
Inside: corridor light strobe-pulsing as hull ruptures shudder across his ship. I lead; she follows. Sterile corporate halls smell of ozone, oil, fear. I don’t flinch. Not even when a sentry slumps out of cover, hand spasming around a phaser. I shoot fast—unheard flash, spine shattered. He drops like the industry he built. We don’t stop to gloat—or question.
We reach the bridge. I don’t count guards—they step into the hall, rifles raised, eyes blood-rage ready. I raise my carbine. “Stand down,” I say. Hard and final.
One breath. Silence.
Syd approaches the command console—blood from her arm still staining her sleeve. She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. She records everything on a handheld comm-stick.
The door to the captain’s quarters is open. Lights dim, though the emergency circuit hums with backup power. And there he is: Walter Malmount, knees slick on cold metal tile, his hand reaching for a sidearm. His face goes pale when he sees me.
His hand stops. For a moment, surprise. Then fury. “Vakutan monster…” he snarls.
