Page 58 of Claimed By the War Brute
“Garrus?” she whispers.
“Yeah?”
“Promise me something.”
I half-turn, balancing us. “Name it.”
She bites her lip. “No more ghosts. No more drifting. You and me on real ground sometimes.”
I know what she means. Missions will come. War never sleeps. But yeah. Peace needs gravity. “Deal,” I say. “Once this op clears, we take shore leave. Two weeks—no talk of contracts or casualties.”
She laughs, breathless. “I expect amusement park rides and overpriced cotton candy.”
“Fair.” I grin. Then flick my eyes distant. “I’ll demolish anyone in line so we don’t wait.”
She laughs again. Nostalgia and love etching into her face. “That’s the scariest promise I’ve ever heard.”
“Good,” I murmur. “Means I care.”
Later, the engines shift. We emerge from slipstream above Taraxis. The planet below is a palette of ochre and rust. Storms whip dunes into ocean swells. The smuggling depot is a pinprick beacon on the far side, nestled in a canyon. No orbital defenses. Perfect.
I boot up the comm mic. “Ready, Syd?”
She leans forward, eyes sharp as broken glass. “Go fight your mess.”
I crank the engines. The world shifts. We dive through atmosphere in a roar of fire and shadow.
The depot rises beneath us like a buried tomb. We emerge at treetop level, weaving through rock formations carved by wind. Garrus in his element. I watch him, heart pounding—not just fear, exhilaration, love. So much love I can taste it.
“Touchdown in two,” he says, voice low. “Prepare for on-foot insertion.”
His words calibrate something in my soul. We suit up in gear stripped of flashy armor but lethal as war paint. Weapons dialed with non-lethal options—I’m the negotiation to his hammer.
“Remember, you lead,” he says, voice husky.
I smirk. “Yeah. We already talked about that.”
He smiles. It’s brief. But when he grips my shoulder, warmth coils around me. “I’m with you.”
I plant my fist firm on his chest. “And I’m with you.” Our breath mingles—smoke, sweat, purpose.
We slide off the hull. The landing’s furtive. Weapons high, eyes scanning. The depot’s locked down. Drones circle, skirting ahead like robotic vultures.
I press the uplink jammer into my glove. “Cover me,” I murmur.
He nods, weapon raised. Laser beams crackle across the ground—deterrent flash. They track us. Five seconds until drones swarm.
Heartbeat: control. I reach the signal tower—rusted panel, humming wires. Can taste the sand in my mouth and the scent of ozone from static charge. I start the hack.
“Crafter of chaos,” he mutters. “That AI scramble better do its job.”
I meet his gaze. “It will.” Fingers fly over the panel. Sweat beads on my brow. My pulse is hammering in my ears, but I zone in. Ghost signal, redirection directives, loop amplification.
Then: Bingo. The birds start twitching off guard, dispersing. The depot’s top-tier defenses reroute. Corridor lights flash red.
“Down,” I whisper. We slip inside adjacent exhaust vent.
He squeezes my waist. “Showtime.”
