Page 131 of The Sterling Acquisition
He stumbled forward, tactical knife gripped tight, ready to fight three Berserkers with a punctured lung and failing enhancement drugs. It was suicide, but—
“Calm down there, corporate boy.”
The leader straightened up from the dead regulator, blood dripping from his gloves as he looked between Dante and Orion with a smirk. His voice was deep and gruff, but there was intelligence behind the brutal mask.
“We’re not here to fuck your pretty Omega,” he continued, gesturing dismissively at Orion. “No offense, sweetheart. You smelled amazing back in the Neutral Zone, but not so much anymore.”
“Rude,” Orion huffed weakly as he pushed himself up from the ground.
Dante swayed on his feet, knife still raised. “Then why—”
“Lilac sent us,” the leader said simply.
Dante stared at him, the knife wavering in his grip. The stimulants were wearing off fast, leaving him hollow and shaking. His extremities were going numb—classic sign of shock progression. “What?”
Before the Berserker could answer, the sound of an engine cut through the valley—rough and powerful, like something cobbled together from spare parts and pure stubbornness. Headlights swept across the carnage as a modified Jeep bounced over the uneven ground, its roll cage gleaming with welded reinforcements.
The vehicle pulled to a stop twenty feet away, and Dante’s heart nearly stopped when he saw the driver.
Lilac stepped out with casual confidence, her scarred hands already reaching for the rifle strapped to the Jeep’s frame. Behind her, a familiar figure in a wheelchair was being lowered by some kind of mechanical lift system built into the vehicle’s bed.
“Granny Lu?” Orion’s voice was thick with disbelief.
Tallulah LaFontaine settled into her chair, her sharp eyes taking in the scene—the dead regulators, Dante swaying on his feet, the Berserkers standing among the corpses like blood-soaked sentinels.
“Evening, boys,” she said calmly, as if finding them in the middle of a corporate battlefield was an everyday occurance. “Looks like we arrived just in time.”
Lilac approached the Berserker with the easy familiarity of old comrades. “Riot, you beautiful bastard. How’d it go?”
The Berserker—Riot—pulled off his metal mask. When he grinned, it was terrifying and genuine despite the weird farm boy charm of his freckled face, his eyes glittering with strange gold flecks that seemed to glow. “Like taking candy from corporate babies. Your intel was perfect—they never saw us coming.”
“What the hell is going on?” Dante managed, though standing upright was becoming difficult. Black spots danced at the edges of his vision, and he could feel blood soaking through the pressure bandage the medics applied.
Lilac glanced at him, and for the first time since he’d known her, there was something almost apologetic in her expression. “The Berserkers and I go way back. Same program, different outcomes.” She gestured toward Riot and his companions. “We were all guinea pigs together.”
Riot’s face darkened. “When Lilac explained what those corporate fucks were planning to do to your Omega, we decided it was time for some payback.”
“Plus,” one of the other Berserkers added with a savage grin, “she made us very wealthy for our trouble. Turns out Gensyn has some interesting corporate accounts that weren’t as secure as they thought.”
Dante’s legs gave out, and he collapsed to one knee, the knife clattering to the ground. The adrenalinecrash was hitting him like a freight train, leaving him gray and shaking. The C-17 was metabolized, its artificial support evaporating like morning dew, leaving his damaged systems to fend for themselves. He could feel his lung collapsing, the wet rattle in his chest becoming more pronounced with each labored breath.
“Shit,” Lilac muttered, moving toward him. “You look like hell, Ashford.”
“Collapsed lung,” Granny Lu assessed. “The boy’s going into shock. We’ve got maybe ten minutes before respiratory arrest if we don’t get a chest tube in him.” She glanced at Riot. “Get the field kit from the car. We need to stabilize him enough for transport.”
Orion was beside him before anyone else could move, still zip-tied but somehow managing to kneel next to Dante with awkward determination. His eyes were bright with unshed tears, and when he spoke, his voice was softer than Dante had ever heard it.
“You absolute idiot,” Orion said, leaning close enough that Dante could feel his breath against his ear. “I love you, you’re not allowed to die. I’m pretty sure that’s against corporate policy anyway.”
Dante stared at him, something warm and bright blooming in his chest despite the pain. “Did you just... did you just tell me you love me and reference corporate policy in the same sentence?”
“Seemed appropriate given the circumstances,” Orion replied, and there was the ghost of his usual defiant smile. “Besides, you’re too stubborn to die from something as mundane as a bullet. Where’s your professional pride?”
Despite everything—the blood loss, the pain, the surreal nature of being rescued by Berserkers—Dante found himself laughing. It hurt like hell, but Christ, he was laughing. “I’ll file a complaint with HR about the inadequate assassination attempt.”
He reached up with shaking fingers to touch Orion’s face, thumb brushing over the sharp line of his cheekbone. “And for the record,” he wheezed, “I love you too. Even if you did just make the worst corporate policy joke in the history of corporate policy jokes.”
Orion’s smile was radiant, transforming his entire face. “I’ll work on my material.”
