Page 21 of Alien Mercenary’s Wife (Lathar Mercenaries: Warborne #7)

" A lpha Section, adjust bearing two degrees starboard," she ordered, cutting through the tactical comm chatter with practiced authority.

The neural implants hummed smoothly against her skull, translating thought into action with the fluid precision that made Scorperio units the most feared combat force in human space.

Through her Scorperio's visual display, she watched her three sections spread across the urban combat zone in perfect formation.

Bravo and Charlie sections disappeared behind building clusters, their heat signatures glowing on her tactical overlay like scattered stars.

Alpha remained in direct line of sight, six massive war machines picking their way through rubble-strewn streets with mechanical grace.

"Captain Payne," Rodriguez's voice crackled through the comm. "Reading elevated electromagnetic signatures two klicks northwest. Recommend investigation."

The intel had been perfect. Too perfect, she realized now.

The facility had minimal security, and the enemy had been caught off guard.

Her neural implants should have been screaming warnings, but the data streams flowing through her enhanced consciousness painted a picture of tactical opportunity rather than a trap.

"Copy that, Rodriguez. Maintain current heading." She turned her Scorperio's massive frame toward the anomaly, servos whining as tons of armored metal responded to her thought commands. "Ryans, Nilsson, hold position and provide overwatch."

Static burst across the comm channel.

"Ryans? Becker?" Her voice sharpened. "Report."

Nothing.

The electromagnetic pulse hit like lightning, racing through her neural pathways. The pulse touched her implants and passed on, seeking the concentrated neural networks of her units.

Her Scorperio remained functional. Her soldiers didn't.

Alpha Section stopped. Six walking tanks became six tombs in the space between heartbeats, their pilots trapped inside armor that no longer responded to command.

She watched Rodriguez's unit topple sideways into a crater, watched Becker’s machine seize mid-step and crash through the facade of a building.

"Alpha Section, respond!" Her voice cracked across dead comm channels. "Anyone, report!"

Heavy weapons fire erupted from concealed positions. Armor-piercing rounds designed to penetrate Scorperio plating hammered into her disabled units.

They’d known they were coming.

She tried to run back, her Scorperio's legs pumping. But plasma cannon fire bracketed her position, forcing her back, and she couldn’t reach them.

"Bravo! Charlie! Anyone!" Static answered her calls.

Movement caught her peripheral vision. One of Bravo Section's units, Archer's machine, was crawling across the broken pavement with sparking servos and failing power systems. The neural link flickered but held—barely functional, fighting the electromagnetic poison flowing through damaged circuits.

She watched Archer’s machine slow and stop, shadowy figures emerging from hiding to finish off the stranded tanks and their pilots.

Archer's hatch cracked open, and she tumbled out, rolling across rubble as large-caliber rounds stitched death through the space she'd occupied seconds before.

Reese held her breath as Archer ran, zigzagging between debris while her abandoned Scorperio sparked and died behind her.

The others weren't so lucky.

Brennan was trapped in his unit as plasma fire melted through the cockpit. His scream cut across the comm for three endless seconds before silence claimed him.

Hayes, trying to manually eject while corporate soldiers pumped rounds through his unit's viewports. She watched his blood spray across cracked armor plating.

Rodriguez, Ryans, Nilsson, Webb, Becker, Kowalski.

She tried to reach them. Tried to save them. Tried to die with them.

But her Scorperio wouldn’t respond to her command, its survival protocols kicking in to carry her away from the slaughter, forcing her to survive while her people died in disabled machines that had become their tombs.

"No!" The word tore from her throat like shrapnel. "No, get back here! I'm their commander! I'm their ? —"

Pain exploded through her neural implants, electrical fire racing along damaged pathways as the dream shattered. Reese jerked upright on the narrow bunk, her heart hammering against her ribs. Cold sweat soaked through her sleep shirt, the fabric clinging to her skin.

The guest quarters materialized around her like a fever dream in reverse. Gone were the burning streets and dying machines. Instead, soft lighting and the sight of the Sprite’s guest quarters surrounded her.

Her throat felt raw. Had she been screaming? Christ, she hoped not. The last thing she needed was to wake the entire crew.

Her left hand cramped, fingers curling into a useless claw. She hissed as she massaged the muscles with her good hand, working at knots of tension as her breathing returned to something approaching normal.

It was just a dream. The same fucking dream she'd been having for months, the one that replayed Rodriguez's death scream and the wet sound of Hayes's blood hitting his viewports.

The neural stimulator hummed against her spine, and she closed her eyes. Tal's device worked better than anything human doctors had offered. Pity it couldn’t do anything about the nightmares.

Her lip curled back from her teeth as she realised the sheets were soaked with sweat. Great, just great. She'd have to change them before trying to sleep again, assuming sleep was even possible after reliving eighteen deaths in vivid detail. If she couldn’t, four hours' sleep would have to do.

Her hands shook as she reached for the water bottle beside her bunk, the tremor a leftover from neural implants misfiring under stress.

The door chime went off, softly demanding her attention.

"Reese?" T'Raal's voice carried through the metal of the door. "You okay?"

She stared at the closed door. Shit. He must have heard her screaming.

Heat crawled up her neck. But…when was the last time someone had checked on her? When was the last time someone had cared enough to knock instead of pretending they hadn't heard her break down?

Her parents certainly hadn't. They'd treated her military service like an unfortunate phase, and her subsequent disability like a personal failing.

The military doctors had offered pills and condescending smiles.

Even her few civilian friends had learned to change the subject when she started looking too far away.

But T'Raal, an alien guy she’d only known for a day, had heard her and come to check on her anyway.

"I'm fine," she called back. The lie tasted bitter on her tongue.

Silence stretched out. She could picture him standing in the corridor, deciding whether to accept her obvious bullshit or push for the truth she wasn't ready to give.

Military leaders learned to read between the lines, especially when dealing with soldiers who'd seen too much, and she knew her voice had given her away.

The quiet extended long enough to become uncomfortable.

"Door's unlocked," she said finally, the words escaping before she could stop them.

The panel slid open with a soft hiss. He filled the doorway, and her mouth went dry. Shit. She'd been right about the sleep pants. Dark fabric hung low on narrow hips, leaving his torso bare in a display of scarred muscle and alien strength.

Fucking hell. Talk about temptation.

No shirt, dark hair tousled from sleep. His gaze swept her sweat-soaked clothes and the tangled bedding, and then he looked at her. The gold flecks in his eyes caught the soft lighting, and she found herself staring despite every instinct screaming at her to look away.

"Bad dream?"

"Bad dream?" he asked, though the answer was written in every line of her sweat-soaked body.

She stared at him for a long moment, something vulnerable flickering across her features before her military mask reasserted itself. "Something like that."

Her voice carried the controlled edge of someone who'd learned to keep trauma carefully contained. Her hands trembled slightly as she reached for the water bottle beside her bunk.

"Mind if I come in?" he asked, but he was already stepping through the doorway.

She gestured toward the small space, and he settled onto the edge of the bunk. The guest quarters had been designed for Latharian proportions, making the furniture oversized for human comfort. She looked small against the bunk, fragile in a way that made something protective stir in his chest.

"Nightmares are easier to handle when you're not alone.”

She tilted her head. "Speaking from experience?"

"Some." He shrugged. "You want to talk about it?"

She was quiet for a moment, studying his face in the dim lighting. Whatever she saw there seemed to satisfy her, because her shoulders relaxed slightly.

"My final mission," she said. "Three Scorperio sections under my command. We received intelligence about enemy positions… minimal resistance, strategic target. It was a perfect opportunity."

"Command pulled me away from my sections," she continued.

"There were electromagnetic signatures they wanted investigated—some kind of interference pattern that didn't match known enemy tech.

" Her voice tightened. "I was maybe half a klick out when the pulse hit.

Felt like someone had driven a spike through my skull.

My implant barely stayed online because of the distance, but my soldiers.

.." She trailed off. "Their implants were completely fried.

The pulse turned their neural interfaces into dead weight. "

"The signal turned their Scorperios into tombs," she continued, her voice steady despite the pain in her eyes. "They were trapped in dead machines while the enemy picked them off."

"You tried to reach them," he said.