Page 46

Kabir

FIVE MONTHS LATER

Lia had been fine—at first.

Dylan had only been gone five days. She still held onto hope. Still smiled. Still laughed. Still believed he’d walk through the doors any second, grumbling about something stupid.

For a few weeks, she was even happy. Steady. Optimistic.

Then came the doubt.

Then the fear.

Then the guilt.

And now—five months later—she didn’t talk about him much at all.

But I knew she thought about him every damn day.

Just like I did.

Hoping he’d come back.

And as if that wasn’t enough, there was the silence. The wrong kind. Romlinson was gone—we knew that. Dead and buried.

But the Rubicon Network?

Live.

Running.

We couldn’t kill it. Couldn’t trace it. It was like it had taken on a life of its own—some automated, global digital suicide.

And for five months, the world had been spiraling.

Religious conflicts?

Check.

Mass manipulation?

Check.

Major corporations crumbling? Criminal records wiped? Defense contracts swallowed whole by Romlinson companies?

Check. Check. Check.

It wasn’t over.

Texas was such a huge state that we couldn’t pinpoint anything. The one lead I had was failing.

If we didn’t do something—quick, we’d have the human civilization on the brink of collapse.

The worst part was, the countries with nuclear capabilities were eerily silent and slowly collapsing.

The Crazon control was like a hidden rot, infecting the powerful and killing the weak.

I sighed.

A few days after I got back from the hospital all those months ago, a package showed up. No return address. No note.

Just my bag.

Inside were my burner phone, DaLia , and the Sentrix drive—still loaded with all the proof of Romano’s unhinged ramblings.

Surprised didn’t even begin to cover it.

We still had no idea who sent it.

Now, Lia was wrapped in my arms, eyes fixed on the ceiling, waiting for sleep to come.

Like every damn night.

She didn’t talk. Didn’t toss. Didn’t fidget. She just… waited. Until her thoughts burned themselves out and exhaustion dragged her under.

I’d tried everything.

Tried coaxing her into routines. Sleep on time. Wake on time. Tried distracting her during the day—training, recon briefs, even drone maintenance.

Nothing worked.

She was always just present enough to pretend.

I sighed, brushing a hand over her hair.

Then—an alert.

The low chime from the console by my nightstand.

Front gate motion sensor.

I frowned, shifting to sit up. Beside me, Lia tensed immediately.

“Who is it?” she asked, voice low, body already taut with anxiety.

I checked the panel. “I don’t know. Camera’s lagging—”

My phone buzzed sharply in my hand. Zane.

I answered. “Yeah?”

“Four unknowns outside the main gate. Static formation. Not breaching. They’re… requesting an audience.”

I froze. “With who?”

There was a pause.

“With Amelia.”

Lia sat bolt upright beside me. “What?”

I looked at her, my stomach dropping. “They asked for you.”

Her eyes were wide now. “Who the hell—who even knows I’m here?”

I was already moving, grabbing my hoodie and passing her her shoes. “Let’s go.”

Mobilization Bay was already in chaos by the time we got there. Every member of the team was gathered, weapons slung, eyes sharp. Tactical gear only half-done like they’d all jumped out of bed mid-nightmare.

Leora wasn’t here, considering she was about ready to pop.

Logan stood near Kaylan, absently gathering his long, dirty-blond hair and tying it into a loose bun as he started to pace. Zarek hovered just behind him, all of them calm, collected.

Sebastian and Delara were in their own little formation.

Zane and Ronan whispering to each other.

I moved to the main interface terminal, the front gate cam now loaded. I pulled up the feed.

Four silhouettes stood at the perimeter—unmoving, heads slightly bowed, arms at their sides.

Unarmed. Fully masked.

But something about their stillness was wrong.

Too controlled. Too deliberate. Too… familiar.

I handed the screen to Amelia. “Go ahead.”

She took the tablet.

“This is Amelia,” she said clearly.

The response was immediate.

One deep voice.

Gravelly. Cold.

“Fireflies.”

Lia froze.

The blood drained from her face in a matter of seconds. Her fingers trembled, her jaw slackening as if the word had knocked the wind out of her.

She swallowed. Blinked.

Then turned to Zane.

“Open the gate.”

“What?” he barked.

“Absolutely not,” Delara said. “Not until we know—”

Lia snapped, voice sharp, shaking, but certain. “Open the fucking gate. Now.”

Everyone started to speak at once—protests, confusion, warning tones—but she cut through all of it with one look.

Commanding. Fierce.

And terrified.

I nodded at Zane, quietly.

He didn’t like it.

But he obeyed.

And the gate began to open.

Four figures strolled in like they owned the damn place.

Casual. Unhurried.

Their faces were covered with matte black masks and balaclavas, but their body language was anything but anonymous. They knew where they were. Who they were dealing with.

The tallest one clocked Amelia immediately—his attention snapping to her like a compass finding true north. His hands were tawny, covered in intricate black ink. Tattoos up to his throat, barely hidden behind his black t-shirt he was wearing.

He stepped forward.

I immediately moved between them, blocking the path.

Zarek and Sebastian flanked me instinctively, Logan and Zane stepping silently toward Lia like a wall of quiet defense.

The tattooed man cocked his head at me, then glanced at Lia again.

“Let’s chat,” he said, voice smooth and infuriatingly calm.

My jaw clenched. “Who the fuck are you?”

He didn’t even blink.

“We’re contractors,” he said. “Formerly hired by Romlinson.”

Rage flared, violent and immediate.

I knew these bastards.

“You were with him,” I growled. “With Ling. You stood there while he pummeled me like a fucking punching bag.”

Tattoo Guy gave a single nod, his gray eyes boring into me. “Correct.”

Zarek stepped in, voice sharp. “And now what—you just waltz in here expecting what? A thank-you card?”

“You’re either suicidally arrogant,” Zane added calmly, his hand on his gun, “or just plain stupid.”

The other three didn’t move. Two of them—smaller in frame, feminine posture—stood with relaxed, practiced ease. Both of them carried enough muscle to take any of us down. The last one, a taller man, was rigid. Silent. Eyes hidden.

“I’d choose arrogant,” Tattoo Guy said.

Zarek’s tone turned cold. “They’re a waste of time.”

Tattoo Guy chuckled darkly. “Technically, we’re Deathmark. But we also answer to ‘who sent you?’ and ‘I have a family!’”

That made even Logan blink. Zarek, however, stiffened.

Tattoo Guy pointed to himself with his thumb. “Gray.”

Then to the masked woman on his right—pixie cut, eyes hinting an East Asian ethnicity. “Sevy.”

The second woman—taller, shaved head, dark eyes—“Bee.”

She waved enthusiastically.

And finally, the other guy. Built like a steel beam, but zero twitch. “Vic.”

“And no need for your introductions. We know all of you,” Gray said, casually pointing at us one by one. “Cipher. Viper. Falcon. Ranger. Ghost. Shadow. Healer. Gunner. Specter.”

He tilted his head slightly, looking at the space beside Zarek. “Dr. Mateez is missing.”

A chill swept through me. How the fuck did they—

Lia finally stepped forward, her voice steady but tight. “How do you know the term ‘fireflies’?”

Gray turned to her, the smile in his voice fading.

“You know how.”

Amelia stared at him for a long moment.

“Where is he?”

He didn’t move an inch before responding. “Not relevant, is it?”

She squeezed her eyes shut and nodded. Once.

“Take them to the conference room.”

Her tone had that unmistakable ring—firm, final, not open to discussion.

Sebastian barely hesitated. “Alright.”

We moved.

And they followed.

The conference room was tense. More than tense. It was suffocating.

We were all gathered in there, a place we normally owned. But not tonight. Not with them here.

Deathmark .

They stood across from us like they belonged here, like they’d called this meeting and we were the guests. And maybe we were.

Leora had joined us, wobbling in with her hand on her belly. Guess Zarek’s order for her to stay put was overruled.

Sevy’s eyes found her immediately.

Her expression was unreadable—blank on the surface—but her gaze lingered a beat too long on Leora’s swollen stomach. It made something cold crawl down my spine. My hand itched for my gun.

Before anyone could speak, the receptionist, Greta, timidly poked her head in, offering beverages to the uninvited guests.

“Anyone want coffee or tea?” she asked hesitantly, probably wondering if serving caffeine to contract killers was a wise decision.

“Greta, could you give us a few—”

Sebastian’s dismissal was snapped short by Bee’s chirp. “I’ll have coffee.”

She removed her mask quickly—an action both Sevy and Gray followed. But not Vic.

Gray looked familiar, like I had clocked him at a certain point but couldn’t figure out where.

The receptionist smiled hesitantly and handed her a cup like she was offering a feral animal a treat. Bee took a sip, and the way her eyes fluttered shut, letting out a little sigh.

She was drinking it like it was goddamn nectar from the heavens.

Then, without a word, she turned to Sevy and silently held out the cup. Sevy, who had been stone-faced this whole time, took a sip… then gave a slow, approving nod.

We were visibly vibrating with tension, barely holding back our rage, and this was what these lunatics were doing? Sampling the office coffee like it was fine wine?

The silence was unbearable. Their behavior? Infuriating.

Then Bee’s eyes lit up like she’d just remembered Christmas.

“Do that thing, Gray!”

Gray glanced at her with the world’s most bored smirk.

She ran a jerky hand over her buzzed head, still grinning. “Do that thing. Do that thing. Do that thing!”

Her chant was jarring.

But of course, that’s when Gray finally decided to open his mouth.