Page 13 of Salvation for the Alien Mercenary

Stormix spun away as though he hadn’t heard the warning. “Though, between us friends, Gael Stormix actually requested the Warborne, much more exclusive, but unavailable, sadly.”

Through Davis’s feed, Mira watched Covak adjust something on Davis’s tactical harness. The massive Vorrtan rolled his amber eyes dramatically, crossing them for effect.

“Covak!” Anson barked on the private channel. “Eyes front; mind on the job. Now.”

Covak grinned and raised his middle finger, perfectly framed in Davis’s feed.

Anson sighed. “Mature, Covak. Real mature.”

The team moved out of the hotel’s main entrance with Stormix in tow. A sleek armored transport waited at the curb, its doors sliding open as they approached. Covak and Jesh took handholds on the roof, while Davis balanced on a runner board.

Anson overlaid a city map, highlighting the route. “See this?” He circled an intersection where three streets converged. “Classic choke point; perfect ambush location.”

“Those rooftops.” She leaned closer; through Rann’s feed she watched him scan each building, pausing at potential sniper nests. “Rann’s checking them systematically.”

“Yeah, and there,” Anson said, pointing to an alley visible in Davis’s feed, “bottleneck. One way in, one way out.”

“How would you counter that?” The question slipped out before she could stop herself, old gaming instincts flaring.

“Smoke screen, overwatch from the upper windows, and keep moving,” Anson answered, expression softening when he realized she was listening. “Never stop moving.”

“Two minutes to venue,” Ryke reported. “Crowd sounds massive. Anson, what are we looking at?”

“On it. Client status?”

“Nervous, talking nonstop about sound checks,” Rann said, bored.

“Activity ahead,” Davis cut in. “Security deploying at the entrance.”

“Standard procedure?” Anson asked.

“Looks…” Davis’s voice dropped. “Covak, two o’clock. Maintenance worker. Something’s off.”

Mira shifted to Davis’s feed: a figure in coveralls moving with too much purpose, reading sight lines instead of equipment. The man’s hands never once touched the tools on his belt.

Covak’s cam swung toward him; the worker jerked a tool free and aimed it at the ground.

“Could be nothing,” Covak said.

“Or something,” Ryke answered, clipped. “Stay alert.”

The transport slowed at the backstage entrance. Emerald-uniformed security formed a corridor; beyond them, barricades held back screaming fans.

“SON-IX! SON-IX!” The chant pulsed through the comms.

“Jesh, overwatch. Davis and Covak, flank. Rann, on the client’s six,” Ryke ordered.

“Copy,” came four voices.

Davis’s feed showed him stepping off the board, cataloging threats, density, rooflines—everything a tactical assessment.

“I don’t like this,” he muttered. “Too many people, too many sight lines.”

“Agreed,” Rann said as the doors slid open. “Let’s make this quick.”

Anson tapped the console edge. “This is the dangerous part, transition from vehicle to building.”

“Why so critical?” she asked, eyes locked on the screen.