Cynetic Wolf
ZOOM ZOOM

The next days were a blur of planning and prep.

We got data from Paer—the readiness and placement of Initiative’s troops, transports and various heavy weaponry—and tried to construct realistic scenarios for success. It wasn’t promising.

She also shared intel on the army and DNS, anything the Initiative had deemed valuable enough to record. It was a mess of information, overwhelming and near impossible to replace patterns or weaknesses in. The GDR seemed to be on top of everything.

Details on the towns and local militias arrived the third day. At last count, eight percent were expected to take up arms, sixty-five percent below what sims said were needed. It looked bad, but nothing was unwinnable, right? I had to keep telling myself that. There had to be something, there had to be.

I looked into the Board members’ backgrounds again for any weaknesses. Nothing. Same with the military and DNS leaders. They had flawless records, or whitewashed backgrounds.

At last, the day came to leave. We still had no idea how to pull this off, but first, we had to get to Caen.

We left the cabin for the final time in silence, feet heavy with all that happened here. My time with Lars had molded me, and I’d never be the same.

When we were an hour from where we’d jumped off the train, he turned to me, eyes pained. “How’d Lyam die?” He must have been wanting to ask for ages.

“Like a hero,” I said as goosebumps coated my furry, recently muscled arms. “He was trying to protect me, to keep me safe from Lilia, and out of harm’s way.”

Lars grimaced. “Lyam was my friend, probably my best friend,” he added in a soft voice. “We had a falling out after Kira.” He let out a forlorn sigh. “I never forgave myself. I’m sure he didn’t either. He came to see me that night, before he died. Said he might need my help, said he was sorry.” Lars took a deep breath.

I didn’t know what to say, let alone feel, so I said nothing.

“Let’s go get those bastards,” he said after a moment, the glint back in his eyes.

I opened my mouth but a message from Paer interrupted. Things are set here, kids. Be home for dinner. Turkey is in the oven. “Paer says everything’s ready. I’m going to spring the Kiag trap.”

Opening prewritten messages, I double-checked everything. I dummy-pinged a server near Kiag, sent the messages, and I killed the connection.

We’re getting ready to head home, I shot back to Paer and gave Lars the thumbs-up. “All set.”

The walk to the train and ride to Caen was uneventful. We got onto the lev and snuck into the compartment without incident. It wasn’t until it slowed we realized something was wrong.

Lars noticed it first, a tiny green light above the door. “Where did that come—”

The door sprung open and two glaring security guards stepped in, blasters drawn.

The first was a lean ugly fellow, 160 centimeters or so, with light curly hair, ears too big for his head, and a familiar rabbitish jitteriness. “What have we here?” he said to his partner. “Looks like a couple of stowaways.”

“Hands where we can see them, both of you!” his partner snapped. He was enormous, rippling with muscle, and had the striped patterning of tigerish ancestry. His beard was impressive too, spreading from his mean black eyes to edges of his square jaw.

Both held eyes of poison, no love lost for the two of us, despite being animotes themselves.

“Search them,” the big guy muttered. My fingers twitched but it was too risky, he was aiming at Lars.

“It’s your turn to search them,” his partner whined.

“I said search them, Joey!”

“Okay, boss.” He moved forward, grabbed our bags, and checked our arms and legs. The whole time, the big guy’s blaster never strayed from Lars’ head.

“They’re clean, boss,” Joey said after an invasive search. “Although there’s blasters in the bags.”

“What you waiting for?” the mountain replied. “Cuff them. And what’re the blasters for, eh?”

“One second,” I said. What would Fitz do? I peered past them and waved at the door. “Johnny?”

Both guards turned for a fraction and my blasters hit them before they’d realized I’d fired. Sorry guys… They crumpled in a pool of blood and guts, charred organ matter spraying the walls and boxes.

“Time to go.” Grabbing our bags, I sprinted for the compartment door.

We burst through and three more guards appeared, blasters pointed at the floor. I shot two and Lars hit the third, but not before he yelled, “Captain, this is Waters, I—”

He never got the rest out, but the captain must have heard the blast.

“Run!” I shouted.

Lars slammed the outside door open and stared out. The landscape raced past. We were going close to seventy kilometers per hour, way too fast to jump. We might not have a choice.

An alarm sounded, blaring through the train. Shit.