Page 95 of The Mercenary's Hidden Heir

Sirens.

Gunfire.

A world burning.

I don’t dare look back.

The hangar’s a rusted skeleton at the edge of Glimner’s industrial sprawl.

Broken lights flicker overhead, throwing everything into jagged shadows.

The transport ship’s there.

Big.

Ugly.

Beautiful.

Hope in metal form.

Traz slows as we approach, scanning the lot with sharp eyes.

"Too quiet," he mutters.

My stomach twists.

I feel it too.

Wrong.

Heavy.

Like the world’s holding its breath before it punches you in the gut.

I clutch Joren tighter.

Traz shifts Aria higher against him, his free hand never straying far from his blaster.

Silpha moves to the door first, punching in the access code.

The ship’s ramp hisses open slow.

And that’s when all hell breaks loose.

Shouts.

The crunch of boots.

The gleam of rifles in the flickering light.

Petru steps out from the shadows like a nightmare made flesh.

Scarred.

Grinning.

A dozen of his men fanning out behind him like a pack of hungry wolves.

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