"I will."

  The projection flickered and died, leaving Sarxon alone in the sealed command pod. The isolation from the bridge crew gave her a moment of privacy that felt both welcome and oppressive.

  In the back of her mind, anger churned. Anger at the Emperor's cold rebuke. Anger at herself for making the mistakes that had warranted it. But beneath the anger, something harder crystallized. Something that had nothing to do with apology or regret.

  Evan Marshall had slipped through her fingers twice. He had made her look foolish in front of her sovereign and her father. She wouldn't give him a third opportunity.

  Sarxon lowered the privacy barriers and rose to her feet. Commander Ashe looked up, his expression carefully neutral, waiting for orders.

  "Commander, you have the bridge," she said, her voice carrying the determined strength that had led to her ordered passage through the Maker's ancient one-way portal. "I'm returning to Earth."

  14

  The ground blurred beneath Evan's feet as he sprinted toward the perimeter wall of the Hill Country estate, the shotgun clutched at mid-length in his right hand. Thirty seconds. That was all he had before the new guards reached their positions and the gap in coverage closed.

  Twenty-five seconds to make it to his destination.

  The wall loomed ahead, pale limestone catching the last traces of twilight. Ten feet of vertical surface topped with wrought-iron spikes that gleamed like teeth against the darkening sky. No handholds. No convenient footholds. Just smooth stone and momentum.

  Twenty seconds.

  Evan shifted the Remington and hurled it upward in a spinning arc. The shotgun cleared the spikes and disappeared over the top. He didn't hear it land. Didn't have time to worry about whether it had broken on impact.

  Fifteen seconds.

  He backed up. From ten feet away, he hit the wall at full speed, planting his left foot against the stone and driving upward. His right foot found purchase for a fraction of a second of pure vertical motion powered by adrenaline and desperate necessity. His fingers caught the top edge of the wall, narrowly avoiding the iron spikes, and for one terrible moment his entire body weight hung from his grip.

  Ten seconds.

  Evan hauled himself up, arms burning, muscles screaming. The spikes bit into his jacket as he skirted between them, the fabric tearing but not his skin. Then he was over, dropping into darkness, knees bending to absorb the impact as he hit the manicured grass on the other side.

  Five seconds.

  The shotgun lay three feet away, intact. He scooped it up and moved, keeping low, angling toward the stable he'd identified in the satellite photos. The building's bulk rose against the sky, a dark mass that promised cover if he could reach it in time.

  Two seconds.

  One.

  Evan pressed himself against the stable's rear wall. His breathing came hard and fast, his chest heaving from the sprint. He forced himself to still. Listening. Waiting. Then footsteps. Measured and steady, the unhurried pace of a guard on routine patrol. Growing closer.

  Evan didn't move. Didn't breathe. The shotgun angled toward the ground, his finger rested on the trigger guard but at the ready.

  The guard passed less than ten feet from his position, a silhouette moving through the heightening darkness and the shadows cast by the security lighting that had come on at the mansion. Evan caught a glimpse of broad shoulders, a holstered weapon, the professional bearing of someone trained for exactly this kind of work. The man's head turned slightly as he walked, alertly scanning the grounds.

  If Evan had been two seconds slower scaling that wall, the guard would have seen him dropping into the compound and raised the alarm. It would have ended this infiltration before it started. Fortunately, he had made it in time, and the guard had continued his patrol, oblivious to the intruder pressed against the stable wall mere feet away.

  Evan waited until the footsteps faded, then allowed himself a single controlled exhale. Inside the stable, he could hear the horses shifting in their stalls. Hooves scraped against wooden floors. A soft whicker carried through the walls. The animals had heard him arrive. They could probably smell him too, an unfamiliar scent that put them on edge, but they hadn't sounded any kind of undue alarm.

  He pushed away from the wall and moved along the length of the stable, keeping to the shadows where the building blocked the security lighting. The main house was visible now, a sprawling structure of limestone and glass that dominated the center of the compound. Guards stood on the front steps, their positions giving them a clear view of the approach from the main gate and most of the surrounding grounds.

  Evan leaned past the corner of the stable, scanning for a route that would take him closer to the mansion without crossing their sightlines.

  He froze.

  A helicopter sat on a concrete pad fifty yards away, its black fuselage gleaming dully in the twilight. The aircraft was large, military-grade. But that wasn't what made Evan's breath catch in his throat. It was the bullet hole in the side. A ragged puncture in the hull, right where he remembered putting it when he'd fired Harris's M39 at it a few nights ago.

  It was the same helicopter that had strafed the barn. That had pursued them through the Tennessee night. That had retreated only when Evan's round found its mark. Maybe the internal damage had been repaired, but the sheet metal didn't lie.

  That was a Skytrace helicopter, which meant this was a Skytrace compound.

  Evan pulled back behind the stable, his mind racing to reconcile what he was seeing with what he thought he knew. The target materials on the laptop, intelligence gathered for an assault, had shown this exact location—this mansion, these defensive positions. But why would Skytrace have surveillance photos of their own facility?

  Unless they hadn't compiled that intelligence themselves.

  The kill team at the barn. The operators he'd neutralized, the ones whose laptop now sat in his backpack with its dwindling battery. What if they'd intercepted that intelligence from someone else? What if the target intel was never meant for Skytrace eyes at all?

  Someone was planning to hit this compound. Someone who wasn't Skytrace. And the laptop had fallen into Skytrace's hands before it could reach its intended recipients.

  Evan filed the realization away for later analysis. Right now, the tactical situation hadn't changed. He was inside an enemy compound, outnumbered and outgunned, with guards who would kill him the moment they spotted him. The fact that this was Skytrace territory rather than some rival faction made no practical difference.

  At least, not yet.

  He moved along the stable's side wall, angling toward the garage that sat closer to the mansion itself. The guards on the front steps remained in position, their attention focused outward toward the main gate and the perimeter. Professional. Disciplined. Exactly what he would have expected from an organization that had terrorized a dark web hacker just by having their name appear on a laptop.

  The garage was maybe forty yards away. Open ground. No cover. If either guard happened to look in the right direction at the wrong moment, Evan would be exposed.

  He needed a distraction.

  The stable's main doors were three feet to his right. Evan eased them open just enough to slip inside, the hinges protesting with a soft creak that made him wince. The interior was dim, lit only by a safety light at each end. Stalls lined both walls, most occupied by horses that shifted nervously at his presence. One animal in particular caught his attention. A bay mare in the third stall, her ears pinned flat against her head, her eyes showing white around the edges. Already spooked. Already primed to bolt at the slightest provocation.

  Perfect.

  Evan moved to her stall and lifted the latch, backing up to keep the door in front of him as he opened it wide. The mare tossed her head, nostrils flaring, hooves dancing on the wooden floor. And then she exploded out of the stall like a cannon shot, hooves thundering against the board floor as she charged toward the stable's main entrance. Evan heard the doors he'd left cracked open bang back against the stable as she exited. He heard startled shouts from outside as guards took off in pursuit of the loose animal bolting across the grounds.

  He was already moving out through the side door, across the open ground toward the garage. His legs pumped hard, covering the distance in seconds that felt like hours. With the guards' attention fully fixed on the panicked horse now galloping toward the perimeter wall, their voices carried across the compound as they coordinated their response.

  Chest heaving, the shotgun slick with sweat in his grip, Evan reached the garage and pressed himself against the side of it that kept him hidden from the guards. He forced himself to wait, to watch, to confirm that the guards remained focused on the horse and no one had spotted his dash across open ground.

  One of the two guards at the mansion's front door had started down the steps, moving to help intercept the animal. The other stayed in position but turned his body toward the commotion, his back to the route Evan needed to take.

  He pushed off from the garage and ran, keeping low, the grass muffling his footsteps as he made for the eastern side of the mansion. The side away from all the commotion. Away from the security lights at the front. Every second stretched into an eternity of exposed vulnerability, but the guards never turned, never looked, never saw him.

  He reached the mansion and flattened himself against the limestone, the wall cool against his back, solid and real. He was there, mere feet from whatever secrets this compound held.

  He edged along the wall toward a door he'd spotted in the satellite photos. A servant's entrance, plain and utilitarian.

  He tried the handle.

  Unlocked.

  He slipped inside, pulling the door closed behind him with a soft click. The interior was dim, a narrow hallway with tile floors and plain walls. Functional rather than decorative. Definitely a service corridor.

  Voices drifted from somewhere ahead. English, casual, the easy conversation of people who had no idea an intruder had just breached their employer's security. Mixed with the voices came the smell of cooking food, so savory it made Evan's stomach clench with unexpected hunger.

  Evan ignored it and moved forward, the shotgun level, his footsteps deliberate, quiet on the tile. He'd infiltrated houses before, crept slowly through them so the target wouldn't hear until he had a bullet in his skull. This was no different. The kitchen staff were a group of potential witnesses who would raise the alarm the moment they spotted an armed stranger in their midst, but he didn't want to kill them if he could avoid it. They were merely employees undoubtedly unaware of who their employers really were.

  The corridor branched ahead, one direction leading toward the kitchen sounds. Making sure the hallway that branched off, leading deeper into the mansion, was empty, he took it, leaving the staff to their work as he penetrated further into enemy territory.

  Evan navigated by instinct and caution, pausing at every corner, checking every doorway as the corridor gave way to more elaborate spaces. Hardwood floors replaced tile. Artwork appeared on the walls. The architecture shifted from utilitarian to impressive, the kind of wealth that announced itself through quality rather than ostentation. Room by room, the mansion's layout revealed a formal dining room, a library with floor-to-ceiling shelves, a sitting room furnished with leather and dark wood.

  He took the stairs at the end of the hallway. The eight doors on the second level were all closed. A bathroom and seven bedrooms. He cleared all of them and ascended the next stairwell to the third floor.

  He cleared the first six rooms as well. Then he heard a voice. It came from behind the closed door at the end of the hallway. Not English. The same alien speech that had come through the Ascendant's comms during his encounters with the Red Scar Empire. The speaker sounded calm, confident, his tone warm and rich. A personal conversation, perhaps.

  Evan stopped outside the door, his pulse quickening. He shifted his grip on the shotgun, preparing to enter and confront whoever was in the room, but before he could turn the knob, footsteps approached from behind him. Evan moved on instinct, darting through the nearest open doorway into what turned out to be a small study. He eased the door almost closed, leaving a crack just wide enough to see through, and pressed himself against the back of the door.

  The footsteps passed his hiding spot. Stopped at the door where the alien voice had been speaking.

  Through the crack, Evan watched a man open that door and step inside. He was young, dressed in tactical gear and moving with the confident bearing of someone who belonged here. And on his wrist, visible for just a moment as his hand grasped the door handle, a tattoo of copper-lined contrails against pale blue skin.

  Skytrace. No question about it now.

  The door closed behind the man, but not before Evan heard the alien voice fall silent. Then, muffled but audible through the wood, the newcomer spoke, his tone carrying an edge of irritation. "English. Speak English, Father."

  A response came from inside, the words unclear but the cadence unmistakably chiding. Evan pressed closer to the door, straining to hear.

  "You've grown too native, Devin." Older, authoritative, the first man—the one that had been speaking in the alien language—now spoke in English. "You've lost touch with our heritage."

  The newcomer laughed, the sound carrying easily through the door. "You can't go back to where we came from. There's no point pretending you still need the mother tongue. This is your home now, whether you like it or not."

  Silence for a moment. Then the older voice continued, apparently ignoring the comment entirely. "Have you picked up Marshall's trail yet?"

  Evan's heart rate spiked at the mention of his name.

  "Not yet." The younger man's voice had shifted to business. "He must have finally realized how extensive our surveillance network is. He hasn't used his credit card or phone in days. And he knows better than to use the effigy any more. It won't be easy for him to get anywhere without making a transaction we can track. It's only a matter of time before he makes a mistake and we locate him."

  "Time we might not have. Focus on street cameras. Facial recognition. He'll turn up somewhere." The older voice paused. "What about the other factions?"

  "The Red Scar are regrouping after what Marshall did to them at the barn."

  "To us." The older man's correction came sharp. "He did it to all of us. We lost our best unit out there. Mathias⁠—"

  "At least he finished his prior mission before Marshall iced him."

  "You shouldn't speak so carelessly about him. It's disrespectful."

  "The Umbrals remain well-coordinated, likely tracking Marshall the same way we are," the young man continued, without apologizing for his comment. "Our informants tell us the High Commander nearly had him in Oridian, but he escaped her grasp there as well."

  Evan filed the terms away. High Commander. Oridian. They had to be talking about the woman from the van, the one who commanded the Möbius ship. She had a title. And what else? In Oridian. The location where she'd almost caught him. Was that a sector of space? Or the name of their galaxy?

  "Sara must be beside herself to fail so completely." The older voice carried a note of satisfaction. "Both her and her father."

  "I'm sure."

  "We need to find Marshall before she does." The older voice hardened. "The Umbrals cannot get the Ascendant. It would be the end of us. The end of everything we've worked so hard to achieve."

  "We have our best people on it."

  "Our best people after Mathias and his team," the older man said, his tone briefly depressed. Then he shifted topics, the change in subject making Evan's ears perk up. "Speaking of hunts. What about the rogue element? The traitors?"

  The younger man laughed, a cold sound without humor. "Our teams are moving into position as we speak. They have no idea Mathias compromised their network and we know everything they were planning."

  "Hoping to destroy us." The older man's voice carried deep satisfaction now. "I'll enjoy watching them die instead. It might even make up for the debacle at the barn. Go and take care of the details. Report back once it's done."

  "Yes, Father."

  Evan heard the door open, heard footsteps receding back down the corridor. The younger man was leaving, following orders from what was apparently a family hierarchy within Skytrace's leadership. At least this segment of the leadership. He had no way to know if he was in their main compound or a satellite operation.

  He remained in place for another minute, listening. There was no further conversation from the room, which meant the older man was likely alone now. No guards. No witnesses. Just a single person who clearly held significant authority within the organization and could potentially answer every question Evan had been struggling to piece together from fragments and speculation.

  He eased the door open another inch, confirming the corridor was empty. The younger man's footsteps had faded entirely. The door to the other room remained closed.

  One man. Alone. With answers.

  Evan adjusted his grip on the shotgun and stepped out of the study.

  15

  Evan crossed the corridor in three quick strides. The door handle turned smoothly beneath his grip. He pushed through and pulled it closed behind him in a single fluid motion, the latch clicking into place with a sound that seemed impossibly loud in the sudden stillness.

  The room was larger than he'd expected. A converted bedroom, clearly, with the dimensions of a master suite but none of the furnishings one might anticipate. The man stood with his back to the French doors on the far wall, doors that were open onto a balcony overlooking what appeared to be formal gardens, their geometric hedges barely visible in the decorative lighting sprinkled throughout the area.

  A heavy desk dominated the space behind the man where a bed should have been, its surface covered with papers and a laptop that glowed with the pale light of an active screen. Bookshelves lined two walls, filled with volumes that looked more decorative than enjoyably readable. Silhouetted against those glass doors, his attention fixed on something in the gardens below, the man was older than his voice had suggested, with silver hair cropped short and shoulders that had once been broader now settling into the stoop of advancing years. He wore a tailored jacket over dark slacks, the kind of casual elegance that spoke of wealth and influence.