The comm crackles.
Then a burst of static.
Lock-on alerts scream across the dash.
Missile locks.
Multiple.
Fast.
My gut clenches.
I slam the controls sideways, sending the freighter into a gut-churning roll just as the first projectile blazes past the viewport, a white-hot streak of death.
Another one slams into the rear stabilizer.
The ship shudders so hard the bones in my teeth rattle.
Sparks shower from the console.
Alarms shriek, red lights flashing like war drums in the cramped cockpit.
“Shit,” I snarl under my breath, hands flying over the controls, trying to stabilize the spin.
But it’s too late.
The freighter’s nose tips down, hard, and the world outside whirls into a dizzy blur of ground, sky, and smoke.
They recognized me.
Of course they did.
Petru’s people never forget a threat.
And I left too many scars last time to blend in now.
The ship groans as I fight the controls, trying to angle the crash.
Better to hit dirt than smash straight into one of the Spine’s outer barricades.
Metal screams as the hull rips open somewhere in the back.
Pressure drops fast, a roaring in my ears.
I can barely see through the smoke.
No choice.
I brace hard.
Yank the emergency crash harness tight.
And pray to gods I stopped believing in years ago.
The freighter slams into the ground like a falling star.
The impact punches the air out of my lungs.
