The bastard swings a pipe at his head.
Traz ducks, snarling, and rams his blaster butt into the man's gut, then kicks him hard enough that he slams into a rusted loader and crumples.
I suck in a sharp breath.
Joren whimpers against my leg.
Aria sobs silent tears against my neck.
I clutch them both tighter.
"Hold on," I whisper. "Just hold on, babies."
Traz fires again—center mass—dropping another attacker.
But there’s too many.
Way too many.
For every one he drops, two more step over the bodies to get closer.
Silpha shouts something I can’t hear over the roar.
Petru moves forward, casual, calm, like he’s got all the time in the world.
He lifts his blaster.
Aims straight for Traz’s back.
My heart freezes.
"Traz!" I scream.
He turns, too late.
A shot rings out.
Sharp and ugly.
But it’s Silpha’s blaster.
She drops Petru’s second-in-command mid-sprint.
Traz throws himself sideways, rolling behind a crate.
Returns fire.
Blood blooms in the chest of another thug.
But it’s chaos.
Pure chaos.
The hangar shakes with the thunder of weapons.
Smoke curls thick and greasy through the air.
My babies cry harder.
