Page 138 of Alien War Daddy's Got Rizz

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“That’s not good,” she says.

“No,” I agree. “And it’s not coincidence. It’s Kreuger.”

Her voice tightens just the slightest fraction, the only hint I get that this rattles her, too. Not because she’s afraid—but because she knows how close this fight is to us.

“What do you need from me?” she asks.

“Right now?” I pause—eyes tracking feeds, fingerprints of signal anomalies creeping in lines that only make sense to someone who’s lived in warfare. “I need you in the loop. This one’s personal.”

Odd how that line—simple and unadorned—lands more firmly than any threat advisory we ever issued.

“I’ll be there,” she says. “And I’m not waiting in a bunker.”

I let that set for a beat.

And smile.

Then I switch into full tracking mode.

I don’t look at maps like most people do. I feel them—data streams become terrain, frequencies become trails, and every tiny deviation in signal signature is like a footprint in wet soil.

And right now, Kreuger’s trail is hot.

Very hot.

His crew has been sloppy. Not sloppy enough to be stupid. But sloppy enough to be vulnerable.

A misrouted hire contract here. A merc pay interface unshielded there. A dropped identifier in a forum no one in their right mind should be using.

Little things most operators would delete without a second thought.

Most.

But not Kreuger.

I track him to a satellite junction north of the city grid, off-planet. A decommissioned relay station.

When Yara arrives—no announcement, just presence—she walks in like command is a habitat she grew into, not a suit she learned to wear. Dark coat, eyes like blade steel, posture calm but charged.

“I tracked him,” I say without looking up. “He’s consolidating at a relay station on the fourth moon. Minimal civilian foot traffic, a perfect strike point.”

She listens, hands folded behind her back. Not anxious. Not alarmed. Just present.

“So we hit him where he thinks he’s safe,” she murmurs.

“Exactly.”

Her lips tighten.

“My call,” she says.

That’s the moment I love her more.

Not because she’s brave. Not because she refuses to back down. But because she chooses her battles with open eyes.

And that’s rarer than most soldiers.

We move fast. Not reckless—surgical.

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