Page 76 of Nansar
Slowly, deliberately, I wrapped my fingers around the dart and pulled it free. Then I started to laugh—a sound that began as a low chuckle and built into something wild and unrestrained.
The drug didn't work. Thanks to the vaccination, my body rejected it completely. No fog descending over my thoughts, no compulsion slithering through my veins, no helpless surrender.
And with that realization came something even more powerful.
The fear that had lived in my bones since the first time he'd drugged me—the terror that had colonized my nightmares and haunted my waking hours—simply... evaporated. Like morning mist under a merciless sun.
I wasn't his. I never would be again.
The power was mine. The choice was mine. My body, my mind, my future—mine.
And Declan? He was nothing but a man with a dart gun and delusions of godhood, standing before someone who had finally remembered she was free.
Declan's smile died on his lips. "What—"
"Did you really think," I said, my laughter sharp as broken glass as I flicked the dart at his feet, "that I wouldn't get vaccinated against your poison?" I stepped toward him, drinking in the way his eyes widened with dawning realization. "Your tricks don't work on me anymore, Declan. None of them ever will again."
His face contorted, rage mottling his skin as his jaw clenched hard enough to crack teeth. "Fine," he snarled, snapping his fingers at the Trogvyk guards. "Take her. Take them both. We're done here."
The guards surged forward, weapons gleaming—but they'd barely closed half the distance when all hell broke loose.
Nansar exploded from the treeline like a god of war given flesh, his battle cry splitting the air—a sound so raw, so utterly savage that it turned my blood to lightning. He was a weapon in motion, all lethal grace and controlled fury, his fist crushing into the nearest guard's jaw before the Trogvyk even registered the threat. The guard dropped like a stone, out cold before gravity claimed him.
Ahrick's laugh rang out—wild and fierce—as he swept his captor's legs and drove an elbow into an alien skull with devastating precision.
"Ahrick!" Nansar's hand flew to his back, unhooking the axe and sending it spinning through the air in a perfect arc.
Ahrick snatched it mid-flight, his grin turning predatory as he tested its weight with a practiced spin. "Finally."
Steel sang as Nansar drew his sword, the blade catching the light like a promise of violence.
Then the clearing became chaos.
I threw myself behind the nearest rock, pulse thundering in my ears. The blaster felt solid in my grip as I forced my breathing to steady, years of training overriding the adrenaline screaming through my veins. Shooting targets with my Dad. Navy drills. FBI range time. Muscle memory carved into bone.
I leaned out. Aimed. Fired.
The first bolt caught a Romvesian guard center mass, spinning him like a top. The second put him down for good. I tracked left, found another Trogvyk trying to flank Nansar. Squeezed the trigger. He dropped hard, armor smoking.
In the heart of the clearing, Nansar and Ahrick fought like they shared one mind—a brutal ballet of synchronized destruction. Ahrick's raw savagery melded seamlessly with Nansar's surgical precision, creating something beautiful andterrible. An electrified baton swung at Nansar's head; he caught the wielder's wrist, twisted, and used the guard's own weight to slam him into the earth hard enough to crack ribs. Ahrick carved through two more with his axe, each strike flowing into the next like water, like death given rhythm.
I dropped a guard lining up a shot on Ahrick. Then another creeping toward Nansar's blind side.
My hands didn't shake. My aim didn't waver. Every shot found its mark.
Minutes later, the Trogvyk guards littered the ground—unconscious, groaning, or simply done.
But our victory was short-lived.
The ship's loading ramp descended with a hydraulic hiss that made my blood run cold. Twenty more guards poured out like a swarm of hornets from a kicked nest—heavily armed, heavily armored, and moving with the kind of military precision that suggested we were royally screwed.
"Shit!" I squeezed off another shot, then another, my finger working the trigger like my life depended on it. Because it did. The blaster's charge indicator flashed angry orange, each bolt weaker than the last, like the weapon itself was giving up. I dropped two guards, wounded another, but they kept coming. An endless tide of armor and weapons.
God, what I wouldn't give for my Glock right now. Fifteen rounds, maybe two spare mags. At least then I'd know exactly how many bullets stood between me and death.
The blaster whined pathetically, its power cell gasping its last breath. I fired again—the bolt barely kissed my target's armor, leaving nothing but a scorch mark. Another squeeze of the trigger produced a fizzle and a puff of smoke.
Dead. The damn thing was dead.
