Page 133 of Scaled Daddy's Secret Heir
I shove the first guard’s body into his line of sight and slam the heel of my boot into his kneecap. It snaps.
He drops.
I catch his gun mid-fall.
Safety off. Barrel up. One shot to the ceiling camera to buy time.
I roll the guards’ unconscious bodies to block the hatch. Not perfect, but it’ll slow backup. Then I kneel and pull up the deck plate beneath the first seat on the left.
My gear’s still there.
Wrapped in vacuum-seal. Buried under layers of circuitry they’d never guess to check.
I strip out of the transport uniform. Underneath, I pull on the black weave armor—coded to my biometrics. Lightweight, adaptive, and laced with micro-filament defenses.
Next, the dermal patch. I press it to my temple.
It stings. Then hums.
The code pings my neural implant.
A voice—mine, recorded—whispers:“Execute Red Signal Nine.”
Every contingency I ever designed if the Alliance turned on me lights up across the system like nerve endings catching flame.
Dead drops activate in twelve cities.
Black sites start bleeding files into open air.
Across hidden nodes, caches detonate—video, logs, tactical footage, entire redacted dossiers pulled out of shadows.
Every name they tried to erase resurfaces.
Including mine.
But I’m not watching that now.
I’m loading the pulse rifle from the under-bench cache, checking the sights, the charge.
Movement outside the hatch.
Three seconds.
I reach into the panel behind me and hit the override.
The hatch blows outward in a fire of sparks.
Gunfire chases it.
I dive.
Roll.
Come up under a hail of noise and panic.
Senta’s already there—back to a wall, rifle steady.
“You’re late,” I grunt.
