Chapter 6 · Hold

"Get off the grate, Drake." My voice cracks wrong on his name, too rough for a command that's supposed to end things.

He doesn't get off the grate. He's already moving, boots slamming steel, and I go after him because that's the job — because if he reaches the scrubber housing before I do, whatever's in that duffel goes into the air scrubbers and the whole quarantine wing breathes it.

The yard alarm cuts the compound in three short bursts. Perimeter breach. My own siren, and I'm the one running against it.

Milo cuts left at the container stack, fast for a man his size, and I take the gap he leaves instead of following the turn. I catch him at the shoulder. He spins into it instead of away — that's his whole problem, he never runs from contact, he runs into it — and we go down together against the bio-lock door hard enough the pressure gasket screams.

"Wrong move, Captain." He's got a fistful of my collar, dragging me up instead of letting go, and I get my forearm under his jaw before he finishes the sentence.

My badge case is still clipped to my vest strap.