Los Muertos

The skiff shudders in the firewash, but the Commander does not. He snaps a hand signal to his crew, then steps back from the hatch as if the blast itself is beneath him.

The Vulture lurches hard. Smoke floods the gap. For one second the Yakuza skiff hangs in view, its bow lit orange, then the Commander drops out of sight behind his own armored railing.

A side thruster flares. The skiff peels away into the neon haze, dragging its soldiers with it and leaving the hatch open to the wind and the smell of scorched plating.

Kay leaves The Vulture behind and arrives at Yakuza skiff.

Jetpack clamps bite down on Kay’s shoulders. He drops from the Vulture in a hot, clean arc, neon haze rushing past his boots.

The exhaust catches. He rockets straight for the skiff’s open hatch, smoke and tracer glow washing over its armored lip.

Inside the enemy hold, startled Yakuza hands jerk up from consoles and rifles. One of them points, shouting for the hatch.

Kay twists midair, skims the frame, and hits the threshold with enough force to clear the opening.

For a heartbeat he has the skiff. The cargo bay is his, the commander’s crew thrown back, and a tagged transit chip blinks red on a belt near the bulkhead.

Then the world snaps into motion around him, alarms rising as the hatch gapes wide behind his landing.

Kay explodes forward in the skiff, jetpack wash shoving him low under the nearest rifle line.

He slams into the first soldier and drives him backward into the console bank, metal and bodies crashing together.

The second guard snaps up his weapon, but Kay twists inside the lane, strips the barrel aside, and yanks the man off balance.

A hard heave sends the second guard tumbling up and away, boots flailing into the red light.

The third soldier fires. Kay rolls through the burst, comes up on one knee, and answers with a clean burst from his Mac 10.

The first guard collapses out of Kay's path, the second spins through the air, and the third staggers behind a spray of sparks as alarms keep shrieking.

The skiff’s aisle jerks under Kay’s weight as the commander steps into view, katana clearing its sheath with a cold metallic kiss.

Kay closes the distance before the blade can find room to work, smashing inside the sword line and driving the commander’s arm wide.

The katana bites sparks off the damaged console casing instead of flesh, and the commander stumbles half a step, suddenly forced onto defense.

The skiff shudders again, red alarms washing both men in pulse-light as Kay claims the inside lane and the commander fights to recover his grip.

Kay comes up in a tight boxing guard and works the commander’s centerline with brutal economy. The first jab snaps the visor back, the second steals his balance, and the straight lands hard enough to twist his shoulders off line.

Kay keeps driving, left to the body, then left high, folding the commander’s breath and guard at once. The katana dips uselessly as the man tries to protect two levels of pain.

The right uppercut finishes it. The commander’s head jerks up, his knees buckle, and he drops out of the fight in a dead heap across the aisle.

Kay’s knuckles split inside the wrap, and the skiff answers with a fresh shriek of alarms, louder now that no one is left to give the order.

The unconscious soldier lies twisted near the damaged bulkhead, while the tagged transit chip flashes by the console edge in the red strobe.

Ahead, the open hatch spills neon fog into the aisle as the skiff lurches, commandless and drifting. The siren keeps screaming, waiting for whoever moves next.

Kay leaves Yakuza skiff behind and arrives at Vulture.

The Vulture fills Kay’s vision in a hard white rush, its hatch yawning open against the neon smear of Los Muertos. Wind claws at his coat as he clears the gap and drops inside.

Steel boots hit the deck. The crew snaps into view, spread around the cargo bay, all of them looking up at the sound of his landing.

Behind Kay, the skiff breaks apart in the distance, lights tilting down into Chinatown like a falling blade. Sirens bloom below, then cut under the roar of traffic.

The Vulture shudders, but holds. Somewhere aft, the tagged transit chip keeps flashing red by the bulkhead display, and the open hatch floods the bay with cold city air.