A Traitor Exposed

​POV: Malia

​The cold in the lower maintenance tunnels of Sector Four didn't just bite at the skin; it settled into the bones. It smelled of stagnant seawater, machine oil, and the slow, copper decay of rusting iron beams. Every breath I took turned into a thin ghost of steam in the humid darkness, disappearing into the maze of pipes above us.

​Behind me, Jarrah moved with the silence of a man who had made a lifelong practice of surviving in shadows. He didn't touch me, but I could feel the heat radiating from his body, a steady, terrifying anchor in the dark.

​My hand rested lower down on my thigh, where the hard weight of the tactical combat knife pressed against my leather trousers. It was Jarrah’s blade. He had buckled the sheath onto my belt three weeks ago, his calloused fingers brushing against my hip while his low, raspy voice repeated the same lesson until my muscle memory caught up with my fear: Never fight the grip, Malia. Go for the nerve. Use the steel to carve yourself an exit.

​"Two paces ahead," Jarrah murmured, his breath brushing the top of my ear so softly it felt like a ghost's kiss. "Under the junction box. He’s using an isolated frequency."

​My chest tightened. I didn't want it to be Vance. I wanted the traitor to be a ghost, a nameless mercenary paid off by Alastair’s deep pockets. Lieutenant Vance had eaten at our mess hall. He had walked the defense perimeters with us. He had looked Jarrah in the eye and sworn his allegiance to the Calaby port defense.

​We stepped around the curved edge of a rusted moisture condenser.

​There, bathed in the sickly green light of a portable tactical terminal, sat Lieutenant Vance.

​He was bent over the screen, his fingers clicking furiously on the mechanical keys. A thick black cable snaked from his device directly into the port’s primary encryption hub, the main line that controlled the automated sea gates and harbor defense turrets. On the screen, thousands of lines of blue code were turning red, block by block, as they were bypassed and mirrored to an external receiver.

​"You're a long way from the officer's quarters, Vance," I said. My voice didn't tremble. I made sure of it.

​Vance jumped, his spine slamming against the metal wall behind him. The green glow caught the greasy sheen of sweat covering his face. His eyes darted wildly between me and the dark outline of Jarrah emerging from the gloom at my shoulder.

​"Malia," Vance stammered, his hand scrambling toward the keyboard to wipe the drive. "It's not what it looks like. I was running a diagnostic. We had a breach protocol alert"

​"Save it," Jarrah growled. The sound was a low, animal rumble that vibrated through the floorboards. He took one step forward, his hand hovering near the grip of his sidearm. "The receiver address on that display belongs to Alastair's black-market liaison in the eastern bay. You just handed him the master codes to the harbor doors."

​Vance’s face went hollow. The panic in his eyes turned into something sour and ugly: the frantic realization of a trapped rat.

​"I didn't have a choice!" Vance screamed, his voice cracking against the damp concrete walls. "Alastair has my family! He has my brother in the northern camps! You don't know what he does to people who fail him!"

​"And you brought that monster to our doorstep," I replied, taking a slow, measured step toward the terminal. "You sold out three thousand civilians to save yourself."

​"Stay back!" Vance shrieked.

​Everything happened in a fraction of a second. Vance didn't go to the terminal. He threw himself forward, reaching for the sidearm bolted to his tactical vest.

​Jarrah cleared his holster in a heartbeat, his barrel raising to center mass, but Vance wasn't shooting to kill. He lunged straight at me, using the narrowness of the tunnel to throw his weight into my chest. The impact slammed me back against the cold, damp pipe. Pain flared down my spine, blinding and white, and before I could recover my footing, Vance’s heavy arm locked around my neck.

​Metal clicked against my temple. The cold nose of a heavy-caliber pistol jammed hard into the soft flesh beneath my jawline.

​"Drop it, Jarrah!" Vance yelled, his chest heaving wildly against my back. His breath stank of stale coffee and fear. "Drop the gun, or I'll put a round through her brain! I swear to God, I'll pull the trigger!"

​The tunnel fell into a dead, suffocating silence, broken only by the drip of water from the ceiling and Vance's ragged gasps.

​Jarrah froze.

​I looked straight down the barrel of Jarrah's weapon. His eyes, usually so controlled, so impossibly calm, were blazing with a terror so raw it tore right through me. The muscles in his jaw were clenched so tight I thought his teeth would shatter. His hands, usually as steady as stone, trembled with the agonizing restraint it took not to shoot Vance right through the forehead. But the angle was too tight. If he fired, the bullet might pass straight through Vance and hit me.

​"Jarrah..." I whispered, my airway partially crushed under Vance's forearm.

​"Let her go, Vance," Jarrah said. His voice was no longer human; it was a flat, terrifying whisper carrying the absolute promise of death. "Let her go, and I'll let you walk out of this tunnel alive."

​"You're lying!" Vance screamed, digging the barrel deeper into my neck. "You're going to put me in a hole! Lower the gun! On the ground! Now!"

​Jarrah slowly began to ease his weapon downward, his eyes locking onto mine. In those dark, tormented eyes, I saw something that made my heart hammer against my ribs. It wasn't just fear for my life; it was a desperate, unyielding worship. He was ready to throw away every tactical advantage, ready to let a traitor walk, just to keep me breathing.

​No.

​I wasn't going to be the reason Jarrah failed. I wasn't going to be the hostage that brought down Calaby.

​Jarrah's voice echoed in my head from those late nights in the training yard: When a man holds you from behind, he relies on his upper body weight. He forgets his limbs. He forgets the steel.

​My left hand drifted down, slow and imperceptible, brushing against the hilt of Jarrah's blade. My fingers wrapped around the woven leather grip.

​Vance was leaning all his weight on me, screaming at Jarrah. "Drop it! On your knees, Jarrah!"

​I didn't hesitate.

​I didn't pull the knife out to threaten him. I drew it in one smooth, blinding motion, driving the rear butt of the handle backward into Vance’s solar plexus. He choked, his grip loosening for a microsecond as the breath exploded out of his lungs.

​Before he could pull the trigger, I twisted inside his hold, grabbing his gun wrist with my left hand and driving the silver tip of Jarrah’s knife straight down into the meat of Vance’s forearm.

​Vance let out a high-pitched, agonizing shriek as the steel bit deep, severing the tendon. His fingers opened reflexively, and the pistol clattered onto the concrete.

​I didn't stop. The adrenaline surged through my veins like liquid fire. Pivoting on my heel, I slammed my elbow into Vance’s jaw, swung the blade around, and planted the flat side of the heavy steel against his windpipe while sweeping his back leg out from under him.

​Vance hit the wet floor with a sickening crunch.

​In a single fluid motion, I brought my knee down onto his chest, pressing the razor-sharp point of Jarrah’s knife directly into the soft spot beneath his chin. A single bead of dark crimson blood welled up around the tip.

​"Move," I panted, my hair falling loose around my face, "and I'll bleed you like a pig."

​Vance lay there, gasping, his hands twitching near his wounded arm, completely broken and immobilized.

​The tunnel went dead quiet again.

​I sat there on top of the traitor, my chest heaving, the knife held steady in my grip. Blood dripped down the polished steel onto my knuckles.

​Slowly, I looked up.

​Jarrah hadn't moved. His gun was still held low-ready, but his eyes... God, his eyes were burning.

​He stared at me as if he were looking at a goddess of war who had just descended into the dirt. The terror in his face had completely evaporated, replaced by a fierce, wild, almost terrifying adoration. He breathed out a heavy, ragged sigh, his broad shoulders dropping as the realization washed over him: I hadn't just survived; I had dismantled the enemy with his own training.

​He stepped forward, completely ignoring the bleeding traitor on the ground, and knelt beside me. He didn't look at Vance. His hands came up to frame my face, his calloused thumbs wiping away a smudge of grease on my cheek. His touch was so tender, so fiercely protective, it made my breath catch in my throat.

​"You absolutely wonder," Jarrah whispered, his voice thick with an emotion so deep it made my heart ache. His dark eyes searched every inch of my face, checking for injuries, his pulse pounding against my cheeks through his palms. "You didn't even need me."

​"You taught me," I breathed, leaning slightly into his hands, the blade still pinned against Vance's neck.

​"I taught you how to hold a knife," Jarrah murmured, leaning in until his forehead rested against mine, his hot breath mingling with mine in the cold, damp air. "You brought the fire yourself."

​He kissed my hair, hard and lingering, his fingers tightening in my strands as if he never intended to let me go again. Then, his face hardened as he looked down at Vance.

​"Get up, traitor," Jarrah snarled, pulling a pair of heavy iron restraints from his belt. "You have an appointment in the cells."