The Ambush at Port Phillip

POV: Malia

The relentless beat of rain against the reinforced glass of the SUV was the only sound keeping me tethered to reality. Outside, the industrial sprawl of Port Phillip slipped past in blurry streaks of rusted shipping containers, towering gantry cranes, and the sickly amber glow of low-pressure sodium lamps.

Beside me in the rear passenger seat, Jarrah sat in complete silence.

He hadn't spoken a single word since we crossed the bridge three miles back. His massive frame occupied almost the entire right side of the cab, broad shoulders tense beneath his dark tactical jacket. One hand rested on his knee, the knuckles bruised and grey from a fight two days prior, while his gaze remained glued to the side mirror. Every muscle in his body was coiled so tight it felt like a wire about to snap under pressure.

"You're breathing like you're already in a fight," I murmured, my voice barely carrying over the low hum of the engine and the splash of tires over standing water.

Jarrah didn't turn his head immediately. He just let out a slow, heavy breath through his nose, his jaw tightening until the muscle in his cheek twitched. When his dark eyes finally shifted toward me, the raw intensity in them made my breath catch in my throat.

"We shouldn't have taken the coastal route, Malia," he said, his voice a low, gravelly baritone that vibrated right through the leather seats. "The docks are a funnel. If someone wanted to corner three armored vehicles, this is where they'd lay the trap."

"Your security team cleared the perimeter twenty minutes ago," I reminded him, though I could hear the frail tremor in my own voice. I hated how vulnerable I felt in this quiet space with him. For weeks, we had been dancing around everything left unsaid. The shared glances, the desperate touch of hands in the dark, the terrifying reality that whatever was building between us was going to ruin us both. "We're fifteen minutes from the safehouse."

"Clearing a route doesn't mean it stays clean," he muttered softly.

He reached across the narrow gap between us. For a brief second, I thought he was reaching for the side door lock, but instead, his rough, warm fingers brushed against the back of my hand. The contrast was staggering: his skin was calloused, scarred, and warm, while mine felt like ice. The small, deliberate touch sent a jolt straight to my heart, a sharp reminder of how utterly dependent I had become on his presence.

"If anything feels wrong when we slow down," Jarrah whispered, his dark eyes searching my face with an almost painful solemnity, "you don't wait for me to give an order. You get flat on the floorboards, and you stay there. Do you hear me?"

"Jarrah, don't talk like"

The world exploded.

A deafening, metallic CRACK shattered the night, a noise so violent and loud it didn't just register in my ears; it slammed directly into my chest like a sledgehammer.

Ahead of us, the lead armored truck in our convoy lifted two feet off the asphalt as its engine block was obliterated by an anti-material round. Sparks, black smoke, and jagged debris erupted into the air like a fountain of fire. Our driver slammed on the brakes, the tires screaming against the wet pavement as two tons of steel skidded wildly sideways toward a row of stacked shipping containers.

"DOWN!" Jarrah roared.

Before I could even register the burning smell of rubber or the blinding flash of secondary explosions, Jarrah's heavy arm swung around my waist. With terrifying, fluid strength, he yanked me out of my seat and dragged me toward the floorboard behind the driver's chair.

Another supersonic round cracked through the damp night air.

THWACK-BOOM.

The driver’s side windshield disintegrated into a cloud of powdery, crystal dust. The driver didn't even have time to scream before the vehicle slammed hard into the base of a rusted red container, the brutal collision jerking us violently forward.

Alarm sirens wailed from the dashboard. Thick, acrid smoke began pouring through the shattered dashboard vents. Outside, automatic gunfire broke out in a rhythmic, deafening chatter of heavy rounds tearing through the convoy’s support vehicles.

"Malia, stay under me!" Jarrah shouted over the chaos.

He didn't just push me down; he covered me completely. His massive body slammed over mine like an iron shield, pinning me flat against the carpeted floor. I was trapped beneath his weight, my face pressed into the crook of his neck. I could smell the rain on his jacket, the sharp scent of gunsmoke, and the clean, heat-soaked scent of his skin. His arms locked around my head and shoulders, shielding every exposed inch of my body with his own.

"Jarrah, let me help; I can"

"Don't move!" he growled into my hair, his chest heaving violently against my back. "They have an elevated high-caliber sniper on the crane rig! They're targeting the passenger compartments!"

Through the small gap between his shoulder and the seat, I saw the night sky outside turn incandescent. A rocket-propelled grenade streaked low across the wet pavement, striking the pavement five yards from our rear door.

The shockwave didn't just shake the vehicle; it tore the rear passenger door clean off its hinges.

A blinding spray of twisted metal, white-hot shrapnel, and shattered safety glass tore into the interior of the cabin.

Jarrah stiffened above me.

A choked, guttural sound tore from the back of his throat—a sound so filled with agony that my stomach dropped into an abyss. I felt the violent tremor that surged through his entire frame as a jagged piece of hot steel sliced through his tactical vest, plunging deep into his upper back near his left shoulder.

"Jarrah!" I screamed, the sound swallowed by the deafening ringing in my ears.

His weight buckled for a second, sagging heavily onto me. I could feel the intense, overwhelming heat of his blood instantly soaking through his dark shirt, hot and wet where his shoulder pressed against my collarbone.

"I'm... I'm good," he wheezed out, his teeth grinding so hard I could hear the enamel squeak. He forced himself up by sheer willpower, pushing his arms straight to keep his crushing weight off my ribs, even as blood dripped from his jaw onto my cheek. "I'm fine. Don't look at it."

"You're hit! You took the hit for me!" Panic, absolute and hysterical, clawed at my throat. I reached up with trembling, slippery hands, trying to press my palm against the gushing wound on his back, but he grabbed my wrist, pinning my hand back down to the floor.

"Malia, listen to me!" he commanded, his eyes bloodshot, pupils dilated with shock and agony. "They aren't trying to disable the convoy. This is a targeted hit. They knew our route."

Outside, the heavy chatter of automatic rifles suddenly died down, replaced by the crunch of tactical boots marching purposefully over broken glass and wet gravel.

Jarrah reached for his sidearm at his hip, but his left arm collapsed beneath him, sending a fresh wave of agony across his face. He spat a mouthful of blood onto the floorboard, forcing his right hand to rack the slide of his pistol.

Through the torn-open side of the vehicle, the thick coastal fog swirled into the cab, bringing with it the smell of burning diesel and blood.

Then, two bright red laser sight dots danced across the smoke-filled interior. One settled directly over Jarrah’s bleeding chest.

The second red dot crawled up my shoulder, coming to a dead stop right between my eyes.

A cold, unfamiliar voice echoed from the fog outside the ruined door, smooth and devoid of any humanity.

"Hands where we can see them, Lady Malia. Or I execute the dog protecting you right now.”