Page 28 of Wraith: Lethal Impact

My heart stops.

No hesitation. No calculation. She stepped onto the ledge and launched herself across the eight-foot gap.

Her running shoes kiss the wet gravel. She absorbs the impact through her knees, balance unwavering—a landing honed by a lifetime in the studio.

She rises, unbothered by the drop she cleared.

"Lead the way." She meets my gaze, resolve burning through the rain.

Her lack of fear is exhilarating. It's also a liability. She doesn't respect the danger. She doesn't understand the physics of the urban battlefield. In her world, the stage is a sanctuary. In mine, a single miscalculation is a closed casket.

"Do not jump until I tell you to jump. The rain compromises the friction coefficient of the concrete. You slip, you die."

"I don't slip." Her chin tilts up, a spark of defiance in her green eyes.

I turn away, suppressing the urge to shake the arrogance out of her. I push the pace, moving across the uneven landscape of the Bangkok rooftops.

We navigate the maze of satellite dishes, exhaust vents, and tangled power lines for twenty minutes. The rain provides cover, masking our movement from the streets below.

She keeps up. She leaps the narrow alleyways and scales the low chain-link fences without breaking rhythm. She's fluid and weightless where I'm momentum and mass.

It's beautiful. And it's unnerving.

We reach the edge of the commercial district. The neon-drenched canopy of the lower street markets stretches out below us, an ocean of corrugated tin roofs, rusted awnings, and crowds. The relay den is buried deep in that maze.

I raise my hand, signaling a halt.

A high-pitched hum cuts through the roar of the rain—the oscillating whine of a rotary engine.

I drop to a knee, pulling her down behind the bulk of a water tower.

"Drone." I scan the heavy clouds. "Consortium overwatch."

A military-grade quadcopter breaks through the low cloud cover, its four rotors fighting the downpour. A beam of red laser light cuts through the darkness, sweeping the rooftops in slow, even rows.

"Thermal optics." I track its search pattern. The rain is cooling the concrete, making our body heat stand out like flares on their monitors. "That beam touches us, they have a lock. An extraction team hits this roof in ninety seconds."

"How do we hide?" She shifts closer, the bravado cracking.

"We don't. We break line of sight." I scan the terrain. "The lower market. The heat from the food stalls, the crowds, and the electrical grids will blind their thermal sensors. We have to get under the tin canopy."

I look over the edge of the roof.

The closest entry point to the market canopy is the roof of an abandoned warehouse across a fifteen-foot alleyway.

A desperate jump. For a man of my size, a calculated risk. For her, a physical impossibility.

"You can't make that jump." I turn back to her. "I cross first. I secure a cable from the water tower and rig a strap. You follow on the line."

The red laser sweeps across the adjacent roof, tracking toward our position. Twenty seconds before the thermal camera paints our heat signatures.

"There's no time." She looks at the approaching drone, her green eyes wide.

"I'll make the time." I step back, creating the runway for the sprint. "Stay behind the tank until the line is secure."

No time to argue. I sprint, boots pounding the wet gravel, and hit the parapet at maximum velocity, launching into the rain.

The fifteen-foot gap vanishes below.