The dynamic tactical map on the table glowed in silent, shifting hues of amber and gray, casting jagged lines of neon light across the dark timber walls of Jake’s private quarters. It was past midnight. The countdown toward the 0600 transport window had narrowed to a handful of hours, and the air inside the room felt as thin and volatile as highly pressurized fuel.
Jake stood over the blueprints of the Sector Four supply veins, his massive hands braced against the wood, his eyes dark with calculated gravity. He had stripped off his dress uniform, wearing only a heavy black thermal shirt and his tactical trousers, the hard, scarred lines of his shoulders flexing with every tight movement.
"The loyalist network within the third division is secured," Jake said, his gravelly voice dropping i
