Rashid lit a cigarette, the tip glowing like a tiny, angry star in the darkness. He took a long drag, smoke ghosting from his nostrils. For a while, the only sound was the buzzing of insects colliding with the yellow security lamps.

  "Alright, fatty," he said at last, his voice a low rumble. "You've got a plan, or are you just planning on dying heroically?"

  Jack hunched over his data-slate, the pale green light cutting shadows across his sweating face. He'd already punched in a set of coordinates.

  "Twenty klicks southeast, the terrain breaks into mountains," he said, his tone stripped of fear, replaced by a cold, mechanical focus. "Dense forest, all the way. If we're lucky, we can make it into the foothills before their search parties catch us. Mechs are useless in broken ground. We might just vanish."

  Rashid squinted at the map. "Vanish where, Jack? You can't feed a few hundred half-starved civvies on mountain air. What about food? Water?"

  Jack's mouth twitched into something like a smile. "One step at a time, Captain. First, we get them out of this hole. This camp has enough rations and weapons to keep them going for a while. After that, I'll figure it out. Maybe hit a logistics depot, steal a transport, cash in a favor from the Air Force. Worst case, I march them south to Loki City. Under siege, sure, but it's better than this slaughterhouse."

  Rashid studied him in silence, then a rare respect sparked in his eyes. He slapped Jack's shoulder, hard enough to sting.

  "You're a crazy bastard, you know that?" His voice carried a warmth that surprised even himself. "I'll leave you a squad. One Stinger, one Juggernaut. I'll take Third Platoon northeast and give the Imperials something to chase. The rest is yours."

  "No," Jack snapped. "Absolutely not. The company has its own mission. I won't let you throw your men away for me."

  Rashid's smile soured into anger. "You looking down on me, Lieutenant? My mission is to wreak havoc behind enemy lines. Getting these people out is havoc. And how the hell do you plan on taking a depot with a mob of starving prisoners? Have them chew through the armor plating? Don't be an idiot. This is happening. I'm leaving you, Sergeant Torik. The kid swears he's never seen hands move that fast on a disassembled rifle. Thinks you're some kind of sorcerer."

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  Jack didn't argue. Surrounded by the stink of death and the promise of more, words were useless. He just snapped a perfect salute.

  "We'll see you on the other side, Captain. Don't be late for that victory drink."

  "First round's on you," Rashid said, returning the salute.

  He turned to leave, then paused, watching Jack's broad back as the man barked orders across the compound. Insects battered the lamps overhead, driven by a blind, suicidal hunger for the light. Rashid wondered—who was the moth, and who the flame?

  "HEY!" Jack's voice carried, breaking his thought. "Get your asses in gear! I need at least three hours! That was the deal!"

  The fat bastard was already acting like a commander. Rashid barked a laugh, bitter and proud at once. "Learns fast," he muttered. And in that moment, he knew: he'd left his back in the hands of this coward, and somehow it had never felt safer.

  As First Company filed out, each soldier stopped before Jack. One by one, they gave him a slow, formal salute—the highest honor one soldier could provide another. A farewell to a man they believed was walking willingly into the jaws of death.

  Jack could hardly breathe. His body trembled, eyes brimming.

  Not with pride. With terror.

  Fuck, fuck, fuck, I couldn't keep my mouth shut. Look at them—they're saying goodbye to my ghost.

  As the last of his "mourners" departed, the coward went to work.

  Running wasn't an option. Twenty klicks of jungle was a death march. Roads were suicide. And he didn't have enough mechs to carry everyone. Even Thor, for all its jury-rigged wonders, could only haul a dozen before it became useless.

  If you can't go over, and you can't go through—then go under.

  It was madness. But madness was all he had.

  They would dig.

  Sergeant Torik and the healthiest prisoners scavenged the wreckage of Imperial machines. Arms and legs became the drive system for a massive, articulated drill. Engines chained together to power a single monstrous bit—fashioned from the gutted energy cannon of a Juggernaut. The transports were welded into segmented cars for the wounded, the food, and the weapons. It was a subterranean train, an armored worm.

  The tunnel mouth was hidden in the gutted barracks. The worm chewed downward, the drill vaporizing earth and rock, while its arms pressed the rubble into the walls. Within half an hour, they had burrowed beneath the highway, turning east, shadowing its path like a parasite.

  Then Jack's voice came over the comms: "Stop."

  The tunnel fell silent. Hundreds held their breath in the dark.

  Above, the stage was set. The real trick was about to begin.