They waited until Ceres Groundside went quiet the way predators liked it quiet.
Not silent—Ceres never went silent—but quieter. Fewer loaders moving. Fewer drunk voices spilling out of the cantinas. Patrol routes tightening into predictable loops. The kind of night where a crew with a plan could slip a knife between ribs and be gone before anyone figured out they'd been cut.
Lyra kept the Union buried in shadow behind a ridge of broken ore slag, landing lights off, heat signature throttled down. The Atlas stayed chained in the bay, clamps locked hard enough to make the deck plates complain. The captured Awesome stayed locked too—reactor stable, systems not yet ready to trust in a real fight.
Moonjaw went down without ceremony.
No speeches. No prayers. Just the sound of reactors waking and myomer tightening.
Dack's Dire Wolf walked first, heavy feet crunching rock and scrap. Taila's Griffin came tight behind his right, exactly where she'd drilled herself to be—support without crowding. Jinx's Highlander moved to high ground with the confidence of someone who liked angles and gravity. Morrigan's Marauder slid left into the container canyons like it belonged there, PPC capacitors humming low.
Lyra stayed with the Union, voice in their ears, eyes in the sky and in the yard's cheap cameras. Rook and Rafe stayed behind the blast doors, hands on tools, ready to patch whatever came back smoking.
"HRR yard is two klicks ahead," Lyra said. "Fence line's cheap, but the security isn't. They have an inner ring of sensors. Keep your reactors cold where you can."
Jinx laughed softly. "Cold. In a Highlander. Sure."
Dack's voice stayed blunt. "You're not funny."
Jinx's grin colored her words anyway. "I'm hilarious."
Taila didn't laugh. She watched the horizon through her canopy glass, jaw set. The raid wasn't training sims. This was the part where mistakes got you eaten.
They crested the last ridge and saw it.
Halden Risk & Recovery's "groundside yard" was a lie built out of concrete and steel. Tall floodlights. Fenced lanes for cargo crawlers. A warehouse spine with armored doors. A landing pad stamped with HRR's clean logo like they thought branding could wash blood off their hands.
Two mechs stood in visible guard positions—an intimidation choice, not a necessary one.
A Trebuchet on the right side of the pad, missile pods angled toward the empty badlands.
A Vindicator near the warehouse doors, PPC arm held like a warning.
Lyra's voice came tight. "There's more inside. Heat blooms behind the warehouse. They're keeping the heavier stuff tucked until they need it."
Dack didn't hesitate. "We don't linger."
He watched the patrol timing—two ground security trucks, one loop, floodlights sweeping in a pattern. Lyra's map overlay painted the dead zones.
"Thirty seconds," Lyra said. "Light sweep passes left. That's your gap."
Dack spoke once. "Go."
The Dire Wolf stepped down the slope and crossed the open ground like it didn't care about being seen—because at this point, being seen didn't matter. The only thing that mattered was speed and shock.
The fence line died in a burst of sparks under the Dire Wolf's weight. Chain-link snapped. Concrete footings cracked.
Alarms didn't scream right away.
They chirped—confused, delayed—because HRR assumed anyone approaching would come in soft and careful.
Moonjaw didn't.
The Trebuchet rotated first, missile doors snapping open.
Dack fired his LRMs in a tight ripple before the Trebuchet could launch—detonations chewing up the pad's edge and blasting dust and debris into its line. Not enough to cripple it, enough to make it flinch and shift.
Jinx used the moment. Her Highlander's gauss rifle barked once, deep and ugly, and the round slammed into the Trebuchet's left torso plating. Armor blew outward in a spray of shattered ferro.
"Hi," Jinx said brightly. "We're the audit."
The Trebuchet launched anyway—LRMs arcing into the night toward Jinx's ridge.
Lyra snapped, "Point defense is limited from the Union. Don't let them bracket you."
Jinx shifted her Highlander's stance, used the ridge's broken hull plating as cover. Missiles hammered rock and scrap instead of her cockpit.
Taila stayed tight to Dack's right, Griffin moving with controlled steps. She fired her PPC once—white-blue lightning cutting through the dark—striking the Vindicator's shoulder and forcing it to stagger back a step.
Morrigan's Marauder glided in from the left lane and raked the Vindicator with lasers, chewing into armor seams Taila had just cracked.
The Vindicator tried to return fire, PPC capacitor rising—
—and Dack answered with his AC/10, the shell slamming into the Vindicator's arm assembly hard enough to knock its weapon line wide. Sparks and smoke burst from the joint.
"Keep it off the warehouse," Dack said. "We're here for people and paper."
Lyra's voice cut in. "Venn's vehicle just landed. Small shuttle on Pad Two. Two escort trucks. He's on the move."
Dack's eyes tracked Pad Two.
A sleek shuttle with HRR markings had just touched down—too clean, too new. Ramp lowering. A cluster of bodyguards in hard armor spilling out like beetles.
And then a man in a coat stepped down, posture casual like he owned the ground.
Alaric Venn didn't look like a mechwarrior. He looked like the kind of man who paid other people to die and slept well afterward.
Dack's jaw tightened.
"That's him," Lyra confirmed. "Portable core will be with him."
Jinx's grin sharpened. "I want to shoot his legs."
Dack's answer was immediate. "No. We take him breathing."
Morrigan's voice came low. "I can break him later."
Dack ignored that part. "Now."
The Dire Wolf pushed forward, heavy feet cracking concrete. Floodlights swung toward him, then died—Lyra's interference slicing power for just long enough to blind the yard.
In the dark, the Trebuchet fired again, missiles streaking blind toward where it thought Dack was. Most slammed into the ground. A few burst against the Dire Wolf's armor, warning lights blinking.
Dack didn't flinch. He kept walking.
Taila's Griffin moved with him, launching a controlled LRM volley at the Trebuchet's legs—not a full dump, not sloppy—just enough to force it to step back and lose its clean missile angle.
The Trebuchet stumbled, then tried to pivot—
—and Jinx's Highlander answered with SRMs, the burst hammering into the Trebuchet's damaged torso. The heavy mech's missile pods drooped, smoke pouring out.
Morrigan's Marauder finished the Vindicator's resistance with a PPC shot that struck low, into the leg assembly. The Vindicator's knee buckled. It dropped, not dead, but out of the fight.
"Outer ring is collapsing," Lyra warned. "Inner bay doors just opened. Heavy signatures moving."
Dack already saw the warehouse doors splitting apart.
A Thunderbolt stepped out first—thick, armored, built to be a problem.
An Orion followed, autocannon barrel gleaming under emergency lights.
HRR wasn't playing salvage yard anymore. They were playing small House proxy.
Dack's voice stayed calm. "Jinx, keep missiles and gauss on the heavy. Morrigan, cut the Orion's angle. Taila—stay on me."
Taila didn't answer with words. Her Griffin simply moved closer, the way she did when she was afraid and refusing to admit it.
Venn's escort trucks tried to move. One turned toward the warehouse spine, trying to tuck him away. The other swung toward the fence breach, aiming to run.
Dack stepped into the lane like a wall and fired the AC/10 once.
The shell punched into the lead truck's engine block.
The vehicle flipped, metal tearing, bodies thrown.
Hard-armored escorts fired up at him with rifles and man-portable launchers that meant nothing against assault plating but still made the night bright with sparks.
Dack ignored it. He had a different target.
The second truck tried to turn away.
Taila's Griffin fired its PPC into the ground ahead of it—blast throwing dust and shrapnel into its path like a warning. The driver swerved, panicked, and hit a concrete barrier.
The truck stopped.
Venn stumbled out of the shuttle's ramp area, bodyguards dragging him toward cover.
Morrigan's Marauder cut across the yard and planted itself between Venn and the warehouse doors like a judge blocking a hallway.
"Where are you going," Morrigan murmured over comms, voice cold. "You're staying."
The Thunderbolt opened fire—LRMs and lasers chewing into the Marauder's right side. Morrigan took it, armor flashing.
Jinx answered with a gauss shot that struck the Thunderbolt's left torso, cracking plating and forcing it to shift its aim.
The Orion raised its autocannon and fired at Dack, the rounds hammering his Dire Wolf's armor. He stepped through it, feeling the impact as warning chimes and heat spikes.
He fired LRMs at the Orion's legs, forcing it to step wide. Then he followed with another AC/10 shot into the same knee joint.
Not a kill shot.
A control shot.
The Orion's leg actuators shrieked and it stumbled, forced to shift weight to avoid collapsing.
"Dack," Lyra snapped, "you have sixty seconds before more yard security arrives. There's a second response team inbound—vehicles and at least one light mech."
"Copy," Dack said.
He reached down with his Dire Wolf's hand and grabbed the wrecked truck's cab frame, ripping it away like it was cardboard. He didn't care about elegance. He cared about time.
Venn's bodyguards fired. One tried to run.
Dack didn't chase the runners. Morrigan did.
A laser rake from her Marauder carved the ground in front of a fleeing guard, stopping him so hard he tripped.
Jinx's Highlander stomped down from her ridge, using bulk as intimidation. "Hi," she called over external speakers, voice too cheerful. "Put the guns down or I'll start making art."
Most of them did.
The ones who didn't died fast.
Taila stayed near Dack and kept her Griffin aimed at the Thunderbolt's torso. She fired another LRM ripple, keeping the heavy mech pinned back from pushing into the center yard.
Dack's Dire Wolf's sensors locked on the man with the coat.
Alaric Venn stared up at the Dire Wolf like he couldn't decide whether to be angry or afraid. Then he chose arrogance.
"You have no idea what you've done," Venn shouted, voice carrying thin through the night.
Dack's answer was blunt. "You're coming."
Venn laughed once, brittle. "You think you can kidnap—"
Dack stepped closer. The Dire Wolf's shadow swallowed him.
Venn's voice faltered.
Morrigan's Marauder shifted slightly so the PPC barrel pointed directly at Venn's chest.
"Try again," Morrigan said softly. "Say something stupid."
Venn shut his mouth.
Lyra's voice went sharp. "Incoming drop signature. Leopard-class, low altitude, fast. It's here."
Dack's head snapped toward the badlands edge.
A Leopard rose over the ridge line like a knife, engines roaring, dust pluming behind it. It came in low and aggressive, not caring about hiding anymore.
Jinx's voice turned delighted and dangerous. "Quill."
The Leopard touched down hard on the far side of HRR's yard, ramp dropping before the dust even settled.
A Phoenix Hawk emerged first, limping slightly from earlier damage but still moving fast.
A Warhammer followed, PPCs already cycling.
A Catapult stepped down, missile pods raised like shoulders.
And last came the anchor—Zeus, tall and brutal, painted in bone-white and slate with teal wing-sweeps and brass insignia that made Dack's stomach tighten.
Wing Captain Quill's machine.
Her voice came through comms crisp as a blade. "Moonjaw. Stand down."
Dack didn't answer immediately. He watched how her unit spread—disciplined, textbook, cutting off lines rather than charging. Quill wasn't here to duel yet. She was here to close a box.
Lyra's voice went tight. "She has you bracketed. North and east exit lanes are covered."
Morrigan's Marauder took another hit from the Thunderbolt—HRR security hadn't stopped fighting, even with Quill's arrival. They were trying to keep Moonjaw pinned until Quill could take what she wanted.
Jinx's Highlander pivoted, gauss rifle aimed at the Warhammer. "I hate her," Jinx said, almost fondly. Then, quieter, "I respect her."
Taila's voice came strained. "We're trapped."
Dack's answer was simple. "Not yet."
Quill's voice came again, colder. "Release the Atlas. Surrender Venn and the ledger core. You leave alive."
Jinx laughed into comms. "You always say that."
Quill ignored her. "Dack Jarn. This ends tonight."
Dack stared at the Zeus, then at the Warhammer, Catapult, Phoenix Hawk. He calculated distances and lanes and the Union's position beyond the ridge. He thought about the Atlas chained in his bay. He thought about Mother Lark listening through steel.
Then he looked down at Venn—alive, shaking now, arrogance cracking.
Lyra's voice cut in. "Dack, I can't get the Union in fast enough to extract you under that lance. Not without risking a scan ping. If we run, she'll chase. If we fight all of them here, we bleed hard."
Dack didn't argue. He knew.
He keyed a private channel to Venn, voice flat. "You're going to talk."
Venn's breathing came ragged. "You—don't understand who you—"
Dack cut him off. "Who ordered Ronan."
That name snapped the air.
Venn's eyes flicked up, startled by how precise the knife was.
Quill's voice came again, impatient now. "Last warning."
Dack looked at the Zeus and opened a channel to Quill.
"You want the Atlas," Dack said. "You want the proof. You want to finish this clean."
Quill's voice was tight. "Yes."
Dack's answer was blunt. "Then duel me."
Jinx went still. Taila's breath caught. Morrigan's Marauder shifted like it wanted to refuse the idea with violence.
Lyra's voice cut in, sharp. "Dack—"
Dack didn't take his eyes off the Zeus. "You keep your lance off my crew. I keep mine off yours. You and me."
Quill paused.
Not because she was afraid.
Because she was thinking.
This was how disciplined people fought—by rules when rules benefitted them.
"If I win," Quill said, "you surrender the Atlas, Venn, and the ledger."
"If you win," Dack replied, "you leave."
Quill's laugh was short, humorless. "You think you can force me to leave."
Dack's voice stayed flat. "I think you don't want to lose more people for a job you're being paid to clean."
Silence.
Then Quill spoke, and her tone shifted into something formal, almost ritual.
"Accepted," she said.
Jinx's voice snapped. "Dack—"
Dack cut in, blunt. "Hold position."
Taila's voice came small and tight. "Be careful."
Dack didn't answer with comfort. He couldn't. Not in front of Quill. Not in front of a yard full of guns.
But his next words landed anyway.
"Stay alive," he said.
Quill's Zeus stepped forward into the open center yard, dust settling around its feet. The Warhammer and Catapult pulled back slightly, forming a rough perimeter. HRR's Thunderbolt and Orion hesitated—confused by the sudden shift in authority, not sure if they were allowed to keep firing.
Lyra's voice was low in Dack's ear. "This is what she wants. A clean end."
Dack's Dire Wolf stepped into the open too, heavy and calm, armor scarred, sensors tracking.
Between them, broken concrete and floodlight shadows made a ring.
Venn stood behind Morrigan's Marauder, shaking, watching two monsters line up like gods deciding how many people were going to die.
Quill's voice came once more, crisp, controlled.
"Begin."
And the yard held its breath.