At Least Death Only Comes Once

“Damn burglar-proof doors,” Calliope Cervantes muttered as she kicked at the metal slab and, instead of flying into the apartment, it acquired a hoverboot-shaped dent and scorch marks.

Maybe he didn’t hear that, she thought. Inside, the sound of a tasegun powering up told her otherwise.

So, plan B. Calliope pulled a SCID off her belt and slapped it on the dent, then ran for the end of the hallway. As the explosive blew the door off, she dove out the window and powered up her boots, flying around the corner toward the man’s apartment.

He was hiding behind an overturned table, firing wildly into the smoke. Calliope grinned. At that rate, his weapon would jam in a few—

The shots stopped and the man frantically shook the gun as if that would help. Show time, she thought.

Calliope flew at the window, powering off her boots and twisting feet-first before impact, letting the momentum carry her inside. The man never knew what hit him. It was her fist.

“IRS, bitch,” she crooned. “Your indenture starts now.”

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