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Capture of Ta’charin   The Avenger’s command room thrummed with a taut undercurrent, holographic displays casting a cold blue glow across the assembled crew. The projections revealed the Ta’charin dry-docks—a sprawling Nathal shipyard orbiting the planet’s shimmering rings, its skeletal frames cradling warships in various stages of construction, a lifeline fueling the Empire’s fleet. Captain Gregory Westner stood at one end of the briefing table, his cybernetic eye pulsing as it traced the tactical data, a quiet figure amid the hum of strategy. Eight months ago, he’d been a prisoner in those docks, freed by Sonya Blade during Grand Admiral Thrawn’s defection. Now, leading the stolen Red Thunder—renamed Avenger—he faced his first command, the mission to seize these docks and cripple Nathal production, securing a vital U.R.F. foothold. His mind churned: as a sniper, a missed shot might cost a few lives; now, a single bad order could doom hundreds. Carver’s voice echoed, ‘Missed shot

The mission goes smoothly. The sniper rifle and scope Mac provided easily takes the target down from 1,000 meters. The only injury to the prostitute the target was screwing from behind are blood stains and a little emotional trauma. Devon gets away cleanly. He is sitting in a makeshift bar inside of an old truck stop in Tonopah looking out the window drinking something vile but soothing. He isn’t expecting extraction until the next day so is alarmed when Mac jumps out of a beat up old Humvee that had slid to a stop in the parking lot. He quickly goes outside to Mac. Mac’s face is tragic. “Devon … I’m sorry ….” Devon strides past Mac to the Humvee and gets in. “Don’t apologize until I know what’s going on. Tell me on the way.” Mac jumps in and peels out of the parking lot and onto I-10. “Is she alive?” Devon is shouting to be heard over the rattles as the vehicle speeds over potholes and crumbling tarmac. “As far as we know. Fucking Mateo was a plant. Probably for some rogue