The Frequency

Warehouse 4 was a soundproofed steel box in the shipping yards, usually used by the pack to conduct business they didn't want the cops to hear.

The mercenary was zip-tied to a steel chair in the center of the vast, empty room. He was a mess—Beckett hadn't exaggerated about the knee—but he was grinning. His pupils were pinned, his eyes glassy. Chemical courage.

"You're wasting your time, Fido," the man slurred, spitting blood onto the concrete. "Shipment’s already logged."

Beckett growled, a low rumble that vibrated in his chest. He stepped forward, raising a fist, but Lyra put a hand on his arm.

"Stop," she said. "If you kill him, we lose them."

Beckett froze. He looked at her hand on his arm with a flash of irritation, then stepped back. "Do it. Now."

Lyra walked toward the chair. She didn't look scary. She was small, pale, wearing a faded leather jacket and jeans. The mercenary sneered at her.

"What are you gonna do, sweetheart? Sing me a love song?"

"Something like that," Lyra whispered.

She closed her eyes. She reached down into the well of power in her chest, the cold, dark ocean where the Siren lived. It felt like swallowing a razor blade.

She opened her mouth.

It wasn't a song. It was a frequency.

A high, piercing dissonance tore through the air. It wasn't audible in the traditional sense; it was a vibration that rattled the teeth and squeezed the brain stem.

The mercenary screamed. He thrashed in the chair, the chemical haze in his eyes shattering instantly.

Lyra pitched the note higher. She focused the sound like a laser, drilling into his frontal lobe, bypassing the will, bypassing the drugs.

*WHERE ARE THEY?*

She didn't speak the words; she pushed the intent into his mind with the sound.

Blood began to trickle from the mercenary’s ears. He shrieked, clawing at the zip ties.

"Stop! Make it stop!"

Lyra didn't stop. She stepped closer, the sound intensifying. Her own head felt like it was splitting open. A warm wetness dripped from her nose—her own blood. Her vision blurred at the edges.

*GIVE ME THE LOCATION.*

" The *Kestrel*!" the man screamed, sobbing. "The trawler! Pier 9! They're moving them to a fighting ring in Macau! The boat leaves at midnight!"

Lyra cut the sound instantly.

The silence that rushed back into the room was deafening. The mercenary slumped forward, unconscious or dead, it didn't matter.

Lyra swayed. The world tilted sideways. She grabbed the back of the chair to keep from falling. She wiped her nose, her hand coming away smeared with bright red blood.

"Beckett," she croaked, turning to him.

But Beckett wasn't looking at her. He was already moving, his phone to his ear, barking orders to his enforcers.

"Pier 9. The *Kestrel*. Kill the engines. Leave no survivors."

He sprinted for the door, the metal echoing with his heavy boots. He didn't check on her. He didn't see the blood. He had what he came for.

Lyra took a breath that rattled in her chest, pushed herself off the chair, and ran after him.