“This leads to a cargo lift.” Mara’s voice echoed in the corridor. “That takes us to the ground level.”
She headed down the passage, but something prickled Kell’s awareness. He turned around,
plasma pistol in hand, just in time to see a man also stepping into the corridor. The panel slid shut behind the stranger, closing all of them in. Kell recognized him as the blocky man from the night before, the one who thought he remembered Kell.
“I know who you are.” Blocky had two plasma pistols out, one trained on Kell, the other pointed at Mara. “And you aren’t a Halu pleasure slave.”
“Turn around.” Mara had her own weapon aimed at the interloper. “Then get the hell out.”
But the man didn’t listen. “Got to thinking last night, about that move you used to take down Jorgo. Seen it only once before—by a street brawler on Sayén. Dangerous fucker. Killed at least two men in the ring.” He stepped closer, and the dimness turned his eyes to small, sharp beads. “Can’t forget someone like that. He disappeared, though. Then word got out that he’d joined the 8th Wing.”
Cold heat tightened Kell’s muscles, yet he felt perfectly calm, focused.
“Think of what I could buy, selling that intel,” Blocky continued. “A nice villa on Merane. A half dozen Halu pleasure slaves of my own. But I’m a businessman, so I’m willing to deal. I take creds. Or I can be creative when it comes to payment.” His gaze flicked to Mara, and that was when Kell’s anger roared to life.
Blocky was an idiot. He’d gotten too close, within striking distance. Kell kicked a plasma pistol out of his hand. As the man yelped in pain, Kell grabbed his other arm and broke it with a swift movement. A louder scream of pain. The second weapon landed on the ground with a clatter. Kell had the barrel of his own plasma pistol lodged tight against the underside of Blocky’s jaw.
The would-be blackmailer’s small eyes widened as much as they were able. He shook with the combination of fear and pain.
Mara hurried forward and collected the fallen weapons. “Going to stamp out his miserable life?”
Blocky whimpered.
Breath and rage pushed through Kell’s body. The fucker had threatened Mara. Kell demanded blood.
But, as Blocky had helpfully reminded him, Kell was 8th Wing. They had a code, a sense of honor that had to be preserved. Cold-blooded murder was PRAXIS’s way.
“I want to.”
Blocky whimpered again.
He slammed a fist into the side of Blocky’s head. The man collapsed to the ground, splashing in the greasy puddles.
Mara gazed down at the unconscious man. She nudged him, not gently, with her boot. “Why not?”
“I shed that skin when I left Sayén.” He hefted Blocky’s substantial bulk over his shoulder. Gods, the man was heavy, but Kell didn’t stagger under his weight. “A killer’s skin.”
She gave him a look, and he distinguished the gleam of respect in her eyes. It nourished him, far more than killing ever had or could.
He turned and strode down the passageway.
She followed. “We’re not taking on any passengers. Especially not this ass.”
“Only room for two on the Arcadia.” They reached the cargo lift, and, in silence, rode it down to ground level. The lift spit them out into an alley. Garbage rested in moldering heaps, and Kell kicked the heaps apart to find precisely what he needed. Lengths of touw cord, used to bind pallets for shipping.
Mara knew exactly what to do. She wrapped the touw cord tightly around the unconscious man’s wrists and ankles, then, for good measure, she gagged him with a scrap of coarse cloth—without brushing off the dirtroaches skittering through its folds.
A largely-empty waste drum proved an excellent location for hiding the would-be interloper.
There was just enough room to cram him inside and replace the lid. Didn’t look like the alley got much foot traffic, so the location was secure. It wasn’t a death sentence, but it would take a lot of effort and determination for Blocky, with his broken arm, to fight his way free.
“That ought to hold him. Ten solar hours, at least.” She glanced around the alley. “Appropriate he should wind up here, with all the garbage. One regret, though.”
He glanced at her, curious.
“I didn’t get to punch him.” She kicked the drum. “The shit tried to hurt you.”
The only people who defended him were other Black Wraith squad members. She was the first civilian who gave a damn about him.
He didn’t care that they were standing in a grimy alley. He kissed her, hot and demanding. Her hands gripped his biceps, her hips cupped his. He wanted her against the wall—just like last night.
With a growl, he finally tore away from the kiss. This wasn’t the time, and definitely not the place.
“You keep promising a banquet.” She struggled for breath. “But all I’m getting are snacks.”
“I’ll give you a feast. But our appetites are going to be unsatisfied for a while.”
“I’m not good with delayed gratification.”
“We’re both hungry.”
“Wish that gave me some comfort.”
Hand-in-hand, they ran from the alley. Time kept moving onward, slipping away. Lieutenant Jur would be sold into slavery in a few hours. He readied himself for any threat, considering all the possibilities, all the hazards. Not just hazards to himself, but to Mara. Nothing would hurt her.
As they headed toward the docks and her ship, understanding hit him. He’d never been a covetous man. He deliberately kept his needs simple—street life had taught him that. But now he burned with greed. Each time he kissed Mara, each time they touched it only made him want more and more of her. Until he had everything. Until she was entirely his.
Chapter Eight
Saying goodbye to Beskidt By wasn’t a hardship. The place reminded Kell too much of what he had left behind on Sayén, what had been lost when PRAXIS used then abandoned his homeworld. He’d never known Sayén before it had been ruined, but he knew it after, as an animal that had devoured itself.
Even Mara, piloting her ship out of the city, looked faintly disgusted by what she saw, the same as when she’d taken a long look at the club’s daylit interior. Long-held beliefs falling away to reveal something raw and new beneath.
“Good to shake off that dump’s grime,” she murmured. She guided the ship above the skyline,
through the columns of greasy smoke and between the soundskiffs blaring pop songs and advertisements. Thick storm clouds formed a roiling, lightning-lashed boundary above them. “It’s time to start looking for a new place to roost.”
“Because of me.” A flat statement of fact that nevertheless cut deep. PRAXIS had ultimately cost him his home, but the 8th Wing had taken Mara’s by forcing her involvement, turning her traitor.
“Because of me.” She glanced over at him sitting beside her, and her eyes were the crystal green of distant oceans.
She didn’t blame him, though she had every right to. This day alone, she had given him unexpected gifts—protection, absolution. All he knew of honor and friendship was from the 8th Wing.
Mara owed him nothing. She was not a fellow soldier adhering to a shared code of conduct. What she gave him came from herself, her own will, her own strength.
He felt a change within his own self. Yet he did not feel diffused. Rather, he’d never been so sharp—she was the stone that honed him into a razor edge.
“Plausible deniability,” said Kell. “Tell everyone you didn’t know I was 8th Wing. That I was working undercover as a pleasure slave, and I forced you to cooperate.” Which wasn’t far from the truth.