Collision Course

Chapter Five

Kell was lost.

He didn’t know the rough, mean city of Beskidt By, couldn’t say what bars watered their drinks or spiked them with something more dangerous than water. He didn’t know which sex theaters offered the best entertainment, both on stage and off. Of its many gambling dens, he didn’t know which were slightly more honest, cheating their patrons just a little rather than a lot. The tough faces staring back suspiciously at him from doorways were unknown to him, as well.

But he knew this place, knew it very well. It didn’t matter if the planet was Ryge, hidden within the Smoke Quadrant, or another planet in some other solar system. Kell knew the streets, knew the people, their avarice and need to survive. He might not have the map for this particular city soldered on the circuitry of his mind, but he understood without a doubt that, if he had to, he could find his way through this filthy maze.

Yet when it came to Mara Skiren, he felt himself wandering without guidance. Made him damn edgy.

He walked beside her through the twisted, grimy streets of Beskidt By. They dodged wasp taxis darting past, drivers bent low as the fares clutched the side bars for safety. Cries of hawkers clotted the thick air, selling everything from service drones to black market drugs to cups of steaming kahve.

Overhead, glimpses of sulfurous clouds peered between the towering buildings, reminders that no one could fly in or out of Ryge until the storm dissipated. Kell and Mara had been the only ones to land in nearly twenty-four solar hours.

She led them now through the web of Beskidt By, her movements sure and confident. The city belonged to her, in its way. Kell saw this in the way she was greeted, again and again, by the various lowlifes lingering in the street. Those that didn’t seem to know her stared at her, anyway. Easy to see why. Her sleek curves, those provocative clothes, the poised, almost aristocratic way she held herself.

Any male, and likely many females, would want her.

He counted himself amongst that number. Only half an hour earlier, he’d almost had her. His body still protested the loss. She’d been fire and spice and hungry, so hungry. He’d never touched a woman like her before. Now his body wanted, demanded more.

Don’t think about that now, or else you’ll be walking the streets of Beskidt By with a gigantic hard-on.

“You’re a popular character,” he noted after a one-armed woman shuffled out from a shop to pound Mara on the back.

“Yes.” She tossed the remark carelessly over her shoulder. “But now I’m legendary. Nobody else has flown through the storm.” She sent him an opaque glance. “Nobody else had the same kind of help.”

“There were two of us, but we worked as one.” Though Wraith ships could accommodate two—a pilot and a gunner—Kell usually flew alone. He hadn’t expected the seamless way he and Mara had performed together. She was a damned good pilot too. Intuitive but astute.

She also looked damned sexy with her hands on the ship’s controls. Kell couldn’t help but wonder if she might grip him with the same assured skill. An image flared in his mind—him laying back, her grasping his cock, positioning him to slide into her.

Don’t fucking think it.

“Partnership is new to me,” she said.

“Maybe you’ll grow to like it.” He certainly was.

“Doubt that.” But she smiled and edged ahead, leading the way. “Not much further.” Even if her image wasn’t already burned into him, he could find her through the thick, raucous crowds choking the streets. There weren’t many Argenti here, and her creamy white hair shone like a beacon in the grime and glare of Beskidt By. He felt the strange urge to shield her from the filth of both physical and human varieties—which was ridiculous. She was a scavenger, a dealer of stolen goods, and candidly admitted to doing what she had to in order to persevere.

She eyed the long, thin scarf he had wrapped around his neck before they had disembarked. “Do you have to wear that? Looks like your psychotic grandmother wove it on her digiloom.”

Kell fingered the garment in question. “It serves its purpose.”

“If that purpose is to cause spontaneous blindness, then I’d say it succeeded.” She stopped outside a singularly shabby door, covered in rust. It looked like it hadn’t been serviced in half a millennium. “This is the joint.”

He eyed the building dubiously. Still, she knew this world better than he did, so he nodded.

Mara stepped forward and pounded on the door. A small peephole slid open with a rasp. Two red-

rimmed eyes stared back.

“Piss off,” snarled a gravelly voice.

“Stick your fist up your ass,” Mara returned.

“Skiren.”

“Yrjo.”

The red eyes glared at Kell. “What’s with tall, dark and menacing?”

“He’s with me.” When the owner of the red eyes didn’t answer right away, Mara said, “Come on,

Yrjo. I’ve been coming here for years. If I say he’s with me, he’s with me. And he isn’t going to cause trouble.” This was said more for Kell’s benefit than the doorman.

“Much,” Kell added.

Mara shot him a glower, letting him know his commentary was not appreciated.

After a moment, the peephole shut. With an angry groan, the door slid open. Mara stepped inside,

and, after checking the street one last time, Kell followed.

Inside, the red-eyed doorman continued to stare balefully at him. There was no doubt in his mind that the squat man had used the giant plasma shotgun strapped to his back. The weapon looked like it had been modded to cause maximum pain.

“Go on up,” the doorman grunted. He jerked his head toward an elevator bay.

The doors opened and Kell and Mara got on. At least the tech for the elevator was a little more up-to-date, only partially instead of completely rusted. The elevator shot up, whirring. He wondered if he had enough time to get her up against the wall. His hands up her skirt. Her legs around his waist.

“Leave the talking to me,” she said.

“Seems to be a common refrain.”

She shrugged, but her smile was pure devious charm. “This is my territory. 8th Wing came to me for assistance. Well, my assistance means you have to keep your mouth shut.”

“How convenient for you.”

Betraying the cunning brains that lurked beneath her gorgeous exterior, she said, “You hate not being in control.”

“It’s better for everyone when I call the shots.”

She folded her arms across her chest, and the gesture made her already lifted breasts rise just a little higher. “Anybody ever call you arrogant?”

“All the time.”

Her laughter was rueful, but admiring. Then, quietly, almost to herself, she murmured, “Don’t make me like you.”

Before he could question that statement further, the doors to the elevator slid open. Mara stepped out, he went right behind her, and they found themselves in smuggler’s paradise.

He became aware of two things at once: the noise, and the smell. Voices combined to form a discordant ocean, yelling to be heard above the pounding music. Laughter. Shouts, both jovial and angry. A table broke. Somebody screamed. The music continued.

Bodies, alcohol and sticky smoke merged into one viscous cloud of smell. Sex, too, musky and thick, scented the air. Peering into the darkness, he thought he might have seen a couple—or threesome—engaged in what should have been a private activity, except they were on a stage.

“Like it?” Mara shouted.

“It’s not the officers’ mess.”

The club, or whatever one might call such a place, spread out in an arrangement of large, smoky rooms. Tables and booths filled the rooms, and each had its own bar, tended by men and women who looked like they would sooner stick an infrared blade through your eye than take a drink order. A distant wall held a bank of windows, offering a panoramic view of Beskidt By, but no one seemed to care what was on the other side of the tinted glass.

Mara moved into the room and he trailed after her, his gaze constantly moving, assessing the situation. He didn’t like the minimal number of exits, nor the fact that they were dozens, if not a hundred, stories up, leaving too few options in case they needed to leave in a hurry. Shadows clogged every corner. They could hide any number of threats. The patrons of the club were a who’s who of wanted criminals. He recognized one slave trader, three drug dealers, and at least a dozen smugglers.

He just hoped none of them recognized him. Doubtless they’d disembowel him on one of the stages if they knew he was 8th Wing. Seemed like the kind of entertainment the crowd would enjoy.

Mara strode through the thick of it, completely comfortable yet also…regal. She called out greetings as she walked. Almost everyone knew her, and she knew them. “Giri—I haven’t seen you since that specerij lab explosion. Face is healing nicely. Edlyn—you promised me an ether processor, and I’m still waiting. Is that Qadir? Did you collect that bounty, yet? Well, you always get less when you bring them in dead. Yes, even in pieces.”

If Mara was accepted as one of their own, Kell was the subject of hundreds of wary stares.

Several people actually did double takes when they saw him walking with her.

One hulking thug with a face webbed with scar tissue lumbered out of his seat, then placed himself deliberately in his path. Kell shifted to walk around Scar Face, but the man kept stepping in his way.

Kell fought a sigh. These pissing matches were annoying as hell.

“Pretty little drawing you got there.” Scar Face jabbed a meaty finger into the tattoo on Kell’s arm.

Kell only stared at him.

“What’s it mean?” Scar Face pressed.

“It—”

“Means you like sucking cock.” Scar Face laughed at his own joke.

Gods, the fucker’s brain had to be in reverse proportion to his size.

“No,” said Kell.

A few people nearby gasped. From behind Scar Face’s massive bulk, Mara shook her head.

Clearly, no one contradicted this asshole.

“What?” Scar Face pushed closer to Kell, and a wave of sweat stench rolled off him. “What did you say?”

“I said, No. And don’t touch me again.”

“The fuck I won’t.” He moved to shove his finger into Kell’s arm once more.

The next moment, Scar Face was sprawled on the floor. Kell had his knee pinned to the man’s neck and his plasma pistol in his face. Scar Face’s tiny eyes widened as he went purple. Though conversation and music did not stop, they did quiet nearby.

“You want the inside of your head splattered all over this lovely club?” Kell asked conversationally.

Scar Face tried to shake his head, but Kell’s knee kept him from moving. And breathing.

“I’d like an answer,” Kell said.

“N…no.”

“Then don’t touch me or talk to me again. We clear?”

Scar Face attempted another nod, then gasped, “Clear.”

Smoothly, Kell removed his knee and rose to standing. He didn’t look behind him to watch Scar Face stumble away.

“I thought I said you wouldn’t cause trouble,” Mara said.

He shrugged. “Trouble finds me.”

She stepped close. She took his hand—even in the stifling heat of the club, he was scorched by her touch—and led him to a booth that mysteriously emptied as they approached. Once they settled in, she crooked her finger so that he bent his head to her. Lips an inch from his ear, she whispered, “8th Wing teach you that move?”

It took him a moment to focus on what she was saying, rather than how close her mouth was, the light feathering of her breath against his cheek. “Learned how to fight on Sayén.”

She frowned, pulling back. “Where?”

He gave a low, rueful chuckle. It didn’t surprise him she’d never heard of it. “My homeworld.”

“A rough place,” she deduced. “Where macskacats feed on street orphans and attack the unwary after dark.” She started. “You were one of those street orphans.”

He nodded tightly. “Sayén wasn’t always like that. So I was told. Modestly prosperous. Nothing special. Until PRAXIS heard about the deposits of sherica.”

She paled as understanding dawned. Sherica was an integral component for interstellar travel, used in countless reactors, and PRAXIS would want it for their own manufacturing.

“PRAXIS did their usual procedure.” His voice was toneless. “Swoop in, tell everybody their lives were going to get better. For a while, that was true. Lots of development—cities constructed, people buying more. The birth rate skyrocketed. All other industries fell away as everyone focused on harvesting the sherica. People forgot how to do anything but harvest. Then the sherica deposits dried up. PRAXIS left, taking with them the only source of income. And then…” He shrugged, though the movement felt stiff.

“Chaos,” Mara deduced.

“The government applied to PRAXIS for aid. Troops, loans, anything. But PRAXIS got what they wanted. The Sayén I was born on had nothing but ravaged cities and broken people.”

“And you were one of them.” She stared at him now, serious and sorry.

He didn’t know if he liked seeing that expression on her face, not directed toward him. Pity never helped anyone. It hadn’t helped him. Only determination and resolve had pushed him on, given him a new life away from the gutters of his ruined homeworld.

“How’d you leave?” she asked.

“I earned creds doing what I was good at. Street brawling, cage fights, alpha tournaments. Bribed my way onto a passing cargo ship.”

“And became a flyboy, fighting against PRAXIS.”

“Something like that.” He scanned the room, making sure that Scar Face wasn’t coming back with reinforcements. When he glanced over at Mara, he found her gaze locked to his face. She looked a little stunned. More incredibly, there was no trace of pity in her expression. Only…admiration.

He had never spoken of any of that, not to anyone outside of confidential officer assessments.

When other 8th Wing personnel talked of home, Kell said nothing.

But he’d told Mara things about himself that no one had ever heard. He didn’t know why. He wasn’t certain what she might say. Part of him wondered if she would use his history to taunt him, tell him that he was nothing but street trash pretending to be an ace pilot, that his 8th Wing uniform couldn’t hide who he really was. A hot cage encircled his chest, burning his lungs, his heart.

Her opinion of him mattered. He saw this with a quick, vicious understanding.

Instead of speaking, her hand slid out from beneath the table top and wrapped around the fist he was not even aware of making. Slowly, she worked her fingers between his, until they were woven together.

The hot cage around his chest suddenly loosened.

“This is where to come for information.” She scanned the room. Her fingers were still threaded with his, so it took him a moment to understand what she was saying. “Anything happens in Beskidt By, or on Ryge, you just come to Kusa’s. Better than the latest news uploads.”

He saw how the network operated. People continuously moved from table to table, some of them speaking with heads together, others shouting across the room. Light glinted off cred chips changing hands.

“That guy in the corner.” He discretely nodded toward the man in question. “He’s got to be out of favor. No one’s approaching him.”

Mara send a quick, covert glance to where he indicated. “Runrot. He sold out his smuggling partner a few solar months ago. Been a pariah ever since.”

“Honor among thieves.”

A dark smile curved her mouth. “Something like that,” she said, echoing his earlier words.

“And if they knew you brought 8th Wing here?”

Her smile faded. “I doubt they’d let me back in Beskidt By, let alone Kusa’s.”

Guilt stabbed him. But this wasn’t the time to delve into apologies, even for necessary evils, not when two men pushed back from a table and ambled toward the booth where he and Mara sat. A throb of loss shot through him when she pulled her hand from his.

She hadn’t lied when she said smugglers and scavengers liked to dress flamboyantly. One of the men, blond and fit, wore black nyyrikki-hide pants and a red silk shirt laced up the front. The other had his head shaved and was wearing a shiny blue jumpsuit so snug, Kell sadly knew he dressed to the right.

Both men stopped to stand right in front of the booth. Their eyes gleamed when they looked at Mara. Kell contemplated how the men might appear without their heads, and decided it would be a flattering look.

“Mara,” the blond one said, pleasure in his voice. “Good to have you back.”

“Very good,” seconded the man with the shaved head.

Why? Why was it very good? Did she sleep with these preening asses, and they want a repeat performance?

“Leyon.” She tipped her head toward the man in the enlightening jumpsuit. “Bern.”

The men narrowed their eyes as they stared insolently as Kell. It was all he could do to keep from launching himself across the table and ripping out their throats.

“Who’s this?” spat Leyon.

Kell opened his mouth to speak, ready with a story that he was Mara’s new partner, but she spoke first.

“He’s my Halu pleasure slave.”

Kell barely resisted the impulse to gape at her. He had to nod and appear perfectly calm.

“Looks a bit…tough…for a pleasure slave.” Bern gazed at Kell as if he was something that should be washed off the hull of a garbage scow. “We all saw how he took down Jorgo.”

Mara gave a careless shrug. “You can get whatever kind of pleasure slave you want nowadays.

Besides,” she added with a slow, hot smile, “I like them tough.”

Anger, confusion and arousal all battled inside Kell.

The two smugglers muttered their disappointment. “Damn, Mara.” Leyon grumbled. “We’ve been trying to get you into bed for years. You don’t have to buy something any of us would give for free.”

“Half the men in here would kill to fuck you,” Bern seconded. “And the other half are gay.”

Kell had no doubt the half to which these polished turds belonged. He wasn’t anticipating the rush of relief he felt when he understood that Mara hadn’t slept with any of them. He could not condemn her for having a sexual history, having one of his own, but knowing she never had sex with anyone in the club made his impulse to kill a little less demanding.

Again, Mara shrugged. “I like things uncomplicated.”

“And I keep her well satisfied.” Kell draped an arm around her shoulders.

Only he heard her stifled laugh. Then, turning imperious, she said, “Kell, get me a drink.”

His teeth ground together. She knew very well he couldn’t refuse or be riled by her haughty tone —not in public, at least. “Yes.” He started to slide from the booth.

“Yes, what?”

“Yes… Mistress.”

A flare of heat in her eyes, then she waved him off. “Make it a good one too. None of that cheap Hanako liquor like last time.”

“Yes, Mistress.” He stood and forcibly shouldered his way past the two smugglers. He felt a mild satisfaction when they stumbled a little, but it wasn’t quite enough as he stalked toward the bar.

As he approached the bar, people scattered out of his path. He scowled at anyone who had the misfortune of meeting his gaze. Mutterings and murmurings congealed around him as word already spread that not only did he take out that thug Jorgo, but he was Mara Skiren’s pleasure slave—the lucky bastard.

He reached the bar and ordered two Deianeiran whiskeys. While the bartender hurried to fill his order, he glanced back at the booth. The smugglers Leyon and Bern had made themselves pretty damned comfortable, sandwiching Mara between their large bodies, and the three of them laughed at some story. She was so beautiful in her laughter, everyone in the club turned to look at her, as if drawn by the gravity of a pearlescent moon.

He was no different. His gaze stayed firmly on her the entire time the drinks were being prepared.

He hadn’t felt this tightly wound, his control at the breaking point, for a long, long time. The mission was always in his mind, but he knew the real source of his tension, and she was sitting between two overly-friendly smugglers, gleaming brightly.

The price of the whiskeys amounted to nothing less than extortion, but he paid it and walked the drinks back to the booth. When he returned, he sent Leyon a look so cutting, the smuggler leapt up and made room for him next to Mara.

“Your Deianeiran whiskey, Mistress.” He set it down in front of her before sliding in close enough so their legs pressed against each other. Just for good measure, he put a proprietary hand on her bare thigh, well in view of the smugglers. Partly it was for show, but mostly it was for himself, and he felt no shame—only pleasure—in stroking her silky, warm flesh.

She started to speak, but her voice came out a husky rasp, so she took a sip of her drink. “Let’s cut past the gossip, boys. I’m here for profit, not friendship.”

“There’s a shipment of stolen plasma rifles that needs a pilot for transport,” Bern offered.

Kell could only wonder from whom the rifles had been stolen.

Mara, however, looked unimpressed. “What else?”

“Three tons of sherica looking for a buyer,” said Leyron.

That amount of sherica could power a fleet of PRAXIS patrol cutters—and Kell couldn’t do anything to keep it out of their hands if someone wanted to provide it to them.

“That’s all small shit.” Mara sighed. “I’m looking for genuine profit. Really top-of-the-line tech to move.” She glanced over at Kell, her expression sultry. “Had my eye on a lunar villa for a while.

Someplace nice and private.”

He slid his hand further up her thigh until it brushed the hem of her very short skirt. She trembled slightly beneath his fingers. He rationalized that a pleasure slave wouldn’t be very interested in black market tech, but would certainly care about keeping his mistress physically gratified.

If Mara’s accelerated breathing was any indicator, she was indeed physically gratified.

“You want a big score then you can’t do better than what Gavra’s offering,” said Leyron.

“Make it interesting,” Mara drawled.

“Listen to this.” Bern started to edge closer to Mara, but a warning glance from Kell kept the smuggler from getting too close. “Gavra got hold of a genuine 8th Wing Wraith ship. And the pilot.”

Mara winced slightly, and Kell belatedly realized he’d gripped her thigh too tight. After he loosened his hold, he gave her an apologetic caress, all the while forcing his expression to neutrality.

“She’s going to have an auction,” Bern continued. “Doesn’t care if the storm’s cleared or not.

The tech and the pilot are too hot to hold.”

“Why not just sell them both to PRAXIS?” Mara frowned. “They’d be the biggest buyer.”

“Gavra’s twitchy,” said Leyron. “Doesn’t want to deal with PRAXIS directly.”

She nodded. “That leaves the lion’s share of the profit to whomever buys the ship and the pilot.”

“Might be able to negotiate a separate deal for the pilot,” Bern leered. “Heard she’s a tight piece of ass. Ow!” He rubbed his knee and glared at Kell. “You fucking kicked me. Almost hit my goods.”

Kell’s expression didn’t change. “I get jumpy if I sit still too long.”

“Where’s the auction?” Mara asked quickly before Kell and the smuggler started trading punches.

“Gavra’s being cagy about the whole situation,” said Leyron. “She’s posting the location here at the club, tomorrow morning.”

As Bern and Leyron speculated who would be attending the auction, Kell and Mara shared a quick, meaningful look. His heart beat a little faster. His muscles tensed. Before they could move on to the next stage of their mission, they needed to survive a night in this wild, dangerous city. Yet nothing was as wild and dangerous as the desire smoldering between them. One stray spark, and everything—including Kell and Mara themselves—would turn to ash.