The street boiled with police. Jenna immediately switched out of combat mode, softened her face and body language, and shut away her pain. She wore a stolen coat over her hastily bandaged wound, and prayed that the blood wouldn’t seep through.
She cut a sidewise glance at the next man who examined her inquiringly. He was thickset, with a puffy face and an effeminate mouth.
He jerked his head and said something in a language that she didn’t understand. She nodded and followed him.
Behind her, a squadron of skimmers lifted away from the hotel roof. She didn’t need to be told what they carried.
Aubry …
Miles …
My God. What did I do. What have I done?
She walked up a winding staircase with the man, and into a dingy room. He closed the door, and as he did, saying something else in that singsong voice, she slipped up behind him and her arm twined around his throat.
Her rage was homicidal. She ached to complete the torque and break his neck. But his only sin was in finding her attractive. He had not been rude. Perhaps he would even have been gentle. As gentle as a man could be.
She changed the grip. He passed out, and slipped to the ground.
Jenna sat on the edge of the bed. She held her face in her hands, and contemplated her next move.