The lookout had his back to her. Sela realized he was busy taking a leak. Silently, she crept up the embankment and stood behind him. He turned, preoccupied with the clasp on his trousers. His eyes widened with surprise. Before he could utter a sound, she punched him in the throat. He practically fell onto the knife as it caught him low and to the right. She sank with him to the sun-cooked weeds and knelt over him.
She checked her surroundings. The area was as damaged by ordnance as she recalled. Occasional clumps of higher brush dotted the field. The off-worlders visiting Tasemar would very likely remain sparse now that there was no longer Regime support.
Sixty meters away, the Cass lounged on its haunches, the only ship to grace this section of the field. It was a bit too much of a coincidence for her taste.
Satisfied that she had not been detected, Sela did a quick search of the unsuccessful sentry. He looked like a Trelgin half-breed, but he bore the facial tattoos of a Zenti clan. Other than the unreliable-looking scattergun, she found two smaller blades that were nothing in comparison to the tactical knife she already owned. She easily snapped their blades off against a rock and tossed the pieces over her shoulder.
He was just what he seemed: a low-rent merc. She
considered creeping back to the top of the bank to signal for Erelah to come up but decided against it. Until she knew the location of the merc’s cohorts, Jon’s sister was safer in the tunnel.
Sprawling on her stomach, she watched the field. Motion caught her eye. On the far side of the Cass, another figure paced back and forth. This one was smaller, more compact. A female merc, she decided.
Proximity would be vital to use the scattergun. Sela cracked the weapon’s rusted breach open. The shells had corroded contacts. Firing the weapon would result in a misfire that could easily take out a finger or three.
Sela sighed resignedly and tossed the useless weapon into the thick brush.
Damn it all.
It did not change the situation; she still had surprise as an asset. If she kept the ship between herself and the female merc, she could approach unseen. There was a big if
that hinged on the other merc maintaining her predictable pattern of pacing.
Watching, waiting, Sela saw her window and set out at a sprint.
Mere strides away, the female merc turned, placing a hand to her ear. Sela knew the familiar motion for what it was: she was listening to a transmission in her earpiece. The merc looked directly at her. Eyes wide, she brought her sidearm up. Her shot was off target, but not by much. Sela felt the round whistle past her left ear and renewed her forward charge before the woman could adjust her aim.
She sidestepped the sweep of Sela’s knife. But Sela was able to capture the merc’s wrist and keep the sidearm trained to the ground. The woman was petite in comparison, but that was where any perceived vulnerability ended. Well-trained muscles strained beneath Sela’s grip. So much for low-rent
mercs with no training; this one was a ringer.
They grappled. The gun thudded onto the dirt. Sela brought the knife up, driving for her neck. The merc’s free arm came up to block.
Twisting, Sela brought her greater weight to the right. But the grip she held on Sela’s wrist twisted and the knife tumbled. Sela countered with a punch to the merc’s throat. The women backed away from each other, winded.
Sela feinted, left and then right. The merc matched her, a wild sneer growing on her face. Silver metal decorated her artificially sharpened canines.
“Come on, breeder,” she purred, silver fangs flashing. “Love the ancient combat training.”
“Ancient? Just how old do you think I am?”
Fangs attacked. Her right arm came out wide, a strike meant for her face. Sela blocked and drove her palm up, connecting. It made it easier for Sela to pull her off balance and drive a knee into her unguarded stomach. The merc crumpled.
Slipping behind her, Sela wedged her arm around her neck. The woman was powerless now yet her fingernails drew red gouges into Sela’s forearm. It was like wrestling an angry scythe cat.
“Easy,” she growled. “Just one twist and no more you.”
Fangs attempted to throw an elbow. Sela allowed the swing and captured the woman’s wrist to pin it high against her upper back. There was a corresponding meaty pop from deep within Fangs’ shoulder. She gave a painful bellow.
“Where’s Jon?”
“Screw you, old crone,” the merc raged.
She pulled the wrist higher. “Sorry. My hearing’s going in my old age.”
“On your piece-of-crap ship.”
“How many with him?”
Her struggles renewed. Sela had to admire her tenacity.
“Answer!”
Erelah had said three. If one was on the ship that would account for all of them. Sela was not about to put that much stock in the girl’s strange ability.
“Just me, Commander.” A new voice. Male.
Sela looked up.
At the top of the Cassandra’s gangway stood a Zenti. Instead of the usual black facial tattoos, heavy red ink decorated his shaven head in a chunky geometric pattern. It marked him as a jin-ji
, a clan leader. For him to take up the company of non-Zenti mercs, meant he had been ousted from his clan.
Watch out for the red one.
Despite the damning heat, a cold trickle ran down between her shoulder blades.
To the Red Zenti’s left stood Veradin, his hands bound before him and the muzzle of a compression rifle against his neck. Dried blood crusted along Jon’s upper lip. To her captain’s credit, it seemed Red was sporting several bruises of his own.
Sela’s gaze met Jon’s briefly. The question was plain in his expression: Erelah?
She canted her head subtly in the direction of the ravine. There
. Safe
.
His shoulders sagged imperceptibly with relief.
“Well now,” Red observed with artificial glee. “Here is an interesting scenario.”
Fangs writhed within Sela’s grip. She turned the merc’s body in front of her as a shield for now. Sela had to hope that their partnership meant something. However, one did not become jin-ji
, even an ousted one, by playing nice with others.
“Let Veradin go,” Sela commanded, squeezing her arm tighter around the female’s throat for emphasis.
“Come on, Rutil,” Fangs called. “The bitch broke my nose!”
“Quiet, pet.”
“Yes. Shut up.” Sela yanked on her captured arm for emphasis.
“Where’s Hellard?” Rutil peered out over the field.
“Which one was that?”
The Zenti stiffened. His eyes narrowed.
“You have me,” Jon said. “Just let Tyron go. I’m worth three times as much, split two ways now.”
The rifle’s report registered a half-second after she felt the hot spray of bone and blood along her face and neck. Fangs sagged against Sela’s body, lifeless. A new red hole had appeared in the center of her former hostage’s head.
“No split now,” Rutil observed.
She glanced at Fang’s discarded sidearm, a tantalizing distance away in the dirt.
“Eh!” Rutil called, admonishing. He clucked his tongue. “You ain’t that fast.”
Sela scowled at him. He was probably right.
“Now, you come on in out of the hot,” he ordered. “We take a seat and wait to collect.”
Fantastic. The fool had already activated a beacon, as Erelah said. Except to his ultimate surprise, it would not be a simple Regime fugitive reclamation squadron. He would be greeted with the gleaming metal brutality of Ravstar. His reward was less likely currency than a gory death.
She folded her arms. “No.”
Rutil looked to Jon as if for moral support. “No?”
“I’m not going anywhere.” Her brain tumbled through possible scenarios, each less likely to have a good outcome.
“I’m not toying with you.” He swiveled the rifle between Jon and Sela, deciding on a target.
“Good. Neither am I.” In fact, she was surprised he had not shot her yet.
All she could do was buy time. For what, she didn’t know. Something told her to hold her ground. Something
was about to happen. She just needed to wait
. A sudden chill crawled over her shoulders. It was the same sensation as when Erelah had touched her in the cave.
“Ty, quit screwing around.” Jon feigned irritation, but his expression was uncertain. What are you doing?
“Don’t tell me what to do,” she shot back. Her annoyance was genuine. It was hot as Sceelah, and her patience had evaporated under the boiling twin suns.
“Not that you ever listened anyway.”
“As if you’ve ever had anything intelligent to say!”
“Both of you, shut it!” Rutil yelled. His rifle wavered.
Now!
Sela dove forward. Her motion attracted Rutil’s attention. He drew aim on her. Jon rammed a shoulder into him. A round zinged off the ground near her right foot just as she snatched Fang’s weapon from the dirt.
Rutil collided with the gangway’s railing, but he kept a grip on the rifle. Jon grabbed its muzzle. Another wild shot hissed past Sela. As she reached the foot of the ramp, she drew aim on Rutil. He swung the butt around to connect with Jon’s jaw. He staggered back, dazed.
The rifle was once again trained on her. Sela and the merc squared off, mere footsteps away from each other on the gangway, both with sights to kill.
Rutil drew in breath to speak. “Listen here—”
There was a single pop. The Zenti fell back into the hatchway of the Cass. A slick red puddle oozed beneath him along the deck. Astonished, Sela looked down at the hole the size of a child’s fist in the center of his sternum. He writhed in an attempt to breathe, then lay still.
Jon and Sela regarded each other over the body and turned to the end of the gangway.
Erelah lowered the A6.
“There’s no time for this,” she said, exhaling a shaky breath. She climbed the ramp and stepped over the bounty hunter’s body. “Tristic is coming. I can feel it.”