TO MY GENUINE SURPRISE, I don’t dream of shadows and flame. Three hours feels like twelve. I’m a new woman, or might as well be. At least I’ll be able to work tonight. Clief will be happy, and Clief being happy means a room for a while yet. I swing my feet over the edge of the cot and lower my head to whisper a short chain of rehearsed words. The Graciles abandoned faith long ago, but for us—for me—the power it has to sustain, to motivate, to generate hope, is more powerful than the evils at my door.

Mercifully the night goes fast. Bouncing at Clief’s mostly involves avoiding flirtatious losers who should be at home with their families, or convincing a few of the soused miners it’s time to hang it up for the night. Nobody gives me any trouble. Most of them know better. Before I know it, I’m helping Clief put up the chairs and wipe down the tables. We don’t talk. There’s no need, and we’re both exhausted. Maybe I’ll actually get another few hours of sleep before sunrise.

The door to the bar swings open, letting in a blast of frozen air.

For the love of ... “Hey, how ʼbout showing a little restraint there, jackbag? Heat isn’t free.”

Three men enter and shut the heavy wooden door behind them.

“We’re closed,” Clief says, wiping dry a ceramic mug.

“Good timing, then,” says the dark-eyed man up front in a thick accent.

Musuls.

Two of the men make short work of placing the brace bar across the door. Somehow Clief still seems not to have noticed what’s unfolding.

“I said we’re closed. I’m going to have to ask you guys to leave. You’re welcome back anytime during regular hours.”

“We’re not interested in the filth you peddle here.” The man in front smirks, letting the words sink in. “Kapka wants his money.”

“Kapka? Clief, what’s this about?”

“Shut up.” Clief keeps his eyes on his mug.

“No, Clief. Kapka? I know you didn’t borrow money from Kapka.”

“Shut up, Mila. You don’t understand.”

The man in front chuckles. “No, you really do not understand, girl. Best to mind your business and your fool mouth.”

Only a severe glance from Clief and a little self-control keep me from coming unglued. Anger will get you killed right now, Mila. Stay calm. Be ready for anything.

“I need more time,” Clief manages to say.

“They always need more time, don’t they, boys?”

The two henchmen laugh and start to flank us.

“They’re going to kill me,” Clief says in a whisper as cold as the grave.

He’s right.

“Hamza, take the hooker upstairs. We’ll have a chat with Clief about what he owes Kapka. Then we’ll join you to see what she has to offer.”

“Hooker?”

Clief licks his dry, cracked lips. “Gentlemen, this isn’t necessary.”

They say nothing as they close on us, each brandishing a large knife—the weapon of choice among most Robusts, especially Musuls. But I don’t care. I’m still stuck on the insult.

“Did you really just call me a hooker?”

The solid henchman reaches out and grabs me by the arm. Before he knows how bad he’s messed up, I’m already moving. Spinning into him, my elbow strike whips his head back and splits the bridge of his nose. He stumbles back. A violent kick in the chest sends him crashing against the wall, where he slides to the floor, out cold.

The head stooge turns on me, screaming. His knife comes in fast. I manage to twist away from the blade at the last instant, snagging a kiln-hardened mug from the counter that shatters across the thug’s face. He howls in pain. My hands secure his wrist and torque the blade from his grasp. It clangs against the floor and slides under a nearby table. He comes again, blood pouring from his furious face. I launch a devastating kick to his groin, raise a chair as he’s bent over, and slam it down, breaking it across his back.

The last one, who should have killed Clief by now, stands there stunned—probably wondering how some hooker whipped his buddies. Wide eyed, he searches for the door and makes a run for it.

“Now get the hell out of my place.” Clief yells. “And you tell Kapka if he sends anyone else, we’ll do the same to them.”

The man, now hysterical, bumbles with the brace bar. “You’re dead. Both of you are dead.” He throws it off and in an instant, disappears into the ice-cold dark.

We stand there for a moment, sucking at the air. “I hate you, Clief,” I say, moving to pull the door closed. I lean my back against it and nod at the men on the floor. “What do we do with them?”

“I don’t know. Give me a second.”

“What have you gotten me into?”

“You got you into this.” He motions to the two unconscious men.

“That Musul called me a hooker, and who knows what they would have done to you.”

Clief holds up his hands. “I know, Mila, I know, and you’re right. Thanks for looking out.”

“What in the name of Yeos made you think it would be a good idea to borrow money from the worst sarding criminal warlord I can think of—a Musul warlord at that?”

“Yeah, okay, Mila. I got it. I messed up.” Clief hangs his head. “This bar is my life. I didn’t want to lose it. I needed the money.”

“Well, we’re in deep now. Kapka is going to get the last word, even if he has to send fifty men.”

“I dunno, maybe he'll hear me out.” Clief offers a weak shrug.

“Clief, are you stupid? He’s not going to hear you out. He’s going to try to kill us. It’s probably best if we both just lie low for a few days. Keep the bar closed until we can think of a way to raise some cash.”

“Keep the bar closed? How am I supposed to live?”

“By not getting yourself killed by a gangster. Worry about your bar later.”

We dump the men outside with a rudimentary sign hung around the head guy’s neck that says “Violent Musuls.” Outsiders aren’t looked upon kindly, especially if they come to cause trouble. If the cold doesn’t kill them, someone else probably will.

I help Clief clean up, then head upstairs to get my stuff. The desire to disappear, at least until we can figure this out, is nearly overwhelming.

What was that job Gil wanted me to do? Travel across multiple enclaves to carry a message for the Robust resistance? Not much out there could be more dangerous. Unless you’ve pissed off a big-time gangster who’s planning to put you in the ground. Caught between a rock and a hard place, again.

No time to think this through. I fetch my PED and shoot Gil an e-message: I’ll take the job. There’s no need to specify. He knows which one. And he’s probably smiling.