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.