She made sure they were at a distance from the people milling around the ship before she spoke.

“It takes more than the chip to fly a Black Wraith.”

“Years of training, depending on the pilot.”

“You probably learned in a year.”

“Ten solar months,” he answered.

“Always a fighter.”

Pride flickered in his eyes. “Celene was quick too. Took her sixteen solar months. The second fastest record in the squad.”

Something in his tone told her more than his actual words. “You were lovers.”

When a hint of flush darkened his tanned face, a hot blast of pure anger cleaved through her. She wanted to grab a plasma rifle from one of the guards and start shooting out the sodium lights, maybe even club a few people with the butt of the gun.

“Or maybe you still are,” she said, her voice like broken glass in her throat.

“Were, not are.” He stepped closer.

She turned away to feign interest in the Black Wraith. Damn it, she was jealous. She had never experienced that emotion before, but now she wanted to find Lieutenant Jur. Hurt her as Mara hurt now.

She did not recognize herself—the scavenger with attachments to nothing and no one. The idea of Kell making love to someone, to anyone who wasn’t her, felt like the bitterest betrayal. No matter how long ago it had happened. How would she face it in the future, knowing that he wasn’t in her bed but someone else’s because of a choice she’d made?

“Fifteen minutes are up,” Gavra’s voice over a comm announced. “Get the hell out and make your way to the main warehouse. Now.”

Armed sentries herded those attempting to linger toward the door. No one but Mara saw the microbot hidden in the cuff of Kell’s pants scuttle away. Two more of the tiny bots clung to the cuff, but if someone noticed all he would see were a couple of dustbeetles hitching a ride. Kell moved with the crowd exiting the building, betraying no signs that he directed the movements of the microbots using his tech implants. She could only marvel at his control. His engineering ability was damn impressive too. He’d built the little bots out of spare parts en route, hunched over the table in Arcadia’s galley.

Torn between admiration and anger, Mara walked silently beside him as they returned to the main warehouse. Her timing was worse than a sipkaswine accidentally wandering into a Joppian cookout. This was not the moment to stew over Kell and the lieutenant’s affair. But hard as she tried, she couldn’t get the images out of her head, envisioning Lieutenant Jur’s hands—and other things—all over his hard, solid body. Him kissing her with the same hunger he’d shown for Mara. Biting the lieutenant’s neck.

Gods, she was going to lose her mind, and the real danger hadn’t even begun.

“You have to stay with me, Mara.”

She nodded, feeling ridiculous. The only way they could survive the next hour was to stay alert.

“I’m here.” She would make herself focus.

They entered the main building and saw that the crowd had thickened. Scavengers, smugglers and other assorted criminals from all over Ryge filled the warehouse. Mara knew most of them, and she traded nods of reserved greeting. The atmosphere held no friendliness, not even good-natured rivalry.

Profit was all that mattered this day. The air droned with collective anticipation at the prospect of bidding on both an 8th Wing ship and an 8th Wing pilot.

A beautiful pilot. Who once shared a bed with Kell.

Stop it.

He paused to lean against the wall. As he did, the remaining microbots scurried off of him and up the wall, blending in with the other dustbeetles and grimespiders darting back and forth. She made certain not to follow the progress of the bots, lest she draw anyone’s attention to them. Aside from the subtle twitching of his fingers, no one would suspect that Kell controlled the tiny machines.

“Everything in place?” she murmured.

“Positioned and ready.”

He cleaved a path through the mob. Or, rather, people stepped aside to let him through, including some of the toughest and most ruthless lawbreakers she knew, men and women who would trample their aged grandparents to steal an aurelia nugget. Yet these coldblooded thieves gave Kell a wide berth.

Mara stayed close, drifting in his wake, and she, too, felt the strength of him, his energy and ferocity. Intoxicating, dangerously alluring. And targeted toward a single goal. Soon, Kell had crossed the length of the warehouse to stand right in front of the dais. She positioned herself beside him, both because it was part of the plan, as well as in response to an instinct that told her it was the safest place.

“We need to find out where they’re keeping Lieutenant Jur.” He spoke low enough so that only Mara could hear. “Following the guards will take us to her, then it’s a matter of overpowering them and decoding the locked chamber they’re most likely keeping her in. Then we—” She laid her hand on Kell’s arm. “I’ve been thinking about how Gavra operates. We won’t need an elaborate plan.” At his frown, she added, “Trust me.”

She wondered if he would, after everything. Yet, incredibly, he nodded, then turned his attention to the platform.

Gavra stood on the dais, flanked by four armed mercenaries. She eyed the crowd with a strange mixture of disgust and eagerness, as if she despised them but loved what they could do for her cred values. A voice amplifier attached to her shirt threw her voice across the warehouse. “Want to see what you’re bidding on?”

The mob roared its assent, raucous and eager.

Gavra motioned and two mercenaries stepped down from the platform, only to return a minute later. They held a woman between them, their grips tight on her arms as she twisted and struggled. She wore a grimy 8th Wing uniform, torn in places, and her dark hair spilled over her shoulders.

“For your buying pleasure,” Gavra shouted, “I offer you Lieutenant Celene Jur of the 8th Wing’s Black Wraith Squad.”

Another roar from the throng. The sound grew rowdy, avid, as the guards tried to tug the lieutenant up the steps to the dais, and she managed to kick one of the mercenaries in his upper thigh.

She took advantage of the moment, tugging her arm free from his grip. Her punch landed on the second guard’s jaw, but he did not release her. Three more guards surged toward her. She tried to fight them, but in a moment they had her up on the platform and completely subdued. One guard for each arm, and guards pinning her feet to the floor.

She glared at the mob.

The crowd loved it, bellowing its approval. Her silver eyes scanned the crowd, contempt plain in her lovely, bruised face. Mara tensed when the lieutenant’s gaze moved over Kell, worried that Jur would make some sign of recognition and give them away. A needless worry—the lieutenant’s expression did not alter. Neither did Kell’s.

Whatever Mara felt about Jur, there was no denying the lieutenant was both intelligent and a skilled fighter—just like Kell. Not much of a surprise that he had chosen her.

“Plenty of fire in this bitch,” Gavra crowed. She strutted over and stroked a proprietary hand down Jur’s face. The lieutenant jerked her head away, but the guards held her in place.

Gavra chuckled. “Whoever’s lucky enough to buy her is in for a great ride. Provided you can keep hold of your balls.”

Harsh laughter filled the warehouse. Only Mara was aware that Kell’s hands knotted into fists.

“Let’s start the bidding for the woman,” Gavra continued. “Opening at fifty thousand creds.”

The amount astonished Mara—even top-of-the-line Halu pleasure slaves cost only twenty thousand creds. It didn’t appear that Lieutenant Jur felt flattered, though. Her mouth curled into a sneer.

Despite the astronomical figure, someone immediately yelled out, “Fifty.”

“Fifty-five,” another shouted.

“Sixty.” This from Nalren, the slaver.

Soon, the warehouse shook from the bids flying quick and frenetic, like animals caught in a feeding frenzy.

Gavra looked euphoric, allowing the bids to pile higher and higher. A blissful chaos of rising profit.

Kell adjusted the folds of his scarf, and Mara knew the time had come. She braced herself.

Tension tightened her skin as she waited. In a moment, hell was about to break loose.

Sound and percussion rocked the warehouse as one of the walls exploded. Debris, smoke,

everywhere, and the panicked shouts of the mob.

“We’re under attack!” Gavra shrieked. “Guards!” Gun drawn, firing wildly, she fled the dais and disappeared through a small door. On her way out, she slammed her fist into a panel by the door,

filling the compound with the shrill of an alarm.

No one knew that the explosions had been triggered by Kell as he detonated the microbots scuttling across the wall. Instead, believing themselves under siege and unarmed, people shoved at each other, trying desperately to flee. Mara fought to keep from being swept away by the terrified crowd. It wasn’t a surprise to see that all the smugglers and scavengers fled. Only the mercenaries stayed, their continued presence ensured by the promise of creds. Profit made men brave.

These mercenaries fanned out to meet the assumed threat. As one of the mercenaries stood at the edge of the platform, Kell pulled the scarf from around his throat and whipped it toward the guard. It struck the sentry across the face, leaving a bleeding, angry welt. The scarf snapped again with a sharp crack. The guard lost his grip on his gun, and Mara grabbed it before the firearm could hit the floor.