“What else did you hear the bearded guy say?” She watched a server ’droid roll its way toward them. They’d have to order something to eat or drink, or the ’droid would issue the ubiquitous warning that this was a pub, not a hotel. “Not just what he said to you. Anything that might indicate what he wants.”
Trip was shaking his head as the ’droid arrived. Kaidee ordered two coffees and let the ’droid swipe her credit chip. Ale was for relaxing, and this wasn’t time to relax.
“I remember hearing some guy say, ‘Get Jonathan,’” Trip said, as the ’droid pivoted on its base. “Paid it no attention ’cause I don’t think of myself that way. Only when he grabbed me and said, ‘Jonathan, you’re coming with us,’ did I put it together. Well, that and the fact that he had a gun. An old Carver-Eight. He was going for it when I hit him.”
“And you don’t know why he grabbed you?”
“Honest, Captain Griggs, I don’t.”
“He didn’t mention your parents or your grandfather? Ransom? GGS?”
“Not that I heard.”
She fingered the small L7 and scanned the crowd again. The laughing women had quieted, but the group of dockworkers was still focused on the young man’s datapad. She saw them without seeing them, her mind going in worried circles.
Damn it, there were too many variables, from a disgruntled ex-GGS employee to something personal with Trip’s parents. Or grandparents. The Guthries had money, they had economic power, they had social standing, they had political power. It could be anything or any combination.
The only thing she knew for sure was that it was trouble.
“And you left the university why? Were you meeting someone here on Dock Five?” It wasn’t like Dock Five was the usual party locale for wealthy college students.
Trip glanced at her, lips parted, then clamped them shut. He glanced away. He shrugged.
She felt her own jaw tighten and had to remind herself he was not only male, he was nineteen: a young man with a large dose of child inside. But a young man …
“Is this over a girl?”
That got him to look at her but didn’t gain her an answer.
“Trip, I’m not judging you. Damn it, I’m trying to keep you alive. Someone’s pissed off—either at you or your family or your family’s business or all of the above. I can’t solve this if you don’t tell me what’s going on.”
“It can’t have anything to do with—Nobody knows I’m here.”
“Someone does.” She pinned him with a hard stare. But not for too long, because Trouble’s Brewing was packed with people coming and going. And any one of those coming in could be looking for Trip Guthrie.
Or Makaiden Griggs. She’d forgotten that for the past hour, as involved in Trip’s situation as she was. But Frinks was out there, and someone had ordered Gudrin Vere’s death.
Which made her realize she hadn’t seen her Takan shadow in a while. Slag it. She hadn’t exactly been looking for him either, but that didn’t negate the fact that he was out there. Or, worse, that Frinks had put someone else on her tail.
“This doesn’t have anything to do with someone named Orvis? Or Horatio Frinks?” she asked him.
The confusion on his face looked genuine. “Who?”
She waved the question away. “People who belong here. You don’t. But you didn’t end up here by accident. Neither did those guys who jumped you.”
His expression darkened, his brows coming down in thought. “But I purposely didn’t tell anyone where I was going—and why—for that very reason. I didn’t want to put Uncle Philip at risk.”
“Uncle Philip?” That was not remotely the answer Kaidee expected. Philip Guthrie? Admiral Philip Guthrie?
“Even he didn’t know I was coming here,” Trip continued, as images of Imperial warships stationed off Dock Five blossomed in Kaidee’s mind. Was this whole thing some kind of trap? Any citizen of the Empire knew that Tage wouldn’t mind at all if Philip Guthrie was captured. Or killed. But she couldn’t believe Trip would be party to that.
He’s just a kid. A big nineteen-year-old one, but a kid. And not beyond being manipulated by a professional. Tage has offices full of those. “Who told you to meet your uncle here?”
“I’m not meeting him here.”
Kaidee fought the urge to pound her head on the bulkhead behind her. The kid should be a politician, for the way he used evasive answers. “Trip.” She paused, knowing that would make him look at her. It did. “What in hell are you doing on Dock Five?”
“I think it’s important that …” His voice trailed off again. Then he huffed out a hard sigh. “You know Uncle Philip was reported killed, right? But he really wasn’t?”
When she nodded, he continued: “That’s when I knew I had to join up. With him. With the Alliance.” Passion crept into his last few words, and his shoulders straightened.
God and stars. Kaidee went from wanting to pound her head to wanting to smack Trip’s. The damned kid had hero in training written all over him—from the tilt of his chin to the stiffness of his spine. “What does Dock Five have to do with—”
“Everyone knows you can get anywhere from Dock Five. Or buy the documents to get you there.” He shot her a glance that had clear echoes of his father, Jonathan Guthrie II, in the way the dark brows dipped and eyes shifted slightly downward. As in: You left your brains on the floor.
She bit back her initial retort that everyone is usually an ass. He’s a kid. He’s a kid. “As in illegal transport into Alliance territory? And you know, of course, how much that would cost? And you know how to bargain for that without getting caught by stripers or, worse, ImpSec?”
He shrugged, but some of the bravado that had kept his shoulders straight dissolved. He leaned back in his chair, slumping slightly.
“Throwing a lot of money around on a place like Dock Five,” she said softly, “can get you killed.”
“I thought—”
“Be straight with me, Trip. Were you telling me the absolute truth about how you had this run-in with Fuzz-face? Or were you dealing with him to try to go out-system?” That would change everything. Fuzz-face could well be an undercover ImpSec agent. Or worse.
“No. I swear—”
She suddenly sat up straight, seeing movement by the side door that set her internal alarms pinging. Two large human males. Not Fuzz-face but the balding one she was sure had been with Trip’s attacker earlier. Dark jackets were too large, and hands were snaking underneath or being tucked behind at the waist. Armed, definitely. Clutching weapons, definitely.
Looking for Trip Guthrie? Too damned likely.
They sure as hell didn’t look like they were looking for an ale.
Her pulse spiked. She nudged Trip’s boot with her own. “Side door,” she said quickly, quietly. “Guy on the left?”
Both men—Baldy and Curly, she dubbed them—were scanning the busy movement in the bar but hadn’t fixed on the spot where Kaidee and Trip were seated. Or else they had, she realized with a sinking feeling, and were too well trained to reveal that fact.
But not well trained enough to hide their imposing predatory appearance. She crossed ImpSec off the list. ImpSec was cagier than that.
“You shot that one earlier,” Trip said, confirming her recognition of the balding man.
“Stunned him,” she corrected him. Station rules. She tried to abide by them. Not everyone did, as Gudrin Vere had found out when Nula caught up with her. “You see Fuzz-face anywhere?”
Trip slouched down in his seat and raked the bar with just a glance and only the slightest movement of his head. She wondered again how much Halsey had taught him.
“Nope. You?”
“Nope.” She’d used the same method. Movement drew attention. They didn’t need that right now. “We need to get out of here. Front door’s closest, but it’s also the most obvious.” Just to the side of the front door, though, was a little-known maintenance access to what was now the CFTC shuttle bay. Scenarios and options ran th
rough her mind. So did a penchant for safety. There were far too many innocent patrons between here and that access way. “There’s a back exit to your right, behind the bar. Provides more cover.” And fewer innocents in the line of fire, should stupidity make an appearance. Bar ’droids were replaceable.
“I know how to use a gun, if you have a spare,” he told her.
“Only my L7. With luck, we won’t need it.” She nudged him again. “Big group over there is getting ready to leave. When they start moving, so do we. Keep your head down. Don’t run unless I tell you to. Just make for the back of the bar. Then get down to Green Ten. Got it? Green Ten. Popovitch Repairs. Tell Pops I sent you. You can be straight up about who you are. He’ll help you.”
Trip blinked, an emotion flickering through his eyes. She wasn’t sure if he was afraid or affronted. His mouth thinned. “I’m not leaving you here alone.”
Affronted. And with a short memory of who had rescued whom earlier.
“We’re leaving,” she stressed the word, “together. But if I don’t tell you where we’re going, and we get separated—”
“Oh. Right.”
“The group’s moving.” But so was the armed trio. “Try to use one of the Takas as cover. I’ll watch our friends. You head for the bar.” She swiveled her chair around, spying something on the decking as she did. A short-brimmed dockworker’s cap under the table. Discarded or forgotten, she didn’t care. She snatched it and, ignoring the grimy stains on the tan material, shoved it over her hair, tugging the brim down. She didn’t know how good a look Fuzz-face and friends had gotten at her, but if they were convinced Trip was again alone, they wouldn’t be watching for her coming up from behind.
Trip swiveled in the opposite direction, pulling himself to his feet as she eased around the table’s edge. Hands shoved in pockets, shoulders hunched with his telltale leather pack stuck under one arm, he plodded parallel to the tall Taka in brown coveralls moving with the group from the table. Kid was good, when he wanted to be.
She followed a few paces behind, with the safety off the L7 and her face angled just enough to keep the burly men in her peripheral vision. They were weaving through the crowd, heading for the bar as she was, but she was sure they hadn’t seen Trip. The shorter, curly-haired guy was in the lead, and he was looking quickly left and right in an almost nervous fashion.
She could appreciate nervous. Her palms felt slick and her heart was hammering in her chest. She was a cargo pilot, for God’s sake. Granted, she’d grown up on freighter docks and knew how to fight as dirty as any dock brat did. Dirtier, thanks to some of her father’s crew. But that was more than fifteen years ago. She’d been hauling corporate executives and cargo for seven years now, and neither execs nor cargo ever shot at you. Well, almost never.
Shit. Baldy was hanging back. Slowing down. And seemed to be watching the Taka—Trip’s cover—with the same sideways method she was using to watch him. But he was six, seven tables away, with a lot of patrons in between.
Then she remembered Fuzz-face elbowing the old man without remorse. Innocent bystanders wasn’t in this group’s vocabulary.
The Taka slowed, turning to say something to the human male behind him. Trip slowed, too, but in those few seconds when the Taka angled around, Trip was in full view. She knew he was, because Baldy suddenly straightened and grabbed Curly’s shoulder.
“Trip! Cover’s blown!” she ground out between clenched teeth. Then Baldy’s hand slid out of his pocket. And his hand wasn’t empty.
She pushed against Trip’s back, hard. “Run!”
Trip lunged, sidling around the stalled and startled Taka.
But Curly was already moving, shoving dockworkers and freighter crew aside, shouts and curses flowing in his wake. Baldy was a few steps behind him. Curly took a different axis, heading for the bar, palming a small laser pistol from his pocket as he went.
Bastard hopes to cut us off, trap us. She couldn’t let that happen. She scanned the crowd quickly, praying for Pops or one of his techs. Someone to help, someone to cause a diversion long enough for her and Trip to get away—or serious enough to get the crowd to turn against the duo, who were now annoying patrons with their pushing and shoving but not yet doing anything to cause a really workable problem.
This was, after all, Trouble’s Brewing.
Then, in the midst of it all, a solitary ’droid ambled toward her, two capped coffee mugs on its tray. Their coffee.
Kaidee watched, astonished, as Trip grabbed one mug and flung it—no, pitched a perfect throw, beaning Curly on the side of his head. The man roared, hot coffee splattering and spilling down his face and neck.
“Look out! He’s got a gun,” Trip yelled.
People dove out of the way, their drinks tumbling, clattering against tabletops. Someone shouted, hard and harsh. A few turned for Trip, but then Baldy jerked his weapon up and fired—a low whine that told her his weapon was set for stun. She doubted it was compliance with dock regs. It was simply that Baldy wanted Trip Guthrie alive.
With the appearance of the weapon, the focus of the crowd changed. Kaidee hit the deck just behind Trip. She heard more shouts, more thuds. She wasn’t the only one in Trouble’s Brewing who knew the sound of a stunner.
They had their diversion. She also hoped they had the patrons of Trouble’s Brewing on their side. Bar fights were one thing. Guns fired in the bar were another. Although once someone started …
“Stay down but go, go!” She shoved Trip’s ass, getting him crawling forward quickly. She chanced a peek over the top of the table, L7 out. She didn’t have a clear shot. The two laughing women at the bar had separated. One had unlocked a chair and swung it at Baldy. The woman was too far away, missing him by more than inches, but it made Baldy turn and snarl something. It was the distraction Kaidee needed.
“Up! Run!” she yelled.
Trip bolted forward through the obstacle course of tables, chairs, and patrons. Drinks flew. Kaidee’s boots slipped on puddles of frothy ale, and suddenly she was two, three people behind Trip as others moved to join the melee or lunged to get away from it.
Curly, jacket still glistening with coffee, stepped onto an empty chair, then up onto the middle of a table, evidently deciding the decking was a less-useful route. Trip changed course, veering away not only from Curly but from the bar exit.
Damn it! That move would trap him against the corner bulkhead. It looked as if Trip’s smarts just went down the recyc.
“This way!” she shouted, but he obviously wasn’t listening as he dodged around a small—and unrelated—fight between two brown-suited mechanics. The taller man reared back to level a punch. Trip ducked under his fist and up again, then ducked again as the opponent lunged, swinging.
If the situation wasn’t so goddamned serious, Kaidee realized, it would be goddamned funny.
Curly jumped to the next table, but before Kaidee could get him in her sights, two ship’s crew clambered up on the table in front of Curly, as they tried to escape from the ruckus. They blocked her shot at Curly.
She swore harshly as she turned to look for Trip. Her heart clenched. He was gone.
Under a table? He had to be, she hoped, crawling toward the bar. She sidled past another chair and the fighting mechanics, shouts, curses, and thuds sounding around her. She raked the decking with her gaze, then looked back at Curly and—
Thwack! The woman with the chair finally connected, catching Baldy between his shoulder blades. Kaidee watched just long enough to see the man flail and fall forward.
Down but, she was sure, far from out. But it was one less thing she had to worry about for the next five—
Shit. A familiar form appeared between two ’droid servers standing rigidly behind the bar. Fuzz-face was back.
“Got something.” Devin glanced up from the embedded screen on his microcomp just in time to avoid running into an elderly couple shuffling quickly down the main corridor on Blue. He sidestepped and only then realized that Barthol’s hand alrea
dy pressed against his shoulder, guiding him away from the near collision and around a zigzagging servobot. “Tidymart Pro is a toiletries dispenser service. Common in public lavatories.”
Barthol nodded. “Makes sense. There is no lack of facilities on station. However—”
“It’s not something Dock Five would necessarily provide for its denizens, yes. I thought of that.” Considering Dock Five barely provided breathable air. “Cross-referenced the corporation with product news feeds. Client base is generally hotels, restaurants.”
“There are a number of possibilities on Blue. Blue Twelve, however, holds a couple of small hostels, a take-out eatery, and—”
Two women and a man suddenly tumbled through an open doorway about fifty feet down the corridor, as if they’d been jammed by a billiards cue. They rolled, flailing, cursing. Another man followed—a brown-furred Takan in dockworker coveralls. He sprinted past them, dodging around a black-and-silver squat servobot on some unknown errand, and kept running, not looking back.
Through that same doorway—more of a double-wide rectangular airlock complete with faded yellow-and-black safety striping—came the low whine of laser fire in several short bursts. Devin’s adrenaline spiked. In Tal Verdis, that would have stripers and private security converging on the location. Here, it barely garnered more than a few raised eyebrows from passersby.
“Trouble’s Brewing,” Barthol said.
“That’s an understatement.”
“No, that’s where we’re headed. Bring up corridor schematics. You’ll get its merchant codes.”
Devin quickened his pace, poking rapidly at the database queries on his Rada, peripherally aware of a metal chair sailing into the corridor, then skittering across the grimy dark-gray decking with a grinding squeal. “They’re licensed for Tidymart dispensers on premises.” If Tidymart’s on-site distributor wanted to file charges against him later for hacking into their client database, so be it. Right now it was the best lead they had on Trippy. And they were only fifteen or so minutes behind his last credit usage for shampoo or soap or whatever he’d used. They would have been only five minutes behind, but repairs blocking a section of Blue Corridor had forced them down one level to Green, then back up again, all via the damnably slow and erratic lifts and nonfunctional escalators that seemed to be Dock Five’s consistent landmarks.
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