And almost plowed into Devin.
She stared up at him, startled, her right hand pointing down the corridor. “The airlock’s down—”
He pushed her back against the bulkhead, pinning her there as his mouth covered hers with a fierce insistence. His hands tightened on her shoulders. A sudden heat jolted her, and then she was returning his kiss with equal passion, clinging to him as if he was the source of her life. Her hands slid under his jacket. She could feel the pounding of his heart, the rise and fall of his chest. She grabbed a handful of his shirt, wanting him closer even though closer wasn’t possible.
He broke the kiss, wrapping his arms around her, pulling her tightly against him as if he knew her need. His lips rested against her forehead. She nuzzled his face, the scent of his skin enveloping her.
“Okay,” he said, his voice low and rough. “Now we can go.”
She felt his absence acutely when he released her.
Get used to it.
——————
Kaidee had been raised on ships and stations. It always amused her that dirtsiders thought their night was dark. Dirtside night was dim, shadowed, but it was never really dark. Not like the dark of space or the darkness of a cargo hold in a dead ship. The spaceport was close enough to Port Chalo that the glow from the city lit the sky. Vehicles—land and air—streaked by with headlights, taillights, and strobes. Night here was not dark.
What bothered her more was the wind. There was no wind on a ship, no wind on station. And the wind here carried smells, acrid and burning and oily. It was like Pisstown on Dock Five, except you couldn’t go up one level and escape it.
She hunched her shoulders under her jacket and turned up her collar. Tonight the wind was also cold, and it blew relentlessly through the cavernous hangar’s wide entrance. She could close the doors. It could provide security, but it could also trap them. So she’d opted to leave them open.
She and Devin stood in the shadows at the edge of the entrance, listening to the Rider’s ramp retract and close behind them. There were five other hangar bays here in Concourse D. Two were occupied—she’d done a visual check as she taxied in. But lights were on in neither.
In the distance, past the rest of the hangars, lights glowed in the building that housed General Aviation’s fixed base operator’s office. But they were dim.
General Aviation—being mostly private passenger craft—was less active at night. Cargo—where the Rider normally would have been assigned—never stopped. But their bogus church affiliation and the fact she was carrying passengers got her an assignment that worked out exceedingly well—considering General Aviation was also where the Prosperity should be.
“I somehow thought there’d be more hangars for private ships here,” Devin said. “More people.”
“Cargo—which is on the other side of the spaceport—is triple this size.” That was where the Rider usually parked when Kiler came for his meetings with the people from Nahteg. “But there’s tie-down space for seventy just behind the row of hangars, including fixed-wing aircraft. We were assigned a bay because I said we needed repairs. Most people use Lufty’s or Uchenna’s. You’ll know why when you see the bill.”
A small glow pulsed against Devin’s hand. If she hadn’t been halfway watching for it, she would have missed it. It was his Rada, secure on his belt under his jacket but angled out slightly as they waited for the all-clear signal from Barty on the bridge.
“They’re set,” Devin said. “Let’s go.”
She stepped out into the wind, Devin at her side.
“Would be nice if they’re hangared next door,” Devin murmured.
“This bay next to us is locked—I saw the signal lights on the way in. The one next to that was open and empty.” She quickened her steps. “Still is. Right now I’ll discount any locked bays. The Prosperity has to know you’d be looking to leave quickly.”
“I’m not leaving.”
She let his comment pass. She wanted to listen. For night, the spaceport was noisy. Machines, land vehicles, whirred in the distance, along with incoming freighters and heavy-air jets. The wind against the hangars’ metal walls made its own sound—a whooshing almost like a hyperdrive coming online. All of that covered the sound of their boots against the pebbled asphalt. She hoped it also didn’t cover anyone following them from behind. Or attacking from the side.
They checked the first three bays in Concourse C. None held a 220-ton Splendera.
“She’s in Concourse A, then,” Devin said.
“Unless, figuring you were coming in on a Compass flight, they finagled gate space at the main terminal.” The Guthrie name and Guthrie money could do those kinds of things.
Devin turned his face, staring at a gap between the hangars toward the main spaceport in the distance—a long, snaking, brightly lit glass-and-metal structure. “Barty would never make it there. I’m not even sure he’d make it to the end of this row.”
“You can’t walk there. There are runways and taxiways in between. We’d need to use the monorail. I’ve got a small antigrav pallet stowed in Cargo Four that could carry him to the station, but we couldn’t bring it on board. Canvassing the main terminal could take hours.”
They pressed on, staying in the shadows at the edges of the large hangars but other than that walking normally. It was late, but it wasn’t unusual to see crew coming and going at all hours. Especially in Port Chalo.
Lights flared suddenly, striping the wide taxiway in front of them. A four-wheeled land vehicle rumbled toward them, its headlights two intense beams spearing the darkness. She tensed, her heart beating rapidly, but Devin kept moving, slowing only long enough to drape his arm over her shoulder, pressing her against his side. “We’re on our way to find a decent pub, right, my darling? Keep walking, minding your own business, and they’ll mind theirs.”
A waist-high power panel jutted out from the side of the hangar, just short of the next set of bay doors. She wanted to duck behind it, hide, but that was crazy. The darkness provided more-than-decent cover. And crew used this taxiway all the time to get to the monorail.
She tugged the brim of her cap lower, dropping her gaze as the vehicle passed. Relief flooded her as the rumbling faded behind them.
Devin loosened his grasp on her shoulder. “Security?”
“Don’t think so.” She chanced a quick glance in the direction it had gone. “Someone going to a ship out on the tarmac. Security would have been moving a lot slower.” And might have stopped to question them.
Devin dropped his arm from her shoulder, then moved his jacket aside, checking on his Rada. “All quiet,” he said, as they crossed the narrow alleyway between the looming buildings. “This is B. Do we bother?”
“The bays here are too small to house a Splendera. It’s got to be A.”
“Or the main terminal.”
“Then we’re dealing with the monorail.”
“Or we borrow a truck.” Devin slowed as they came upon a large, dark boxy shape parked to the left of a locked bay.
“I doubt the owner left it unlocked with its code pack on the console.”
He flashed her a grin. “Don’t need it. You forget. I’m your resident genius.”
She punched his arm playfully, then: “Lights ahead.”
The next bay door was open, and as they approached, a whirring and humming grew louder. “Repairbots,” she said, slowing.
He urged her on. “I told you. Keep walking, minding your own business.”
“And they’ll mind theirs. I know. I know.” Still, she gritted her teeth.
They stepped into the wide shaft of light spilling from the bay. Repairbots floated up and down the length of a ship half the size of the Rider. No one else was in sight.
“BGR-150,” she told him.
“Too cramped, don’t care for it. Rather have a Blackfire 225.”
“You already do.”
“Just checking.” He took her hand as they darted across the last alleyway leading
to Concourse A.
For reasons she couldn’t quite pin down, her heart was pounding rapidly now. Part of it was the fear that wouldn’t go away of someone coming up behind them, dressed in an Imperial uniform, weapon in hand. But part of it was that finding the Prosperity—if they found the Prosperity—meant it was all over. Trip would be safe. The ship would head back to Sylvadae, hopefully with Devin on board.
Or not.
She was torn. Ending it now meant never having to deal with Tavia or the disappointment and disapproval she knew she’d see in J.M.’s eyes when Devin tried to bring her into his family gatherings, as she knew he would.
But ending it now meant never seeing him again. He might try, but there were ways to disappear—at least for a while—and she would use them. She needed to get her head on straight, her life back together, her ship’s ID reset. Ending it now made sense.
It also hurt.
She wanted to stay with Devin. Like an idiot, she’d started to fall in love with him, and she wanted that chance to find out if this could turn into real love. It might not. It often didn’t. But she wanted that chance.
She pulled her hand out of his, slowing as they reached the first set of hangar-bay doors. Those were locked, but the next ones weren’t. As in Concourse B, a soft glow filtered out from the wide opening. More repairbots? Or was someone waiting for someone to return? The land vehicle that so surprised them could have pulled out of here. They’d been too far down the row of hangars at the time to be able to tell, but now she wondered if that’s where it came from.
She tugged at Devin’s sleeve. He slowed. “That vehicle that passed us ten minutes ago could have left from here.” She motioned to the open hangar.
“Crew going out for a drink or coming back in?”
But they were heading away from the monorail, she almost said—but they were at the edge of the open bay. She stopped, ears straining. Shit! She heard noises and what might be voices. “Someone’s there,” she whispered.
“Repairbots or crew.” Devin patted her shoulder reassuringly. “We glance in as we walk by, then keep going and check the next one.”
“Right.” Get a grip, Kaid. If it’s the Prosperity, that’s good news. If it’s not, we keep looking. Girding herself with false confidence, she pushed past him into the opening. And froze. The large sleek form of a PanGalaxus Splendera filled the hangar, its polished white hull gleaming even in the diffuse light from the hangar overheads. A distinctive crest of two intertwined-Gs was clearly visible on its starboard flank. A servobot hovered by the ship’s extended ramp, but it wasn’t the ship, the familiar crest, or the blinking ’bot that stopped her heart from beating.
It was the dark-haired man on the rampway in GGS blues, arms crossed casually over his chest as he stared up into the Prosperity’s airlock.
He didn’t see her. But she saw him.
Kiler Griggs. Her ex-husband was alive.
Devin recognized the familiar outline of the Prosperity emblazoned with the Guthrie crest the minute he stepped up behind Makaiden. Relief flooded him. Here was Trip’s ticket back home, to safety. He grabbed Makaiden’s arm—she was almost frozen in place, no doubt as surprised at their good luck as he was.
“We found her!”
The look on her face wasn’t one of surprise but horror. And she wasn’t looking at him.
He followed her gaze to the ship’s rampway, where a crewman in GGS blues leaned against the ramp railing, watching someone in—
The man suddenly swung toward them. Dark brows lifted, then dipped into a frown Devin had seen before, on a face he shouldn’t be seeing now.
Kiler Griggs. Makaiden’s husband.
Fucking impossible. Denials raced through Devin’s mind. Kiler couldn’t be here. Kiler was dead. Unless Makaiden had lied. … But, no, Devin couldn’t accept that. Didn’t want to accept that.
Makaiden shook off his grasp and took a few steps toward the ship. “Kiler? Kiler? What in hell is going on?” Her voice held a slight echo in the large hangar.
“I’ve missed you, too, sweetheart. I’m sure you have questions about the past year. Come on board and I’ll explain. You, too, Mr. Guthrie.”
Something’s very wrong here. Devin tamped down his shock and confusion and forced his mind to analyze. Kiler alive was one thing. Kiler alive in a GGS uniform was almost as if they’d gone back in time.
That was impossible. But the possibility that Makaiden had lied about Kiler’s death wasn’t. Except Kiler had just acknowledged that Makaiden would have questions about the past year. So she hadn’t known he was alive. That was the only good news Devin could find at the moment. He studied the former GGS pilot, then put a blank expression on his face and a bland tone into his voice. Give nothing away. “Who hired you to fly for GGS again?” He really didn’t care about the answer. He only wanted to keep Kiler talking so he could try to make some sense of the situation.
“That’s another interesting story. It’s cold out here and a lot warmer in there.” Kiler swung his right hand toward the Prosperity’s airlock, but his gaze stayed on Makaiden. Then his chin lifted, as if he was looking past them out into the darkness.
Not into the darkness. At someone. Shit. Devin slipped his hand under his jacket toward the Carver in his shoulder holster. He should have pulled it the minute he saw a dead man who didn’t belong.
Something cold and hard with a distinctly metal feel pressed against the back of his neck. “Don’t try it, Mr. Guthrie.” The man behind him yanked on his arm. “Keep that out there.”
“Don’t even think about it,” Kiler said, his friendly tone a moment ago replaced by a firmer one. And underscored by a pistol in his hand.
Devin splayed his hands outward in a casual gesture. Under his jacket, his muscles bunched. Rage shot through him—at his stupidity, at this insanity. He tamped it down. Two drawn pistols right now trumped two pistols still in holsters that the opposition knew were there. He had to keep his mind clear. With the barrel of a weapon pressed against his neck and one aimed at Makaiden, it was the only option he had right now.
“Kiler!” Makaiden switched a pained, confused look from her ex-husband to Devin, then back to her ex-husband again.
“Don’t you think about pulling a gun either, my sweet wife. Keep those hands out. Good girl.” He stepped quickly toward the bottom of the ramp.
Makaiden’s arms were out to her sides but she was shaking her head. “Kiler, this is crazy. The Guthries aren’t your enemy. There’s no reason to do this. Put the gun away. Tell Fuzz—your friend to back off.”
Fuzz. Devin didn’t think her verbal stumble was an error. She’d just told him the identity of the man behind him. Fuzz-face from Dock Five. The man Barty knew as Munton Fetter.
Devin’s mind raced with scenarios, pulling clues from the exchange between Makaiden and Kiler. Did Kiler have some long-standing grudge against GGS because he’d been fired? Was that the impetus behind all the problems with Trip?
“Put the gun down, Kiler,” Makaiden repeated, more strongly this time.
Kiler ignored her. “Find that weapon he was reaching for, then check her for an L7. I’ve got them both covered, and as Kaidee can tell you, Guthrie, I’m a damned good shot.”
“What do you want?” Devin asked Kiler through gritted teeth as Fuzz-face groped under his jacket, finding the Carver. He wanted nothing more than to slam his elbow into the man’s windpipe, but the gun against his neck and the one pointed at Makaiden told him that was unwise at this point. “Who put you up to this? The Farosians?”
“What the hell do I care about them?” Kiler’s mouth twisted in a sneer.
Then it wasn’t a political move against GGS—or himself as Philip’s brother. Both ideas had surfaced quickly and were now discarded. Devin needed data, facts to work with. And the only way to get them was to keep Kiler talking. The former GGS pilot was only a few feet from Makaiden now, and that fact shot a bolt of white-hot anger through Devin. He didn’t like the look on the man’s
face, which was one of possession. Makaiden didn’t belong to Kiler.
“What the hell do you care about us?” he countered harshly. “Why the guns, the threats?”
The pressure of the gun on his neck was suddenly absent. Fuzz-face sidled up on Devin’s left, a Stinger in one hand and Devin’s Carver in the other.
Kiler smiled, his eyes narrowed. “Because it’s fun to be rich.”
“You want the Prosperity? That’s what this is about?” Had he and Makaiden interrupted a simple ship heist? But that wouldn’t explain Fuzz-face’s presence on Dock Five.
Kiler ignored him, his focus on Makaiden. “I’m taking that L7 now. You as much as blink, sweetie, and Guthrie’s dead. Understand?”
“No, I don’t, damn you!”
“Honey, I invited you on board. You waited too long.” He plucked the small laser pistol from Makaiden’s weapons belt. “And look what I found here. A knife.” Both went into his jacket pocket. He nodded to Fuzz-face. “Give me the Carver and check him for other weapons.”
Fuzz-face shoved the muzzle of the gun in the side of Devin’s neck and pulled at the front of his jacket.
Devin locked his gaze on Kiler as Fuzz-face patted him down with jerky movements. “Griggs, if this is about money—”
“Isn’t everything?”
“If it’s about money, let Makaiden go,” Devin persisted. “I’m worth a hell of a lot—”
“You trying to bribe me? We’ll just add that to your list of crimes for when the stripers get here.”
Devin would love to see a squad of stripers right now. Except something in Kiler’s tone and the haughty mien on his face told him the encounter would not go as planned.
That made no sense either.
“Holster’s empty. No knives,” Fuzz-face reported. “Nice microcomputer, though.”
“Leave it for now.” Kiler waved the pistol again. “Up the ramp. Let’s go.”
As Kiler moved behind him, Devin managed a brief glance at Makaiden, catching her attention. She was pale, but anger flashed in her eyes. He gave his head a small shake, hoping she understood. Not now. Wait.
Then he did a quick analysis of what he could see of the hangar while Kiler and Fuzz-face pushed them toward the ship. Fuzz-face had friends on Dock Five. Their whereabouts now concerned him greatly. On the ship seemed likely, but if they were, why hadn’t they disembarked to help out? Or were they to play the part of the stripers, to force Devin to …
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