Born of Fire Page 13

  "Clever."

  "Some days more so than others." She glanced back at the coordinates. "I take it your fighter is also registered to Darling?"

  "To another friend . . . as is everything I own."

  She cocked her head. "Aren't you afraid one of them will betray you? Take it all away?"

  Syn shrugged. "I'm sure one will eventually, but that's the least of what keeps me up at night. Trust me, there are a lot worse things in life than losing a few credits."

  "Such as?"

  "Strangling the older sister of one of your best friends because she can't shut her mouth."

  Suddenly a warning light went off.

  Shahara jerked toward her panel, afraid they were being attacked.

  "You need to okay the course I just entered. Hit the approval sequence. The code is listed to your right."

  As she reached to comply, her gaze fell to their heading. All of a sudden she felt ill.

  Very, very ill.

  "We're going to Rook?"

  "Yeah, something about that bother you?"

  She was aghast at his nonchalance. "Yes, it does. That is the most dangerous place in the universe. Are you out of your ever-lovin' mind? We go there and we'll be dead in three minutes."

  CHAPTER 7

  Syn gave her a dry stare. "Quit being such a baby. I thought you'd been to the 'worst parts of the galaxy in search of your targets'?" That last bit was said in a tone that mocked hers and it really pissed her off and made her want to throw something at him.

  Reigning the impulse in, Shahara eyed him coolly. "I have, and I'm not being a baby. Only a complete waco goes to Rook." Waco was an assassin's term that meant walking corpse--something they used in reference to their targets which was exactly what she and Syn would be the moment they placed one foot on Rookish soil.

  The people who called Rook home were the worst of the worst. There was no security, no enforcers, nothing but blood on the streets. Literally. Life on that planet had no value whatsoever--not that it had all that much in the rest of the universe, but . . . She'd heard of people there being butchered for their shoelaces.

  And Syn looked completely unconcerned about it all.

  Then again, he was related to the worst scum imaginable. To him the rest were just posers.

  He swiped at the cut on his forehead, and grimaced at the blood on his fingertips before he wiped it on his pants leg. "Yeah, well, this corpse needs a resting place. So Rook it is. Maybe we should call head ahead and have them get our tombs ready. What do you think?"

  Shahara grimaced at him. He was categorically insane--that was probably what the C.I. stood for. It had to be. "You have some severe mental problem I need to be aware of, don't you?"

  He flashed a half-dimpled smile that sent shivers the length of her body. When he continued, it was in a strange accent that sounded more than just a little too creepy. "Just because I eat babies for breakfast and pick my teeth with their bones doesn't mean I'm nuts."

  She rolled her eyes. Given who his father had been, he probably shouldn't be making jokes like that. No doubt that had been his father's favorite delicacy. "Any other weird habits I should be aware of?"

  "Just my need to dance naked in the streets under the light of a full moon."

  "I'll make sure we wrap this up before the next full moon, then." In spite of her words, a wonderful image of his naked body flashed in front of her open eyes. No matter how much it pained her to admit it, the man was gorgeous, and even beaten within an inch of his life, his body was hot. "Naked in the street, huh? Now there's a sight I'd love to see."

  A wicked grin curved his lips. "Well I'm certainly up for a private viewing any time you want."

  "I wouldn't be so cocky," she said with a wicked grin of her own. "If my memory serves, the part of you that might be up to it will probably be the first part of you the inhabitants of Rook cut off."

  Shaking his head, he turned back around in his seat. "Hit the approval sequence."

  "All right, it's your funeral." But all kidding aside, there was a lump the size of a large asteroid that burned a hole in her stomach. She didn't like the idea of stepping foot on a planet ruled by convicts, pimps and slavers. It was just too dangerous. Even for a seax.

  She wasn't afraid, merely cautious. And the one thing she'd learned early in her career. Arrogance kills. Never assume there wasn't better out there and that it wasn't coming for you.

  Because the moment you were convinced of either one, it was over. End game.

  Syn watched her from the corner of his eye. By the look on her face, he could almost hear her thoughts. Not that he blamed her. He hated the idea of crawling back to Rook, himself. It'd been decades since he'd escaped the dismal alleys and street gangs so violent his father would be proud of them. The hell that had once been his life. Years since he'd given much thought about his father's old running buddies and the neighborhood that had birthed them both. He'd sworn long ago to put it all behind him.

  Now he was crawling back like a wounded pup. And he hated that most of all. Nothing sucked more than having to face the worst part of his past.

  Too bad he couldn't go to Nykyrian. He knew his friend wouldn't hesitate to help, but Nykyrian had problems of his own and the last thing Syn wanted was to bring another one to his door. Yeah, it was a great time to be wanted since most of his friends were in hiding themselves. As for Caillen. . . .

  Yeah. . . .

  No. He could handle this himself. As he'd always handled things.

  Only this time he wasn't on the run alone. He had to watch out for Shahara as well. Her presence should have annoyed him, yet for some reason it didn't. Instead, it was almost comforting to know that if he didn't make it, she'd be there to help.

  Or would she?

  Come on, Syn. Where's your brain? What the hell makes you think she'd help you again? The only reason she came back for you was guilt over her sister and you were lucky she had even that much sympathy for you. Don't count on that happening twice. You, my friend, are nothing to her. Nothing but a convict.

  And Shahara hated convicts.

  Sighing, he realized how true his thoughts were. He was just living an illusion like he'd done with Mara.

  And just like Mara, Shahara would leave him behind without a moment's hesitation, pausing only long enough to call the authorities on her way out the door.

  He knew that as well as he knew that the Rits would kill him. So why did his mind betray him with thoughts of her? Her smell, her softness, even the little crease she got in her brow when she looked at him as if he were crazy--all were etched deeply in his conscious thoughts.

  She was a beauty and he would give what little soul he had left for one night with her.

  But that was a bullshit dream and he was tired of reaching for the stars, only to get body slammed by fate.

  Resigned to the brutal reality of his life, he checked their settings.

  Shahara felt Syn's stare. Why was he watching her?

  A quick glimpse told her it wasn't anger.

  So then what was it?

  Some part of her she couldn't name delighted at his attention. His eyes radiated heat to her and her body responded to him of its own accord.

  Even now she could remember the feel of his skin, of his hands running over her body. Not since her teens had she dared think of a man other than her brother as anything but an enemy.

  Now for the first time, she saw one as something more. Unbidden dreams resurfaced from the darkest corner of her mind. Dreams that tormented her with notions of a lover, of stripping his clothes from him and running her hands over his incredibly hard body until he begged her to stop.

  But that wasn't her. She'd iced her hormones a long time ago and it bothered her way too much that he was thawing them out with such ease.

  "If you don't mind . . ." Syn pushed himself up from his chair. "I'm going to lie down for awhile. I've set the autopilot. Let me know if we come up on anything unexpected."

  "Sure." She watched him leave and, once she was sure he'd had enough time to reach sleeping quarters, she turned on the ship's monitors.

  Her conscience reared its ugly head over her obvious spying. She didn't care. She wanted to observe him without the weight of those dark eyes probing her as well.

  And what better time than when he was sleeping . . .

  She found him in the captain's lounge. The room was large for a craft this size, and plush, with a double-sized cot mounted against the far wall. Syn headed straight for it and sat down. Grimacing in pain, he pulled off Caillen's boots and tossed them aside before stretching out. With a deep sigh, he draped his arm over his eyes.

  Caillen's shirt was stretched taut over the broadness of his shoulders and with his arm lifted, the whole of his hard, washboard stomach was exposed. She stared at the bared flesh, wondering what it would feel like to rub her hand over the indentations.

  Nip it with her teeth . . .

  Syn was a commanding figure even while lying prone. Something innate in him warned of his deadly abilities. And though he wore the air of danger around him like a comfortable old shoe, he was also well-mannered and charming.

  When he wasn't being a smartass, anyway.

  How she wished she knew his thoughts.

  Or at least more about his past, which had to be horrifying.

  His name, she thought all of a sudden, realizing that she still didn't know what the C.I. stood for. She had so many questions and so few answers.

  Most of all, she wondered what it would be like to call Syn friend. Her brother and sister seemed to find it easy enough. Why couldn't she?

  Because she'd been betrayed by everyone she'd ever trusted. Her father had been so obsessed with his inventions and schemes that he never paid any attention to her while he pursued them. He would promise her and her siblings time and then conveniently forget.

  Or get frustrated when things didn't work out and then he'd vanish for day or two to "get his head straight" while the rest of them were left to pick up the pieces.

  Her mother had tried to comfort their hurt feelings, but she'd been sick for so many years that Shahara could barely recall the time before her mother became ill. And her mother had depended on her for everything. To beg for more time to pay bills, to help her dress and care for her mother and siblings, to hide money from their father . . . There'd always been something to worry about.

  Then there'd been Gaelin. He'd seemed like some mythic hero swooping down to help her just when she needed it most. Her father had barely been dead a year and she was just starting her training as a tracer. She'd met him outside the market and he'd followed along after her like a lovesick puppy.

  "Come on, baby. Give me a little smile. That's all I ask. Here, let me carry that box for you. Don't worry, I don't bite. I'm one of the good guys."

  He'd seemed so harmless that in no time she'd dropped her shields.

  God, she'd been so stupid. Why had she not seen through him from the beginning?

  But she knew. She'd been so strong for so long that it was nice to be able to lean on someone else for a change. And he'd seemed so interested and nice . . .

  Young and innocent, she'd wanted to believe that there was goodness in the world. That happy endings were possible and that people were decent.

  Yeah, right.

  All he'd been interested in was her body and what little money she had. And after he'd felt he'd waited long enough, he'd taken what he wanted and left her bleeding.

  That day, she'd died, too. Not physically, but inside. Every hope or dream she'd ever held about her future vanished. From that day forward, she knew there would be no children--Gaelin had seen to it that would never happen.

  No love, no husband.

  Nothing but a long life spent serving her siblings and trying not to let it turn her bitter. Making sure that they were able to have the dreams she didn't dare have anymore. Making sure that no one ever took from them what had been brutally taken from her.

  Her throat tightened and she wished she could cry. But what was the use? Tears were cheap and she wasn't one to wallow.

  Still, she wished she'd never met Gaelin. Wished she could have met Syn under another set of circumstances.

  Wouldn't it have been great to meet Sheridan Belask, medical student? Ignorant of his past, she could have probably liked him a whole lot.

  Gah, Syn's right, you are a crybaby. Enough. What was done was done. She couldn't go back, and right now they had much bigger problems ahead.

  Switching off the monitor, she promised herself that she would think no more of what could have been and no more about him.

  She couldn't afford to.

  Hours later, Syn came awake to the sound of the intercom buzzer. "Yeah," he said, his voice ragged from the new pain that had seeped into his bones while he rested.

  Don't move. Don't breathe.

  Someone, shoot me and put me out of the misery . . . Why did it have to hurt so much to move? He rolled his eyes as the medical reasons shot through his head. Shut up, brain. I know why I hurt. I just don't want to.

  "We're coming up on Rook. I thought you might want to come up here and talk to the controller."

  "Not really," he breathed. But she was right. She'd get them shot out of the sky. His luck, she'd even admit who they were and the fact that they were coming in to hide.

  Grinding his teeth in expectation of more pain, Syn carefully pushed himself off the bed, pulled on Caillen's hated boots, and went to join her.

  "How'd you sleep?" she asked as soon as he entered the bridge.

  "Like a baby vorna that's been caught in a steel trap." He took the pilot's chair and tried not to breathe anymore.

  She shook her head at him. "They started asking for our letters and registration a second ago."

  "Did you give them any?"

  "No."

  "Good girl." He flipped open the channel. "Cut it, moron, if I had this thing registered, I wouldn't be here. I lifted her on Gondara. Let us pass before I hunt you down and beat you for wasting my fucking time."

  The channel buzzed for several seconds until a gruff voice came back. "Who's her captain?"

  "Chryton Doone."

  "Dock in Bay Nine, Hangar Delta Four."

  Shahara lifted her brows in surprise of both his new name and the ease with which they were granted landing approval.

  Was Chryton what the C stood for?

  No. Chryton couldn't be it. The name just didn't suit him.

  She sat back in her chair. "That was easy."

  "Don't go optimistic on me." He brushed his hair out of his eyes. "I promise they'll have a welcoming party for us. So keep quiet and pray no one recognizes you."

  Yeah, that could be bad. Bringing a tracer on board a planet of criminals was suicide indeed. And if any of them marked her, she was sure not even Syn's reputation would see her through. And while she could fight with the best of them, they seriously outnumbered her here.

  Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all.

  In a few minutes, Syn had them docked and locked.

  Just as he predicted, a group of three armed men and two armed women came out to greet them. They waited just outside the doorway, weapons held at ready.

  Syn sat at the console for several seconds, flicking his finger back and forth over the lateral controls as if he, too, were debating the sanity of being here.

  At last, he rose to his feet, shrugged on his jacket, and headed for the boarding ramp.

  When he reached the end of the corridor, he paused. A small mirror had been placed just to the left of the hatch and he took a moment to look at himself.

  "Ah, jeez," he sneered, fidgeting with his hair to help conceal the bruise on his forehead. "I look like I climbed out of a hole in hell."

  "Well then, you ought to fit in here."

  The look he gave her would have iced fire. He pulled a pair of shades out of his jacket pocket and put them on to cover his black eye. "Hand me your blaster."

  "Why? You planning to shoot me?"

  "Not quite yet." Then he added, "If I go out there unarmed, they'll know something's not right."

  Shahara debated a minute longer before finally handing it over to him.

  He tucked it into his left pocket. "Do you still have the small one in your boot?"

  "Yeah."

  "Take it out and keep it in your hand, in your pocket."

  She didn't like the sound of that, but she obeyed.

  "Now give me your other hand."

  She frowned before dutifully giving it over as well. He grabbed a small stylus from a notch in the wall and quickly wrote down a name and address on her palm. His touch tickled her hand and did incredibly strange things to her belly while she watched. What was he doing?

  "In case something happens to me, that's the address for a man named Digger. It should be two blocks down the street on the right. It's a large apartment building. You can't miss it." He took the silver necklace off and placed it around her neck. His warmth still clinging to it, it sent a chill over her back. Her breasts tingled. "Show him this and he'll help you."

  "What about you?"

  "If I go down, don't worry about me. I don't have a brother and two sisters who need or love me. You just make sure you get away."

  She didn't like the sound of that at all. "You don't think you can make it two blocks?"

  He didn't answer. Instead he changed the subject. "Stay here while I go talk to the guards."

  Frowning with concern, she watched him extend the ramp, then walk down to meet their landing party. Only a slight limp gave away his injuries. Well, that and the bruises that still marred his neck. Bruises that made her feel guilty for the part she'd played in handing him over to Merjack.

  With a masculine, in-control-at-all-times nonchalance that astounded her, Syn approached the guards and exchanged a few words with them.

  As the guards walked away, he motioned for her to join him.

  She took a deep breath in relief. "What did you say to them?"

  That wicked grin returned, flashing his dimple. "I'm not about to repeat it to you."

  She narrowed her eyes. "Careful, convict, I might finish what the Rits started."

  He just laughed and threw his right arm over her shoulders. Her alarm bells ringing, she stiffened at his touch.

  "Relax," he whispered, his breath tickling her neck. "I need a crutch and I can't very well be seen on the street here with one. If one of the natives detects any weakness, we're both roadkill. So just look mean and don't make eye contact with anyone."

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