Born of Fire (2 page)

The knot in her stomach twisted even harder and she clenched her fists. Shahara was so tired of being poor, so tired of the people who looked down their snobby noses at her and demanded their money as if all she had to do was grab it off the nearest shelf. People who had no idea just how precious every credit was.

Every bead of sweat came with a hefty price tag . . .

She opened her eyes and forced her anger and hatred aside. “I heard you, Doctor. I’ll get the money for you in cash. If you’ll give me three days.”

His sympathetic stare turned to doubt. She’d seen that look too many times in her life and she despised it.

She added coldly, “I’ll sign over the deed to my ship as collateral.”

He nodded. “Very well. We’ll keep her here for the duration.” He cut the transmission.

Wanting to flip off the doctor for his condescension, she stared at the blank screen. “You’re lucky I’m almost a lady.”

For the briefest instant, she considered asking her brother, Caillen, or sister, Kasen, for the money, but she knew they didn’t possess it any more than she did.

Because of Kasen’s necessary medical treatments and meds, she was always behind on her debts and asking Shahara and Caillen for money.

Caillen, like her, would have plenty if Kasen and Tess could ever learn to manage theirs. And if he wasn’t helping her make the payments on their father’s leftover debts.

Shahara sighed. Even if she asked, her brother and sister would have to borrow it, and the type of people they ran with were even worse than the ones after Tessa. The last thing she wanted was to see them hurt.

Family.

It was all she’d had growing up an orphan on the streets. It was all anyone could ever depend on. After the death of their parents, she and her siblings had pulled together to survive. They watched one another’s backs. Now Tessa needed her and nothing and no one would keep her from saving her sister’s life.

No matter what, she couldn’t afford to let Caillen know what’d happened. Reckless and hotheaded to the extreme, he’d go after those responsible, and she couldn’t stand the thought of him lying next to Tessa in the hospital.

Or worse, being arrested for it.

Not to mention,
that
was the last thing they could afford.

She was the oldest and it was her responsibility to settle this.

With a determined hand, she pulled her holstered blaster across the counter, clutching it until her knuckles blanched. Maybe she didn’t have the best occupation in the universe, but it kept her fed.

Her stomach rumbled a denial.

I don’t need to hear it from you, too.
Everyone wanted to give her attitude today.

Grabbing her weapon, she stood up and moved to her bedroom in the corner, where she could change out of her only dress and into her work clothes. She pulled her tight, black battlesuit on, the armor creaking as she fastened the front and collar. It was old and out of fashion, but Armstitch cost way too much.

One day, though, she’d have the money to go buy another.

One day
. . .

Yeah, you’ve been saying that for years.

Ignoring the inner voice she was sure was there only to aggravate her, she stared at herself in the chipped, broken mirror. Her hollow, golden eyes were dull and ringed with dark circles from a night spent worrying over her sister.

She touched her face, seeing so much of her mother on the outside, but knowing the similarity went no deeper. All she’d ever wanted was to be the same kind, loving, gentle woman her mother had been.

She wasn’t.

Unlike her mother, she didn’t believe in the innate goodness of others. Growing up responsible for the welfare of three younger siblings had taught her early on the necessity of having a hard edge.

Life was harsh and people were worthless and mean to their bitter cores. They only used and betrayed.
That
was the only code she believed in.

Trisa. That’s what Caillen called her. She was just like the small, spiked animal that shot its poisoned quills at its enemies. Better to strike first than be victimized.

Besides, she refused to make apologies. She’d always done what she had to, to keep her family together and safe. And no one, absolutely no one, would ever jeopardize what she’d struggled so hard to maintain.

Her soul charged by her conviction, she pulled her small reserve blaster out of its box and checked the charge level before fastening it inside her right boot. Then she strapped the other blaster to her right hip and slid her daggers into the custom sheaths that were hidden throughout her clothes.

It was time to do business.

She walked the two feet to the kitchen where her father’s old laptop rested on her counter.

There were only two legal ways for an uneducated woman to get the kind of money she needed—prostitution and bounty hunting. She refused to sell her body, and at least as a free-tracer, she was able to uphold her oath as a seax while she cleaned some of the filth from the cities. The same type of filth that fed off people like Tessa.

Those who tried to feed off her.

With that thought in mind, she brought up her computer and typed in her tracer’s code. The outstanding bounty sheets refreshed. Eager to get on with the hunt, she looked over the worst criminals in existence—rapists, murderers, pedophiles, terrorists, and those who were all four combined.

Shahara flipped through them quickly, scanning for an appropriate target whose bounty could pay off most of what she owed.

All of a sudden she found it.

Her blood began to race with the thrill of a seriously high-profile target who’d just been reattached to the list.

“C.I. Syn wanted dead by the Gourish president for the kidnaping, rape, and suspected murder of his daughter Kiara Zamir. Wanted alive,” for three times the Gourish bounty, which was staggering, “by the Ritadarion government for filching, murder, treason, and prison escape.” The amount being offered for him by the Ritadarions would pay off Tessa’s debts, the hospital bill, the liens on her ship, and she’d have a little left over to live on for awhile.

Provided her sister behaved.

Not to mention, she wouldn’t have to decapitate him for the Ritadarions. She shuddered as she read over the death contract. President Zamir wanted Syn delivered alive and while she didn’t mind killing a criminal, she never wanted to dissect one to collect her bounty.

Gah, what had Syn done to Kiara Zamir to warrant that kind of hatred?

“You
are
an evil bastard . . .”

Neither dead nor alive would be easy—which was why the bounty on him was so high.

Shahara bit her lip in indecision. Syn’s name was more than well known and more than well feared. He’d made his reputation for being the best computer hacker and file filch in the known universe. And before he’d left his mid-teens he’d been imprisoned by the Ritadarions.

Twice.

Rumors of his cruelty circulated within the small group of tracers she associated with. To her knowledge, no other free-tracer had ever tried to bring him in,
which in and of itself spoke volumes about his dangerous reputation.

Bound-tracers who were sent in after him almost never returned.

The tiny handful of ones lucky enough to live through an encounter with him were never fully intact.

It didn’t matter. She pushed her doubt and uncertainty away. She’d never failed a mission before. Tessa’s life depended on her success and she wouldn’t fail this time.

Signing her name on the screen and swiping her index finger imprint, she accepted the contract.

Hell had many interpretations. Syn knew that better than anyone. In his life, he’d managed to live through most of the common variations and discover a multitude of new ones.

Why was it every time he thought he had life tamed, the treacherous beast turned around and bit him on the ass?

Cocking his head, he detected the sound of footsteps on the wet pavement behind him as he walked toward the bay where he’d docked his fighter. Anger scorched him. He slid his hand closer to his concealed weapons. He’d been stalked enough times in his life to recognize the sound of someone trailing him while trying to remain inconspicuous.

Tonight, he just wasn’t in the mood to deal with it.

Streetlights glinted against the drying puddles that splashed beneath his boots. Steam hissed an escape from boilers and chimneys, adding an eeriness to the otherwise quiet night.

Unless he missed his guess, which he never did, six men were behind him. Only Syn and the six of them walked down the street at this late hour—another factor that told him whoever it was wanted one thing—Him.

“Come get some,” he muttered, unable to find an ounce of patience for anyone stupid enough to try and kill him. What little patience he possessed had ended hours ago.

You just made a bad mistake, boys. I definitely wouldn’t want to be you.

’Cause tonight, he wanted blood without being particular as to whom he took it from. They were definitely in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Never attack a target who was already pissed off at someone else and at the universe in general—someone who was aching for a fight and a whipping boy. It never went well for the antagonists.

During the past two days, he’d been buffeted by a steady stream of absolute bullshit aggravations. The highlight of which was the new bounty being offered for his head that had brought out every needy free-tracer and assassin within striking distance.

It’s so good to be me
. . .

Earlier that day, he’d been attacked by a group of assassins and had his precious fighter damaged in the process. But the absolute
best
. . .

His best friend, Nykyrian Quiakides, had not only slept with the woman Syn was accused of raping and murdering, but had gone into hiding with her, thus guaranteeing that Syn’s head would be the price for their screwed-up and doomed relationship.

At present, life was just too disgusting for words and he really was tired of dealing with it.

Not once in the last two days had he been able to even nap, and sleep dep always made him edgier than normal—and shortened the fuse on an already notoriously hot temper.

Syn pulled the safety off his blaster and slid his hand over the rough, bone grip.

Tonight, his stalkers would learn a valuable lesson about angry Rits who didn’t get enough sleep.

With a quick turn, he headed into an alley on his right. It was time he put a stop to this crap and got some serious sleep time.

Taking cover in a small, shadowy alcove, he tried to ignore the foul stench of the decaying garbage that lined the alleyway behind him. He’d grown up in filthy alleys like this one, with the stench of the street lulling him to sleep at night. He clenched his teeth in rage, the smell and memories doing nothing to improve his foul mood.

He may have been conceived in the gutter. He refused to die in one.

The steps drew closer. He tightened his grip in anticipation.

“Should we go in after him, or wait till he comes back out?”

He rolled his eyes at that puss of a comment. The speaker had been male with a slight Trioson lilt to his voice. Heat simmered in Syn’s blood as he prepared himself for the coming fight.

“You go in and see if it dead-ends. He might’ve already escaped us.”

“Me?” the voice cracked.

“Just do it!”

A grimy, middle-aged human male stumbled into the alley like someone had shoved him. Unlike his own eyes, which saw better at night than in the day, Syn knew the short, fat man would have to wait a few minutes before his eyes adjusted to the pitch darkness.

A smile curved his lips. How would the fat, little
rodent react when he learned only three feet separated them?

“Looks good for your funeral, huh?” Syn taunted.

The man jerked around, trying to focus his eyes at the darkened alcove shielding Syn.

As the man reached for his blaster, Syn caught his arm. He jerked the weapon from the man’s hip and tossed it across the alley into a Dumpster where it landed with an echoing clatter.

“Durrin!” the man shouted, his voice shaking.

Syn shoved the man away from him and turned to face a dark, Partini male who led the four other humans toward him.

An ugly, orange-fleshed humanoid, Durrin towered several feet over him. The snarl that twisted his thin, yellow lips would have sent most men to their knees in quaking fear. But Syn recognized scare tactics when he saw them, and there wasn’t much left in life that frightened him.

Still, it wasn’t often someone dwarfed Syn’s height and he found that fact a
bit
disturbing.

“C.I. Syn,” the Partini rasped in a deep accent. “You’re being remanded into Gourish custody . . . dead.”

’Cause let’s face it, dead was just easier.

Or so they thought.

Syn barely had time to dodge the large knife aimed for his throat. Partinie had an aversion for blasters, but then, their dagger and knife abilities were such that it didn’t put them at any disadvantage.

What the idiot didn’t know was that Syn had grown up in prison where you either learned to handle a knife . . .

Or you died.

Syn
tsk
ed as the alien pulled back for another strike. “You missed with me so close? What? You failed your assassin training classes?” He shook his head. “Did you even bother to show up? Or are you just that incompetent?” He added a little distance between himself and the assassin’s black, poison-coated knife. One scratch from that and he would die. Quickly.

And most painfully.

He scoffed at the Partini. “I feel I should warn you, I’m in a
really
bad mood.”

The short man returned to the side of the others while they stood back with the stupid assumption that Syn was going down under the Partini’s blade.

They’d learn.

“You’ll be in a worse mood when we haul you in dead!”

Syn grimaced in pain at a comment so stupid it didn’t even rate a snotty comeback.

What drugs were they taking? He hadn’t survived this long on the street to have these dumbasses kill him now.