Born of Fire (3 page)

The Partini lunged.

Syn easily sidestepped him and kicked him into the wall so hard that he recoiled off it and slammed into the Dumpster. The alien landed in a heap on the ground.

“Next?”

The others rushed forward to attack. Syn stomped the heel of his boot against the ground, releasing the blade in the toe and whirled to catch the first one who reached him in the neck. His attacker dropped to the street, screaming from the wound.

The next one tried to shoot him. Syn dodged the blast and the laser cut into another member of their group
who died so fast, he didn’t even make a sound. Catching the guy who’d fired at him by the wrist, Syn used the blaster to shoot another assassin before he chopped him in the throat and knocked him to the ground.

There were only two left. The Partini and the fat human weasel who’d entered the alley first. The human whipped out his blaster to aim at his head.

Bored with them, Syn pulled out his own blaster and shot the human in the hand that was holding his blaster. His weapon forgotten as it clattered to the ground, the coward dropped to the filthy street, whining like a babe.

Syn turned around to face the Partini who’d now regained his footing. Double-checking the condition of the others, Syn saw that three humans were still alive, but out of commission.

The other two were still dead.

Good.

Syn watched the Partini closely as the alien lunged for him. He caught the alien’s wrist before the knife could make contact with his skin.

The Partini tried to pull loose, but Syn held fast with one hand. “Tell me,” he asked snidely, “what smells like shit and screams like a girl?”

He shot the Partini in the knee.

The Partini screamed like a woman meeting her long-lost best friend as he crumpled to the street, his poisoned knife falling on the concrete with a metallic clink.

Syn kicked the knife into the darkness, out of the assassin’s reach. “That’s right.
You
.”

The Partini glared at him. “A blaster against a knife isn’t fair.”

He approached him slowly. “No shit . . . and so goes
my incentive to fight fairly. You want fair, play with kids. You wanna come at me, make out a will.”

Looking down at the gaping wound in the Partini’s leg, he arched his brow at the scaly bone that protruded. “I never knew Partinie had articulated bones.
Very
interesting. I wonder what the rest of your skeleton looks like.”

Fear flickered deep in the alien’s eyes.

Syn slid the plate back on his blaster and checked the charge level. Satisfied it would fire several more rounds, he released the plate and let it snap loudly back into place. That should make them piss their pants.

Those who were still alive anyway. The others had already done that.

He stared coldly at the assassins. “I suggest you recant your contract on me first thing after you have your knee tended. The next time you come at me, the authorities will have to run a DNA scan to identify your remains.”

The Partini glared at him with hatred, but Syn recognized the fear that underlay the hate. He’d made his point. These assassins would never again bother him.

Satisfied, he glanced back at the human who was still whimpering. The man had managed to tie a ragged scarf around his injured hand and watched him as if he expected Syn to kill them.

He probably should, but he wasn’t
quite
that cold-blooded.

At least not tonight.

“There’s a hospital two blocks down on your right. I suggest you use it.” He left them to tend their injuries.

No good deed goes unpunished
.

No doubt he’d live to regret his mercy tonight as he
regretted any time he’d ever been nice to someone. It always came back to bite him on the ass.

So be it.

Tired of the endless wave of assassins and tracers who forever sought him, he headed to the landing bay down the street and climbed aboard his sleek, black fighter, which still had burn marks on the paint from his earlier attack. With any luck, he just might make it through the next few hours without someone else trying to kill him.

He doubted it.

“Of all the time to run out of whisky . . .” Figured his flask would be empty.

But one thing stood certain, the next time someone came at him, he wasn’t going to be as nice. He was tired of being blamed for crimes he hadn’t committed—tired of fighting for a life that didn’t seem worth the effort.

Basically, he was just tired, period.

Yeah, well, it’s penance for all the crimes you
did
commit and got away with
.

That was always a possibility.

Of course, his worst crime had been surviving a life that should have killed him before he learned to walk . . .

You think you’re so special, don’t you? You and those arrogant eyes just like your mother’s. But you’re nothing, boy. You’re from my genes, cut from the same cloth as me. Just. Like. Me. So don’t be thinking you’re better ’cause you’re not. We’re shit and that’s all we’ll ever be. At least I know how to make money. You can’t even take a hit without crying like your sister. Worthless bastard.

Syn could still see the look of hatred on his father’s
face. Feel the blow of his fist whenever Syn made the mistake of getting too close to him.

Yeah, the old fart was right. In the end, he
was
worthless.

Not wanting to go there, he checked his coordinates.

It didn’t take long to reach his nearby home planet of Kildara. Unfortunately, the mid-afternoon sun hung high on his city, its bright, glaring rays making his light-sensitive Ritadarion eyes water in protest.

He hated the day, the heat, the noise—the light that hid none of the street’s ugliness.

Even though he lived in the best district of Broma, all he had to do was travel three blocks over and he’d see enough homeless, impoverished people to twist his stomach raw. He’d done his best to forget his past, but it just didn’t seem possible. Every time he thought he’d managed to bury that shit so deep it could never rise up, something or someone always brought it back to him with sharp, crisp brutality.

Disgusted, he entered his oversized apartment. He had too many other problems to deal with and he was really too tired to think.

He shrugged his jacket off and tossed it over his black leather sofa before picking up the remote to lower the blinds against the bright sunlight.

He leaned his head against the cool, metal slats and sighed. Never in his life had he been more repulsed. Nykyrian was in love with Kiara Zamir and her father was out to crucify them.

Why wouldn’t Nykyrian listen to him and return her before it was too late? What kind of fool with a price on his head fell in love with a princess from a planet that wanted him dead?

Syn rubbed at the sudden throb in his temples,
repulsed by his friend’s devotion to a woman who would be the death of them all.

What an idiot. Women were treacherous. All of them. And Kiara had already shown her true colors. The moment she’d seen them for what they were—what their pasts had made them—she’d vomited and cursed them, just like everyone else.

Lying
harita
.

But then, having been stupid enough once to think that a woman could see through his past to the person he’d become, he understood Nykyrian’s idiocy better than he wanted to.

Yet it was all a lie. No one escaped their past. No matter how hard they tried.

Men were blind fools and women weakened the soul and stole the heart. Then when they had both in their possession, they stomped them into the ground.

Bitches
.

Unable to stand it, he went to his bar and grabbed a glass and a bottle of the strongest whisky he had. As he poured it, his gaze fell to the stuffed animal and photo frame of his son.

Paden . . .

He winced in misery as bitter memories tore through him.

Mara, listen to me. I’m not my father. I would
never
hurt you.

No, you’re worse than your father. At least he stayed in the gutter where he belonged. You . . . you made me believe the lies you told. That you were decent and respectable. You said your father was a businessman. You bastard!
His wife had raked him with a sneer so filled with hatred that it was forever branded in his memory.
How could I have ever let you into my life?

I would never hurt you or Paden. Please, listen to me.

She’d slapped him so hard, the blow had split his lip. If anyone else had dared that, he’d have cut them in half. But like a pathetic nothing, he’d taken it from her.

Get out! I’ve already called the enforcers to arrest you. If I ever see you again, so help me, I’ll shoot you myself!

This from the woman he’d lived to make happy. The woman he’d given everything to. His heart. His soul. His life.

In the end, it didn’t matter that he’d treated her like royalty and would have sold his soul for a single rose to make her smile. Mara had betrayed him and taken everything he’d ever cared about for no other reason than his father had been a first-rank bastard and Syn, rather than lying down and dying, had fought to make a better life for himself.

It had never mattered to him that he was shit to the world. He was used to that. It was the day he’d become shit to his wife and son that had ruined him.

All he’d ever wanted was for one person to not blame him for his parentage. One woman who could look at him like he was a man and not a monster out to hurt her.

Then he’d asked the dumbest, most pathetic question of his life.
Did you ever love me . . . even a little?

How could anyone love something like you? You’re a liar, a thief and a convict. All I wanted was your money. If only I’d known the truth about you . . . you disgust me. Get out!

Yeah, there was no such thing as love. It was a myth made up by assholes who only wanted to sell stories and rings people couldn’t afford to gullible fools.

He didn’t understand love in any fashion. The gods
knew, he’d never seen it in his life. It was as elusive to him as sleep.

His fury dying at the last thought, he grabbed his son’s frame, the stuffed toy, and his bottle, and skirted around the edge of his two facing sofas.

Stifling a yawn, he headed to his bedroom in back.

Later, he’d beat sense into Nykyrian. Right now, all he wanted was a good eight solid hours of oblivious rest.

You know it’s not safe here.

Yeah, his apartment had been seriously compromised, but damn it, he wasn’t going to be run out of his home for anything. If they came for him here, they’d learn . . .

And if they killed him, really, who would care?

Without disrobing or removing his blaster, he threw himself face down on the light, feather mattress that heaved under his weight. He clutched his soft, feathered pillow under his head, and sighed in deep contentment before he rolled over onto his back. A few hours of this and he’d be as good as new.

He leaned up to shove Paden’s frame and toy into his nightstand, then took a deep swig of whisky straight from the bottle and set it aside.

Lying back on his bed, he closed his eyes.

Gah, nothing felt better than this
. . .

Just as he started to doze, he heard a sharp click from the main room that sounded like someone had deactivated his alarm system and opened his front door.

Senses alert, he tensed, forcing himself to lie still and listen. When he heard nothing more, he wondered if he’d imagined the sound. Hell, it was probably nothing more than a hallucination brought on by sleep dep—or overworked nerves—that heard assassins coming at him from every shadow.

Of course the alcohol didn’t help, either.

The muffled, padded sound of boots against his hardwood floor barely reached his ears. Nothing imaginary about that. Someone was definitely sneaking through his flat.

Damn . . . Would he ever get another full night’s sleep?

Clenching his teeth, Syn slid his blaster out of its leather holster. Only one thing made him really furious—unknown people in his home. He didn’t barge into other people’s homes and, dammit, he expected the same courtesy.

Well, whoever they were, they were about to receive a memorable lesson in manners.

Syn rose from the bed and crept to his door, his blaster gripped tightly in his hand. He flattened himself against the wall and pushed the control to slide the door open.

Nothing.

Frowning in confusion, he looked around the main room from the safety of his partially concealed position behind the wall. There wasn’t so much as a shadow in the dim light of his apartment.

Syn scoffed at his paranoia.

Definitely sleep deprivation.

What would he imagine next? Little hairy beasties tap-dancing on his sofa, or other fey creatures sneaking up on him in the shower?

Clicking the release of his blaster back into safety, he lowered his weapon and reached to close the door.

Light flashed against the silver barrel of a blaster pointed straight at his chest from the concealment of the opposite wall.

“Don’t move,” a smooth, lilting feminine voice ordered.

Syn arched one brow. It wasn’t every day someone got the drop on him, especially a woman who had a voice that lent itself to seduction.

“Or what?” He wished he could catch a glimpse of whomever had outsmarted him. She had to be something, because this
never
happened to him.

She clicked off the safety release of her blaster.

Syn wasn’t prone to panic, and having people level a weapon at him was pretty commonplace, but he didn’t usually face unseen attackers.

Especially not in his home.

“Are you an assassin or tracer?” he asked.

“Free-tracer.”

Free-tracers, unlike assassins, had a conscience as a rule. And since he was still breathing and not dead, it told him she was going after his living contract, which gave him a lot of latitude in dealing with her.

“Good.” He snatched her blaster from her hands.

A blast of red sizzled up toward his ceiling, searing a long black streak across the white paint. He cursed at the mark. He’d fought too long and too hard to drag
himself out of the streets and have a nice home for someone to come in and start destroying it.