Collision Course (2 page)

“Not on this mission,” he answered.

She scowled and folded her arms across her chest. Even furious—or maybe
because
she was furious—Kell had never seen a more stunning woman. He’d read her file, slim as it was. Seen her on the holovids. Those images had shown her to be attractive, and he’d gotten some ribbing from others in the squad about what a hardship it was going to be, spending many hours in close proximity to such a beautiful criminal. Kell had laughed, but said with complete confidence that it didn’t matter if Mara Skiren was the reincarnation of the love goddess Oshun—the mission was everything. Not once in his whole decorated career had he strayed from his objective, which was just another reason why he was considered the best in the squad.

He still did not doubt himself, but seeing the scavenger in the flesh made him realize he would have to call on all his discipline and training to keep his focus.

She had the tawny skin and almond shaped eyes of an Argenti, her cheekbones high, her lips ripe with erotic promise. Almost aristocratic, her features. Ivory-hued hair tumbled loose around her shoulders, and he wondered if it felt like cool white silk against bare skin. Her battered nyyrikki-skin jacket hid the shape of her upper body, but he suspected she was slim all over, as attested by her body-hugging cargo pants. But the slenderness of her body misled one to think she could be easily overpowered.

Kell had been in the 8
^th
Wing for over fifteen years. Before that, he knew his way around a battle pit. He had learned quickly how to judge someone, how to read them and what external signs were deceptive. One look at this woman, and he knew. She was ferocious.

Never more so than when she felt herself cornered.

“Bad enough I’m being blackmailed into this.” She folded her arms across her chest. “But I draw the line at teaming up with anyone. Especially some 8
^th
Wing puppet.”

His own temper flared. “I’m not a damned puppet. I’m a pilot, just like you.” One of the Black Wraith Squadron, which meant he was a fucking
great
pilot.

She stepped nearer, so that the toes of her boots nearly touched his own. The closer she got the more beautiful she became, even as angry color stained her cheeks. “Hundreds. No, thousands of missions I’ve flown. Alone. You aren’t necessary, Commander.”

“Commander Frayne is the 8
^th
Wing’s best pilot,” Captain Esen said.

The scavenger looked unimpressed. “He’s not touching my ship.”

“It’s not your ship I’ll be touching.” Kell planted his hands on his hips.

Her eyes rounded. Her cheeks grew even more flushed.

Damn, that didn’t come out quite right. Or maybe it sounded a lot more like what he wanted to do, rather than what he had to do. “If Lieutenant Jur is too injured to fly her ship back to base, I’ll have to pilot it.”

“The
Arcadia
’s magnetic tow net can handle the lieutenant’s ship.”

“She flies a Wraith, just like I do. They’re too valuable to risk to a tow net and if we’re being pursued, it’ll make too good a target. The safest option is to have me fly the Wraith if Lieutenant Jur can’t.” He stared down into Mara’s eyes, willing her into subordination with just a look. He’d made ensigns and new recruits shake in their flight suits.

Not this scavenger. She just glared right back up at him. “I’ve never lost a payload. Not once. I’m not going to lose your damned ship.”

“We can’t take the chance that this will be the first time.” He didn’t back down, either.

She opened her mouth to speak, but Captain Esen cut her off before she could say something cutting.

“The Wraith ships that the Black Wraith Squad pilot are
extremely
valuable,” he explained, “but it’s the tech they use that makes them of incalculable worth. If that tech fell into the wrong hands—”

“PRAXIS,” she said at once.

“They’ve been trying to get their paws on a Wraith for years.” Kell’s voice was hard as he recalled the skirmishes and battles fought just to keep that crucial tech away from the PRAXIS Group. Lives lost, many of them his friends. He hoped that Lieutenant Jur wasn’t one of them, but there would be no way of knowing until he got inside the Smoke Quadrant.

Provided, of course, that the stubborn scavenger gave in and took him on as her partner for the mission. Whether she agreed or didn’t, he was going to the Smoke Quadrant. Her compliance did not matter, especially with a mission this critical.

“Then I’ll pilot the Wraith ship,” she said, “and put the
Arcadia
on auto pilot for the return journey.”

“Only members of the Squadron can fly a Wraith,” he answered.

She snorted. “Please. You 8
^th
Wing hotshots aren’t the only ones with skills. Give me fifteen minutes and I can fly any ship.”

“Not a Wraith.” He held up his left hand, revealing the square of slightly raised flesh in the center of his palm. “Biotech implants. Without this, the Wraith is an inoperable hunk of metal. But with the implant, the pilot and the ship become one. And that’s what PRAXIS wants for themselves. They get a hold of a Wraith, they copy the tech, and the shitstorm that is the PRAXIS Group is going to get a whole lot worse. Even for scavengers.”

Her lips tightened, but she wouldn’t speak, wouldn’t yield.

He had had enough of playing nice. “One of my squad is missing. She could be injured. Or maybe whoever has Celene is torturing her.” His jaw tightened, thinking of the lieutenant, alone, hurting. They were all trained on how to survive and endure torture, but that didn’t make it easier to contemplate one of the squad being abused. “We’re wasting time because of your temper tantrum. You don’t work with a partner? Tough. Now you do.”

For a moment, he and Mara simply glared at each other. He saw the calculation in her gaze, saw her mind working to find some way out. But there wasn’t one. Kell had a mission, Mara Skiren was part of that mission, and there was nothing further to discuss. He’d get the job done. He always did. And if he could hurt the PRAXIS Group in the process, so much the better. World-eating bastards.

Suddenly, Mara turned and stalked toward her ship. She punched in the entry code, and the hatch opened with a hiss.

She said over her shoulder, “If you’re not on the
Arcadia
in five minutes, I’m leaving without you.” Then she marched into the ship, muttering.

Captain Esen looked at the space where Mara Skiren had stood, and he did the same. He expected her to leave an afterimage, like a solar flare burned into the eye.

“Her file doesn’t do her justice,” the captain murmured.

“Not much would, sir.”

“It’s not going to be an easy mission.”

“That is an understatement, sir.” Breaching the natural barriers surrounding the Smoke Quadrant, infiltrating the region of the galaxy known for its ruthless criminals, finding Lieutenant Jur, getting both her
and
her ship to safety. A challenge, yes, but Kell had undertaken missions just as perilous. When it came to himself or other members of the Black Wraith Squad, he had complete confidence.

Throw a wild card like Mara into the situation, and all of his carefully planned stratagems became lunar dust. She unbalanced everything. Including him.

“I’ll bring Lieutenant Jur back, sir.”

Captain Esen nodded as if this had never been in doubt. “Her Wraith, too, Commander.”

“And if the Wraith is too damaged to fly…” He knew the 8
^th
Wing’s protocol for such situations but wanted direct confirmation from the captain.

“Destroy it.”

Which meant that there was a possibility he might be stranded, or consigning himself to capture or death.

“Of course, sir.” He knew without consulting the chrono on his wrist brace that his five minutes were almost up, just as he knew Mara would leave without him if he didn’t get his ass on to her ship. “Time to go.” He gave the captain a salute, which was returned.

“Good luck, Commander.” Captain Esen glanced meaningfully at the scavenger ship.

Kell grabbed the duffel bag he’d stowed nearby. “Black Wraith Squad doesn’t need luck.”

“This mission, you just might.”

Taking a deep breath, he boarded the scavenger ship. He had already familiarized himself with the ship’s specs. The cockpit at the front connected to a galley, and sleeping quarters lay just beyond that. For one person, the ship would be small but comfortable. For two, however, the situation would be less accommodating. Extremely uncomfortable, actually.

He navigated quickly through the narrow passages to stand just outside the cockpit. Mara sat in the captain’s chair, running a diagnostic and plotting a course. Her shoulders stiffened at the sound of his boots on the floor. She didn’t turn around.

“I’d tell you to grab a seat for take off,” she said, “but there isn’t one.”

“Incorrect.” He dropped his bag and strode toward the galley. There, at a tiny table, were two seats, the only grudging acknowledgment that someone other than Mara Skiren might be on her ship.

He unlatched one chair and carried it back to the cockpit. She did turn around then, watching as he latched the chair down to the metal grid on the floor of the cockpit. Right beside her. He gave it an experimental shake and was glad to see that it didn’t budge.

“Now you have a copilot.” He dropped into the seat and fought his smile when she scowled at him.

Swiveling back to the control panel, she punched in the launch sequence. The ship hummed to life. The bay doors retracted, revealing the darkness of space, the multitudes of star systems and the gleaming lights of 8
^th
Wing ships on patrol. His pulse kicked a little just to see it. Didn’t matter how many times he launched for his own patrol or on a mission. In some ways, he was still that dirty-faced kid staring up at the night sky, wishing himself among the stars.

This wasn’t a routine mission, not by a long shot. He had a difficult task ahead of him, and an even more difficult woman beside him.

The lights from the control panel illuminated her face, and again he was struck by how incongruously aristocratic she looked, how coolly beautiful. The sidelong glance she gave him, though, revealed that she was profoundly unnerved by his presence.

Well, she rattled him too. They were even.

“Launching,” she murmured, “in five, four, three, two, one. Hang on to your balls, Commander.”

They blasted off.

As she piloted toward the Smoke Quadrant, she sent another wary glance out of the corner of her eye. The 8
^th
Wing flyboy was studying the control panel intently, his dark brows drawn down in concentration. His presence beside her was large, warm, masculine. Foreign. Unwanted.

“Planning a mutiny?”

Frayne didn’t look up from his scrutiny of the controls. “If I jettison you, I can’t get to the Smoke Quadrant.”

Nice
. “Why the inspection?”

“I always learn whatever ship I’m on. Never know when I’ll need to take the controls.”

Mara bristled. “You aren’t getting your hands on my ship. I promise you that.”

He turned to her, and even this slight adjustment of his posture made her feel hemmed in, overwhelmed. She told herself it was because he was 8
^th
Wing, a representative of everything she avoided—order, discipline, regulations. Obligations. Yet she knew, deep down, that his gray uniform accounted for only a very small part of what unsettled her.

His eyes, darker than the depths of space, held hers. “Tell me what I
can
get my hands on.”

“Keep them to yourself,” she snapped, but a pulse of heat worked through her.

He lifted his broad shoulders in a negligent shrug. Yet he wasn’t as indifferent as he tried to look. Mara felt his gaze on her as she slid out of her seat to make some adjustments to the ship’s climate controls. Felt his gaze all over her body. It was too damned hot in here.

“How long until the Smoke Quadrant’s outer perimeter?”

“About twenty solar hours.”

With a muttered curse, he surged to his feet to stand in the galley space behind the cockpit. He prowled like a caged beast, all sinewy, supple motion. Even though she stayed in the cockpit while he paced in the galley, she was still able to sense the power of his body. His large hands clenched and unclenched reflexively.

“We need to talk strategy. Part of me just wants to go in with guns blazing—but I know that can’t happen.”

“It’s got to be on the quiet.” She couldn’t take her eyes off him as he moved. A man his size shouldn’t be so graceful, yet he was, and the contrast between his masculinity and the sleek motion felt unexpectedly potent.

“Any sign of trouble, and our leads dry up.”

“Exactly.” She managed to pry her gaze away to study the chart on the control panel. “The best intel about moving black market goods is on Ryge. I should start there.”

“
We
,” he said. “
We
should start there.”

She blew out an impatient breath. “I don’t work with
we
, just
me
.”

“Until Lieutenant Jur and her ship are safe, it’s
we
.” He crossed his arms over his wide chest. “And in order for us to function properly as a team, you will tell me everything about this Ryge.”

“Here’s a communication for you, Commander,” she said. “I’m not one of your Black Ghost—”

“Black Wraith.”

She waved a hand, dismissing this. “I’m not part of your squad, and I’m not 8
^th
Wing. The
Arcadia
is
my
ship. So you can’t order me around. If you want to know something, you ask. Got it?”

His jaw tightened. It took several moments before he spoke. “Agreed.” His voice was a hard growl. “Tell me about Ryge. Please.”

Mara bit back a smile. There was something distinctly arousing about a strong, attractive man saying “please.” Even if she couldn’t stand the man on principle.

She tapped a few keys on the control panel, and a small holo of the planet Ryge appeared, flickering in the half light of the cockpit. “Most of the wheeling and dealing in the Smoke is done on Ryge. If someone wants to move merch or do some trading, they come here.”

“Any cities?”

“A few, but if you really want the best goods, you go to Beskidt By.” She tapped the controls again, and the holo zoomed in on the city, sprawling like a gaudy fungus on the face of Ryge. “Once I—
we
,” she corrected quickly, “get there, we’ll have a better idea as to where the lieutenant and her ship might be.” She glanced at the commander. “Don’t suppose I could convince you to stay with the
Arcadia
while I do recon.”

“No.”

Right. She should have figured. Commander Frayne liked to be in control at all times. Made her wonder what might happen if he ever lost it. Made her wonder what could force him to lose that precious control.

“You’re going to have to lose the uniform.” She eyed the garment in question. Frayne in his 8
^th
Wing flight suit gave her lots of unwanted ideas. “There’s no way anyone is going to give us any information about black market deals with you dressed like that.”

“Taken care of. I brought civvies.”

“Show me.”

“Now who’s giving orders?” But he actually smiled, and Mara was totally unprepared at how it transformed his face from tough and austere to flat-out gorgeous. His smile revealed a tiny dimple near the corner of his mouth, as though some hidden scoundrel lurked beneath the surface of the hard warrior.

She had a weakness for scoundrels.

“Get the damned bag,” she muttered.

Surprisingly, he did. She remained in the cockpit, but as he bent and rummaged through his gear she was treated to the sight of his tight, firm ass. By Oshun, she wanted to bite him on one taut cheek.

He straightened and caught her ogling his behind. She had seen some of the infamous fertility rites on Ruva Nu without batting an eye, but now she blushed. The look he gave her was questioning, faintly mocking. And yet…she wasn’t mistaken. His gaze met hers, gleaming with an answering interest.

Without speaking, he tossed a bundle of clothing toward her. She snagged the clothes from midair before examining them.

“Those better meet with your approval.” He nodded toward the garments. “Because they’re all I’ve got.”

She held them up for inspection. The shirt was huge—if she wore it, the thing would come down to her knees—and perfectly ordinary. A little plain, actually. Same with the pants. Everything felt a little stiff in her hands, as if they were seldom worn. He wasn’t out of uniform often.

Her tongue clicked in disapproval. “Terrible.” She threw the clothes back at him.

He grabbed them and scowled. “What? They’re fine.”

“Those clothes make me sleepy.”

“So I’m not a fashion vid. That shouldn’t matter.”

She snorted. “Where smugglers are concerned, appearance counts for a lot. It’s all about flash. I’m going to change when we get to Ryge, but if you stroll into Beskidt By wearing that stuff, everyone’s going to know you don’t belong. Then good luck trying to get any intel.”

“There’s no time for any side trips to a shopping barge.” Irritation roughened his voice.

“Wait here.” A few adjustments to put the ship on autopilot, then she hopped up from her seat in the cockpit. She spent an uncomfortable, arousing moment edging past him as she threaded through the galley where he stood. She and Frayne kept bumping into each other as she tried to get through the galley. They both breathed in sharply at the brief contact.

She finally dashed out of the galley and down the passage toward her quarters. Once inside, she opened a storage panel, then pulled out a battered trunk. The thing was a little heavy, so she dragged it back down the passage to the galley.

Frayne watched her curiously as she opened it. “There should be some things in here that will fit you.” She rifled around until she produced some shirts and pants. “Maybe these.”

“What the hell are you doing with men’s clothing?”

She shrugged. “Souvenirs and trophies.”

He glowered ferociously. “I’m supposed to wear the cast-offs of your lovers?”

“Not lovers,” she corrected. He looked almost relieved until she added, “I had sex with them, sure, but I kicked them out after a night. That doesn’t count.”

“Sounds like a lover to me.”

“A lover means sleeping with someone more than once. I never do that. Too much commitment.” She peered at him. “I can’t believe this is making you angry.”

“I’m not angry,” he snarled. Yet he seemed almost surprised by his heated reaction.

“So…” She shook a handful of clothes at him. “Find something.”

She didn’t think the words that came out of his mouth would have been approved by the 8
^th
Wing Communication Council. For a few seconds, she almost believed he’d rather go naked than wear some of the clothes worn by her nighttime entertainment. Wouldn’t that make an interesting picture—Commander Frayne striding through her ship wearing nothing but his plasma pistol and boots. Her mouth became uncomfortably dry.

His big hand lashed out and grabbed a few shirts. “I’ll try some of these, but no goddamn way am I going to wear another man’s pants.”

Her brief hope that he wouldn’t bother wearing anything below the waist was dashed when he snatched up his civvy pants. He stalked away to her quarters. She didn’t want him in there, but room wasn’t exactly plentiful on the
Arcadia
, and unless she wanted him stripping right in front of her, her quarters was the only place he could change.

Not that she’d
mind
watching him peel off his 8
^th
Wing uniform, the serviceable gray material sliding off his arms, down his hard torso and flat stomach, until he pushed the fabric down his hips, then lower…

Stop it
. This whole forced mission was a screw job, and tangling with the commander would make a complicated situation even more difficult. She liked things an uncomplicated as possible—but she was coming to learn that, where the commander was concerned, nothing was simple.