She hated those jobs the most, vomited every time they were over.
Enough. If she continued down memory lane, she’d end up screaming uncontrollably, current job forgotten, the past a whirling vortex of misery, sucking her into darkness.
Scowling, Le’Ace popped to her feet and strode away from Jaxon and back to her bag. Thomas and company had known her as Marie the Executioner, one of her many aliases. They’d trusted her implicitly, for she’d done many jobs for them over the years, always with success. To sustain the identity, she’d had to. A murder here, a torturing there.
“Marie” was privy to the information the government couldn’t get any other way—such as Jaxon’s kidnapping and location—so she’d done everything required for the identity with a happy, I’m-loving-this smile.
Well, Marie had been privy.
No one would trust her now, but the sacrifice had been deemed worth it before she’d ever stepped foot onto the compound. Her bastard of a boss had wanted Jaxon alive if possible. Not for Jaxon, of course, but for himself. Estap desired the very secrets Jaxon had so far kept hidden.
If Thomas hadn’t broken him, she doubted Estap could. Which meant she was saving him now only to, perhaps, kill him later.
Statistical reading.
No change.
Excellent. She withdrew several pieces of her guns from a strip of black cloth. While Thomas might have trusted her, he hadn’t allowed any type of guns inside his home. Like ID scans, they scared him. She’d had to disassemble both of hers and hide the sections between her knives.
After slapping them together, she checked the detonation crystal in her pyre-gun and the magazine in her Glock. Good to go.
She set them on top of the bag and sheathed a blade at each wrist, under her shirtsleeves, then two at her waist. Finished, she once again palmed the guns. With one last glance at Jaxon—his chest was moving steadily with deep, even breaths—she strode from the cell.
Has anyone else entered the home?
Negative.
Four aliens and two humans to take care of, then. Not bad numbers. She eased up the stairs and shouldered open the door that led to the first floor of the home. A quick visual scan showed the room was empty. The furnishings were old and well used but clean, and all the windows were heavily curtained.
Location of the occupants?
All six are still in the southeast quadrant.
Southeast quadrant meant the kitchen. Good. A contained area. Turn sensors off.
Sensors off…now.
She didn’t want her mind screaming they were near as she approached; she wanted clear thoughts, total concentration.
Le’Ace quickened her steps through the living room and down the hall, bypassing another staircase and a door that led to a well-tended pavilion. The double doors to the kitchen came into view, and then, suddenly, she was there. She stopped, squared her shoulders, and quietly placed her hands on the wooden planks, guns flat. She listened.
Laughter, shuffling paper.
Slow and easy, like this is any other day.
Forcing her expression to soften, she pushed the planks open. Silent, confident. Thick smoke instantly billowed around her, a cloudy haze. Perhaps later, she’d think of this as a dream. Unreal.
Laughter still resounded, louder now.
Unnoticed, she dropped her arms to her sides, behind her back. “Gentlemen.”
Five men stood at immediate, surprised attention—three aliens, two humans—and faced her. Only five. That meant one alien was missing. Damn. Where had he gone?
With the precision of a CPU, she sized up each of her targets in less than a second. They surrounded a poker table. The male farthest from her was Jacob, Thomas’s right-hand man. His skin was a lighter blue than Thomas’s, and he had seven arms rather than the standard six. Every race had its oddities, she mused.
Right now, two of his hands held cards, one held a beer, one a cigar, two massaged his shoulders, and one clutched a knife that was pointed at her.
Jacob relaxed and lowered the weapon to the table. “Everything all right, Marie?” He’d lived on Earth all his life, so he sounded completely human.
The others also held cards, beers, and knives. She hadn’t worked with them nearly as much, so they weren’t as comfortable with her and didn’t lower their blades. “Yes,” she said. “Everything’s fine. Where’s your friend? The tall male I saw you with this morning?”
“Bathroom.”
“Upstairs or down?” she asked.
“Up, I’m sure. In the guest room.” Jacob’s face scrunched in confusion. “Why does it matter?”
“Doesn’t. Are you expecting any more guests today?”
“No. Tell me what’s going on. Where’s Thomas?”
“In hell. Tell him hello for me.” Both of her arms lashed up, wrist crisscrossed over wrist as she hammered away at the triggers. Boom, boom, boom. Slowly she uncrossed her arms, blasting every inch of the room in a steady rhythm. Bullets slammed through one-half of the room and pyre-fire through the other, bright beams of yellow and orange that blistered.
Just a dream, just a dream.
All five men jerked in pain. Some screamed, some moaned. Knives, beer bottles, and cards clattered to the floor in a discordant dance. Blood splattered from the wounds caused by the bullets and flesh sizzled from the fire. She would have gagged, but sadly, she was used to the sickening smell.
Only when every man had collapsed, expressions frozen, did she relax her fingers.
Without the roar of the Glock, there was deafening silence. And as the smoke continued to waft, the deadly scene retained that faraway, distant-from-reality feel.
Sensors on. Energy levels?
Four extinguished.
The fifth?
Far right. Weak, but still alive.
Le’Ace checked the Glock’s magazine. One bullet left. She loaded it into the chamber, lifted the barrel, aimed, and fired. Boom. The bullet plowed directly between the man’s eyes, brain tissue jetting behind him and onto the wall. He defecated as his body spasmed a final time, and this time she did gag.
Above her, heavy footsteps sounded across a hallway. Le’Ace closed her eyes for a moment, wanting the job done. Now. But reality, like dreams, was often rebellious.
Likelihood of attack?
Twenty-three percent. Target seems to be in the process of hiding.
Increase ear volume. A second later, she heard the hinges of an upstairs bedroom door creak open. Step, step, step. Pause. Swoosh. Step, step, step.
Thirty-two percent.
More footsteps.
Thirty-eight percent. Thirty-nine percent. Forty-six. Swiftly rising. No longer hiding but approaching. Gear for confrontation.