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.
CHAPTER 2
"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 leant 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.
"No one messes up my place." He grabbed a small, silken wrist and jerked the woman into his view. Shock jolted him as he stared into the face of a startled angel.
Damn, she was beautiful.
In that instant of hesitation, she drove her knee straight into his groin.
Pure agony spread through him. Gasping, he doubled over with a sharp curse.
Shahara pulled the reserve blaster from her boot and leveled it at C.I. Syn: rapist, murderer, traitor, and filch. He was huge and powerful. She'd have to watch him closely if she were to succeed. Keeping her eyes on him, she bent her knees to retrieve the other two blasters from the floor.
The man in front of her was not the usual type she was used to dealing with. Not only was he more refined, but something proud and primal emanated from every molecule of his body. Only one word could define it.
Sexy.
And she was far from immune to it.
Unlike the other class three and four felons she'd traced, this one possessed an air of sophistication. When he spoke, it wasn't in a gruff, ignorant street dialect, it was with a fluid, baritone voice that resonated deep from within him. His cadence and syntax were that of an educated man or an aristocrat, not a lowly filch.
With a deep breath, he recovered himself from her kick--something she'd never seen a man do so quickly before. He moved away from her with the lithe, powerful grace of a predator.
Granted he was still limping, but there was an unmistakable fluidity.
That was it. That was what she sensed from him. He had a raw animal magnetism. He moved like a caged panther--sleek, rippling, deadly.
Vicious.
And he pounced like lightning. Before she realized what was happening, he had her completely unarmed. She kicked him back. He spun and shoved her into the wall.
Shahara used the rebound to propel herself at him and caught him a stiff blow to his jaw. Grunting, he grabbed her. She flipped up and kicked him back.
Syn cursed at her skill. She was incredible when it came to fighting. And every time he tried to pin her, she escaped. He hissed as she caught him another blow to the gut.
Kill her!
But he had a bad suspicion about her identity and if she was whom he thought . . .
Better to have her beat him into the ground than the alternative.
Out of her sleeves, two knives appeared. She moved at him, slashing. He put his arm up to block her attack. Their forearms collided, then she swiped his arm with the blade. It sliced straight through his padding to his flesh.
"Son of a . . ."
She stomped his foot. "Surrender, convict. I don't have to take you in alive."
He glared down at her as he tried to pin her again and failed. "Then you better get ready to kill me cause that's the only way I'm going in."
Shahara headbutted him, then scissor kicked his chest. In a fluid roll, she scooped her blaster up from the floor and angled it at him.
He finally froze.
"Cute attack," she sneered, waving him back into the bedroom with the barrel of her weapon. This time she knew to keep a good distance between them.
His eyes blazing obsidian fire, he obeyed in a manner that told her he didn't often cooperate with orders.
No, she could tell by the arrogant, taunting smile that this man was a leader or a loner.
Never a follower.
"Not half as cute as yours." He rubbed his groin meaningfully.
She shrugged at his sarcasm. "He who waits, loses."
The fierce scowl Syn gave her told her he didn't like the old Gondarion proverb at all.
Disregarding the look, she tossed him a pair of laser cuffs. They landed at his booted feet with a soft jingle. "Put those on quick or I'll blast you straight to hell."
He picked the cuffs up in his fist as if they disgusted him. His black gaze hardened and she swore she could actually smell the danger that radiated from every pore of his body.
She tensed her finger over the trigger, expecting him to toss the cuffs in her face. It wouldn't be the first time a convict had reacted that way and she had a few more tricks to unleash if he chose that action.
A loud whistle blared in the room behind her. Startled, she snapped around to make sure someone wasn't coming in to help him. Before she could focus on what the noise was, Syn's hands closed around hers.
How had he moved that fast? He should still be on the other side of the room.
Her heart racing, she struggled for her weapon, kicking and punching at him with all the fury coursing through her body. If he got her blaster away, he'd kill her for sure.
His grip tightened around her hand, numbing her fingers until she could barely feel the roughened grip of her blaster. She tried to headbutt him, but he dodged too fast.
To her horror, the blaster dropped to the floor with a heavy thud.
Cursing, she reverted to her strict training and punched at his throat.
Syn caught her hand in his before she could make contact with his windpipe. Wrenching her arm painfully behind her back, he picked her up and tossed her over his shoulder.
Shahara cursed as she struggled. In spite of her best efforts and blows, he knelt down, retrieved the blasters from the floor, then tossed her on his bed.
The soft, lump-free mattress startled her for the briefest moment before true panic consumed her. He stood a few feet away from the bed, gazing down at her with dark eyes.
Her vision dimmed. Snarling, she dove for him with only one goal--to escape with her life and body intact.
Syn switched his blaster setting from kill to stun and shot her in the shoulder before she could reach him.
A soft gasp left her lips. Her eyes widened as she clutched at her shoulder, then she crumpled to the floor.
A twinge of guilt annoyed him. He'd been stunned enough times to know she'd have a vicious hea
dache when she woke up.
But what other choice did he have? She seemed to be a determined little cozu.
Shaking his head in bitter amusement, he knelt beside her to check her pulse. Satisfied he hadn't hurt her, he took a good look at her peaceful features. Damned if she wasn't the most attractive woman he'd ever thrown onto his bed. Not that he'd ever made a habit of tossing women there, but still . . .
The flesh of her throat was warm and soft beneath his hand, something completely at odds with her tough demeanor. Trailing his finger over her creamy cheek, he stared at her lips, which were slightly parted while she breathed. He couldn't help wondering how much softer they might be, as well as other, more tender parts of her body.
Aching pains stabbed his groin.
Yeah, that's just what you need to add to your already fucked up day. Sleep with a woman who wanted to hand him over to his enemies. A woman who had no compunctions about shooting him. Or, as he looked at his bleeding forearm, carving parts off his body.
If he had one single brain cell left in his head, he'd deplete her memory and dump her in the nearest hole. But he couldn't quite bring himself to be so cruel. Unlike her, he had a conscience about handing people over to those out to torture, kill, and maim them.
Sighing, he picked her up from the floor and carried her from his bedroom to the couch.
Damn, she weighed nothing. Didn't the woman ever eat? If he were still a doctor, he'd run a nutrition diagnostic on her. She couldn't be healthy at this weight.
But then, like him, she was a gutter rat and it was hard to find food in the sewers. That kind of desperate hunger never went away even when there was food around.
The whistle blared again. "Syn?"
He gave a small prayer of thanks Caillen Dagan had seen the right moment to call him. That boy had always had good timing . . .
With a final look at the shapely form draped across his couch, he crossed the room and picked up his earpiece that kept him in contact with the pilots who worked for him.
"Yeah, Dagan, what do you need?"
"Kasen just called and she's accepted a run to Lyrix. She wants me to go with her and I don't dare let her go alone. You know how rough that place is. Anyway, I was supposed to do the Prinum shipment for you tonight and since I can't be in two places . . . Is there any way you can get someone to cover for me?"
Syn glanced back at the tracer on his couch, debating the sanity of leaving her.
"Syn?"
He frowned at Caillen's anxious voice. Caillen hated asking for help and Syn had never been one to deny a friend in need. Besides, Caillen protected nothing like he did his sisters, and he respected the man's devotion. If there was anything he understood, it was that family came first.
And Caillen was like a brother to him. "Sure, I'll do it."
"Thanks, bud, I owe you."
Clicking off the link, Syn tossed it back on the counter and shook his head. Caillen had always been a bit waxed when it came to his sisters. So waxed that in all the years Syn had known him, he'd only met one sister, Kasen, and that had been by pure accident.
Something bad had happened to one of them when they were teenagers and it'd severely scarred Caillen. Syn had no idea what it was, since he tended not to pry into people's personal lives.
He figured if Caillen wanted him to know, he'd volunteer it. Until then, it was none of his business.
A soft moan drew his attention back to his current problem. Intrigued by his catch, he returned to the couch.
He stared down at her, hoping he was wrong about her identity . . .
She didn't look like a Dagan. At least not Caillen or Kasen, but then genes were screwy things. He didn't really look anything like his sister or mother either.
Except for his eyes . . .
He flinched at the reminder. His father had punished him well for sharing that bit of his mother's DNA. The sad thing was, his father had actually loved her and while they'd been together, he hadn't been quite as psychotic. But after she ran off, he'd turned his hatred for her to the two kids the bitch had left behind.
He pushed that thought away and stared down at the tracer.
For now, she lay unmoving, her long, reddish brown braid falling over the cushions, down to the floor. Picking it up, he marveled at the silken texture. He'd never seen hair quite that shade. Dark red strands were entwined with gold, brown, black, and ash. Like rich mahogany.
The leather Armstitch battlesuit she wore was of an outdated style, probably around ten years old and by the fit of it, it looked like she'd bought it used. Still, the cut complimented her lithe, slender figure even if the color did nothing to accentuate her exotic features.
Damn, the woman was built taut and tight, and he could just imagine her wrapping those long, sexy limbs around his body while she . . .
Stop it, asshole.
That was easier said than done as he stared at her and his cock twitched. He traced the line of her full, rosy lips with his knuckle, taking delight in the slight, sensual tickle of her breath against his skin. He hadn't been with a woman in awhile. Too damned long, now that he thought about it. An obvious fact given the way his body craved a woman who wanted his head. And not the one he wanted to share with her.
There was no real reason for the long stretch other than he didn't like personal entanglements and women, while entertaining for a couple of hours, had a nasty habit of screwing him over any time he gave them a chance. The one thing Mara had taught him with crystal clarity--he couldn't do enough right in his adult life to shut out all the wrong he'd done as a kid.
More to the point, no woman would ever forgive him for the genetic link he shared with a monster.
So he always kept his liaisons to a single night with women he didn't know. Women he could keep at a safe, emotionless distance.
And for the last six months, he hadn't been able to find any woman even remotely appealing.
Until now.
I am psychotic . . . just like my dad.
He'd have to be to even look at a woman like her who was after his ass to arrest it.
And still she appealed to him for reasons he couldn't understand. Her angry, almond-shaped eyes were closed now, but he vividly recalled the odd, golden shade. There was something very familiar about those eyes. For his life he couldn't remember what.
Also there was something about her that reminded him of his own sister. The unique way she held her head when she defied him as if she'd faced the worst possible nightmare and still found the courage to continue life's brutal path. Something a typical person wouldn't notice. But to those who'd walked courageously through hell and been tested and scarred by its fires, it was obvious.
Too bad his sister had lost that courage.
Pain racked his soul as he struggled against the unrelenting grief that no amount of time seemed to dull. The sight of her lifeless body soaked in blood . . .
Regrets pounded through him and he closed his eyes, wishing he could go back and save Talia.
If only he'd been older, maybe he could have done something to help her.
Bullshit. There had been no help for either of them. He knew that for a fact and still he beat himself up with it over and over again. He hated that part of himself that couldn't let go of his past.
But this tracer wasn't Talia. She would never put herself in the line of fire to save him. To her, he was nothing more than a paycheck--a fugitive who needed to be returned because he didn't deserve to live among decent people.
Whatever he did, he couldn't allow himself to relax as long as she remained inside his home.
With that thought, Syn searched her body for more weapons to make sure she didn't have any other means of carving him up. He did his best to ignore the soft curves under his hands as he slid them over the rough leather of her battlesuit, and located weapon after weapon.
Damn, it was like disarming The League . . .
Or him.
Focus . . .
Though she was too thin for his
normal tastes, her muscles were firm, no doubt from hours of physical training. He could easily imagine how attractive her lithe body would look draped in nothing but a sheet.
His blood rushed through his veins like lava as his cock turned rock hard. "Get a hold of yourself. You're not some horny teen chasing after the first girl who smiled at you."
True, but there was something about this woman. Something that put a slow burn in his blood.
Yeah, she wants to beat your ass, you masochistic bastard.
Sliding his hands over her firm calf, he located a knife tucked inside her pant leg. He pulled it out and studied the intricate design.
Shit . . .
"I knew it." The weapon in his hand was legendary. An entwined bird and viper engraved on the silver handle--the symbol of a Gondarion Seax. Only one person in her entire generation had passed Seax training.
Shahara Dagan.
Suspicions confirmed, he sighed in aggravation. You're so going to die . . .
Shock and disgust poured through him. Well, isn't this just typical? After months of celibacy you finally find a woman who sets your hormones on fire and not only is she after your head in the worst sort of way, she's the treasured sister of one of your best friends.
"Just shoot me now and get it over with." Because that would be kind compared to what Dagan would do if he found out Syn had shot the older sister he worshiped.
He balanced the carefully honed blade between his fingers and looked back at the tracer whose very name made most fugitives surrender immediately.
And no wonder, given they way she fought.
"So you're the infamous Shahara . . ." He shook his head in amazement that such a petite beauty could inspire so lethal a reputation. "I wonder what Caillen would say if he knew you were here?"
I'm going to cut your balls off, Syn.
Yeah, that would probably be it . . .
On the good side and if Syn was lucky. If Dagan was having a bad day . . .
He shuddered.
Rolling his eyes at his typical luck, Syn placed the knife on top of the other weapons and devices he'd taken off her. He picked up her blasters and locked them, along with everything else, in the wall safe in his bedroom.
What was he going to do with her?
Unbidden an image of her writhing naked in his bed flashed before his eyes and he grinned wickedly. That was definitely what he wanted to do with her.