Page 28 of How to Steal a Galaxy

Sending a kid in for sacrifice.

The gala tonight has too good of security for brute force short of open warfare to work. Even the airspace above the building’s regulated. No drone in here that’s not attached directly to security. A good chunk of the guests with private bodyguards, another chunk undercover.

But this is a gala to benefit Earth. A charity fundraiser.

And while the Jarra are also from Earth, they’re not a group that really likes charity or benefits. This is exactly the shit they hate. They don’t want help from other worlds. They want Earth to separate from the United Galactic; they want everyone who’s chosen to leave the homeworld to stay gone.

I’d bet my dress the Jarra know of Fetor’s announcement, of the nanobots that are supposed to come and save everyone. More meddling from off-worlders, tied to the government at that. I know for a fact they hate Fetor on principle for all the shit he pulled with the vaccine rollout for climate sickness a decade ago; they wouldn’t mind taking him out and making a political statement against government intervention at the same time.

I glance at the kid. He’s too jumpy to be an assassin.

But he’s stupid enough to be a bomb.

“Give me your transponder,” I say, holding my hand out without looking directly at him.

“No,” he snaps. Then, “I don’t have a transponder.”

Fucking idiot. “What did they tell you?” I sigh.

He glares at me, lips sealed.

“What’s your exit plan?” I ask softly, turning back to face him.

His expression is all tight jaw and tense neck.

“Just going to do a runner?” I guess.

The barest hint of a shrug, mostly unconscious but a little bit testing the waters.

The Jarra would know that any attack on the gala would be a suicide mission. They never intended for the kid to escape. They never even pretended to give him a way out. But I bet they told him he could make a run for it in the chaos.

See, this is why I willneverwork for those assholes.

Because they think killing Fetor is worth killing this kid. Make no mistake. This gala is crawling with security, and it’s not all here for me. Whatever stunt this kid pulls, hewillget caught.

And they didn’t even tell him that.

I hold my hand out and snap my fingers.

“I don’t have anything,” the kid insists, a hint of whine creeping into his voice.

“Listen, kid, you’re going to fuck up both my and your plans if you don’t just hand it over.”

“Your plans?” he asks, his hand moving unconsciously to his pocket. Finally.

Here’s the thing. Rian has to have files and files and files on the Jarra. And I’m sure, at the top, those files are important. But the people at the top? They don’t get their hands dirty. Or blown off.

That’s what they use kids for.

I wonder how many plans go awry because they let young idiots who think they know what they’re fighting for carry them. An event like this? It’s a shot in hell that it’ll go anywhere. But then again—

Quantity over quality, that’s the Jarra. This isn’t the only shindig in the galaxy. I bet they sent kids out to a dozen different places, scattered over all the colonial worlds. Some of them will get caught by the law. Some of them will get caught in the crossfire.

But all they care about is what gets caught on camera. And something, no doubt, will filter through.

It’s a numbers game.

Gentle chimes echo throughout the museum. Bids are closed. People have fifteen minutes before the final show begins.

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