Page 33 of How to Steal a Galaxy

The conference room door slams, sealing me inside. I kick off my shoes—hateful things—and sling myself into one of the leather swivel chairs at the table, releasing all the pent-up adrenaline as my body melts into the seat.

Well, that could have gone better.

14

The conference room door bangs open so abruptly that I jump. Rian storms inside.

“Hello,” I say cheerily.

Another man follows him in, then slams the door shut again. He has tightly coiled white hair over an ashen face and a grim expression. The infamous Jacques Winters, gala director.

Outside, Fetor’s got to be at least ten minutes into his little speech. Had I not done what I did, there would have been a lot more screaming and a lot fewer inane jokes played for polite laughter.

“Ada, what thefuck,” Rian snarls.

“Okay, you’re mad,” I say.

Rian glowers at me, jaw tight, but the white-haired man whirls on him. “Youknowher?”

Rian doesn’t even look at him. His eyes burn into me. “Why?” he chokes out.

In answer, I reach for my purse. The white-haired man jumps, but Rian holds out a hand, ready to take what I’m offering.

My data pad.

I flip it on, unlock the screen, and bring up the kid’s hack. “By the time I caught him, he’d already set the command into motion,” I say, also handing over the transponder.

“What is it?” Winters asks, looking at the screen.

Shit. Rian doesn’t know code. Winters doesn’t seem to, either, but another man enters the conference room—the blue-haired server. He takes the data pad from Rian, and the two of them quickly confer. I let them talk. I shoot Winters a charming smile, but it doesn’t make his scowl lessen. Tough crowd.

Rian turns to me, looking across the room from his position by the door. “Who—”

I cut him off. “The Jarra.”

The gala director whips around to me. Finally an expression from him other than rage. “You intercepted something from the Jarra?”

“Hi.” I beam at him. “My name’s Ada Lamarr, and tonight I saved your ass. In front of all the live feeds, too. You are welcome.”

“You intercepted a terrorist?” Rian said, ignoring my polite introductions. The blue-haired man leaves.

I stopped a kid from fucking up his own life,I think. I could care less what happened to Fetor. But that kid was never going to get away with what he’d done.

“Where is—” Winters looks around as if the entirety of the underground movement were standing in the conference room, weapons drawn.

“He’s gone,” I say casually.

“Gone?” Rian narrows his eyes.

“I took care of it.”

His brows wrinkle; his jaw tightens.

“Speaking of.” I turn to the coordinator, shooting him a smile. “I did promise Fetor that red telephone from the Mission Control display as an apology for messing up his fancy speech.” A lie, but a believable one.

His eyes widen. “That was not yours to—”

“Yeah, obviously. But consider how stopping your own guest of honor’s hover stage from turning into a raging inferno of death and destruction may have saved you a little face.”

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