Page 33 of Grumpy Alien Bodyguard

"You mean Ambassador Gellar?"

"Among others." He waves dismissively. "Come on, Varnok. Since when do Ataxian priestesses convert to the way of theSolari? Zantress is playing the Alliance. The Solari are just the beachhead for a potential Ataxian invasion."

I laugh. The idea is so absurd it's almost brilliant.

"You're good, Kallus. Trying to play on my prejudices against the Ataxians, of which I admittedly have many." I lean forward, my eyes narrowing dangerously. "But the war is over. And with it, any grudges I had against the Coalition."

"Really?" Kallus raises an eyebrow ridge. "What about Drach? Drach killed one of your crew, didn't he? On Proxima VI, during the Battle of the Crimson Nebula."

My blood runs cold. "How do you know about that?"

Kallus just smiles, his teeth gleaming. A server arrives with a platter of appetizers—fried wings, something tentacled, and various skewered meats.

"I make it my business to know things, Annihilator. Information is more valuable than credits." He pushes the platter toward me. "Eat. We're just two veterans having a friendly conversation."

I don't touch the food. "What do you want, Kallus?"

"Wouldn't you like to get back to the business of fighting, Varnok?" His voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper. "It would be so easy. Without Ambassador Gellar, the negotiations will come to an end. All you have to do is just stay here at the bar for another hour, then go back to the hotel, and we'll all get what we want." He slides a plate of wings toward me. "More hot wings?"

There's more than wings on the plate. A credstick gleams among the food, its display showing a balance that makes my eyes widen. Ten million Alliance credits, at least.

"I've lost my appetite." I stand abruptly, my chair scraping against the floor.

Kallus remains seated, perfectly composed. "Think about it, Annihilator. The war may be over, but there will always be battles to fight. Choose the right side."

I turn and stride toward the door, my mind racing. The moment I step outside, I break into a dead run. Kallus's words echo in my head: "Without Ambassador Gellar, the negotiations will come to an end."

Quinn is in danger.

My feet pound the pavement as I sprint through the streets of Christmasville. Civilians scatter out of my path, some crying out in alarm at the sight of a fully-armored Vakutan warrior charging through the night. I don't care. Let them stare. Let them fear. Right now, all that matters is getting to Quinn before Kallus's agents do.

I tap my wrist communicator as I run. "Gas! Gas, come in!"

Static crackles, then Gas's voice, slurred with what sounds like several drinks. "Heyyy, boss. What's up?"

"Get to the Superior Gardens now! The ambassador's in danger!"

"On my way!" His voice instantly sharpens, the professional beneath the party animal emerging.

I push myself harder, my muscles burning with exertion. The Superior Gardens looms ahead, its elegant spires gleaming against the night sky. I barrel through the front entrance, nearly taking the ornate glass doors off their hinges.

The Odex hotel manager—Roleach—steps forward with an indignant expression. "Sir! I must insist?—"

I seize him by the front of his uniform, lifting him off the ground. "Ambassador Gellar. Where is she?"

"The—the rooftop garden," he stammers. "But security protocols?—"

I drop him and sprint for the elevators, smashing the call button with my fist. Too slow. I turn to the emergency stairs and take them three at a time, my heart hammering in my chest.

Twenty-seven floors. I count them as I climb, each step bringing me closer to Quinn. Please let me be in time. Please let her be safe.

I slam my palm against the elevator call button. The doors slide open and I step inside, punching the button for the rooftop garden. My heart pounds against my ribs as the elevator begins its ascent.

Floor twelve... thirteen... fourteen...

The elevator jerks to a halt between floors. Something's wrong.

I flatten myself against the wall, instinct taking over just as a hail of plasma fire tears through the ceiling. The shots punch through the metal like it's paper, leaving molten edges around each hole. The acrid smell of burnt circuitry fills the small space.

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