Page 46 of Hunted By the Wraiths
“I destroyed the tracking beacon,” she said. Her voice had gone flat. The dangerous kind of flat that preceded significant violence. “I checked three times. Primary, secondary, and the backup. I pulled them out physically.”
“You checked the standard beacons.” The voice came from the door. Female. Familiar. Amused.
We both turned. Vashil stood in our doorway, flanked by two Consortium soldiers in full combat armor. Real armor, not the knock-off stuff mercs wore. Military grade, with the kind of sensor packages that meant they could see us breathing throughsmoke. Vashil looked exactly like she had when Maris had let her live four days ago. Clean, composed, smiling.
I hated her smile.
“Hello, boss,” Vashil said. “Miss me?”
Maris’s blaster was in her hand before Vashil finished talking. I moved to flank her, ignoring the protest from my wounds. Eight by ten feet. No cover. One bed, two blasters, and a death wish.
“Backup tracker,” Vashil continued, like we were having a casual conversation over drinks. “Hardwired into the nav system’s quantum processor. Microscopic. Even you wouldn’t think to look there. Cost me a fortune to have it installed two years ago, but I believe in long-term investments.”
Two years ago. Before I’d come back. Vashil had been planning this betrayal since long before I’d shown up to complicate Maris’s life.
“You sold us out.” Maris’s voice could have frozen helium.
“Sold implies past tense.” Vashil’s smile widened. She was enjoying this. “I’m selling you out. Present tense. Important distinction. The Consortium is paying very well for both of you. Alive, specifically. Though they were clear that ‘mostly alive’ would be acceptable.”
More footsteps in the corridor. Heavy. Multiple. I counted at least six more sets of boots. No, eight. No, twelve. They weren’t taking chances.
My assessment was brief and depressing. The math wasn’t good.
“You were my lieutenant,” Maris said. “For six years. I trusted you.”
“Your first mistake.” Vashil checked her chrono. “Well, not your first. Your first was letting sentiment cloud your judgment. Building an empire on grief? Very poetic. Very stupid. You went soft when your lizard came back.”
I felt Maris’s rage spike. Not hot rage. Cold. The kind that preceded very careful, very thorough violence.
“Second mistake,” Vashil continued, clearly enjoying her monologue, “was letting me live. I mean, really? Mercy? From the Smuggler Queen? You used to execute people for looking at you wrong. But you let me walk because what, you were feeling generous? Sentimental? Or just tired?”
“I let you live because I thought you were smart enough to stay down.”
“Third mistake. I’m very smart. Smart enough to know the Consortium would pay more for you than I’d ever make running your leftovers. Do you know what they’re offering? Not just credits. Territory. My own station. Legitimate shipping licenses. A future that doesn’t involve looking over my shoulder for one of your assassins.”
“I don’t have assassins anymore. You sold them out too.”
“True.” Vashil’s smile turned predatory. “But you would have. Eventually. Once you remembered who you were. The Queen doesn’t forgive. She might delay revenge, but she doesn’t forgive. We both know I was living on borrowed time.”
She wasn’t wrong. I could feel it—Maris had already been planning Vashil’s death. Not today, not tomorrow, but eventually. When things were settled. When it would send the right message.
“Thirty seconds,” Vashil announced. “You have thirty seconds before my new friends get impatient and come in shooting. I’d prefer you surrender. Less messy. Less paperwork. But I get paid either way.”
I felt Maris processing. Angles, distances, probabilities. How many she could kill before they killed her. How many I could take with me. The math wasn’t good.
“Twenty seconds.”
“You should have stayed down,” Maris told her. “When I gave you the chance.”
“Fifteen seconds. And no, I shouldn’t have. I should have done this years ago. Before you met him. Before you went soft. When youwerestill the Queen who’d burn a station to make a point.”
“Ten seconds.”
The corridor filled with more Consortium soldiers. I counted twelve visible, probably more outside. They had pulse rifles, shock batons, and the kind of coordinated movement that meant actual training. These weren’t conscripts or mercenaries. These were proper Consortium forces. Elite units.
They’d sent elite units for us. It was a terrifying compliment.
“Five seconds.”
