Page 20 of Naughty List Delivery
“PIP, plot intercept course,” Noomi orders, already moving toward the weapon controls before catching herself. Right. No weapons. Because my brilliant, reformed partner decided that good intentions were more important than staying alive.
“Noomi,” I start, my tail lashing with the need to hunt, to protect, to tear apart whatever’s threatening innocents. “If it’s Krax—”
“Then we help them anyway.” Her voice is steel wrapped in determination, and the way she says it—like she’d rather die than abandon people who need her—makes every territorial instinct I possess roar to life. “I won’t let him destroy more families.”
Mine. The thought pulses through me with primal certainty. This woman, this magnificent creature who’d fly into hell itself to deliver Christmas presents, belongs to me in ways that have nothing to do with possession and everything to do with recognition. She’s my match, my equal, my—
“Dropping out of hyperspace in thirty seconds,” PIP announces. “Fair warning: long-range scans show three hostilevessels and multiple debris fields. This is going to be unpleasant.”
The Wandering Star shudders back into normal space, and the sight that greets us makes my claws extend involuntarily. The OOPS convoy—five courier ships laden with mixed cargo—is scattered across space like broken toys. Two of them are badly damaged, atmosphere venting in thin streams while emergency systems struggle to maintain life support. One ship lists heavily to starboard, its engines dark but hull intact.
The two undamaged ships are running for their lives, pursued by Krax’s elegant killers—three interceptors in perfect formation, with a fourth ship hanging back like a predator watching its pack hunt.
“Those bastards,” Noomi breathes, her hands flying over the controls with deadly precision. “They’re not trying to capture anything. They’re just causing maximum damage.”
I can smell her rage, sharp and clean and absolutely lethal. This is the woman I fell in love with—not the sweet courier who delivers hope to lonely families, but the brilliant predator who’d burn down the galaxy to protect what she cares about.
“Contact the survivors,” I growl, keying my comm to the OOPS emergency frequency. “OOPS vessels, this is Captain Kraine aboard Wandering Star. We’re moving to assist.”
“Captain Kraine?” The voice that responds is young, female, and barely controlled panic. “Sir, this is Courier Strava aboard Lucky Strike. They came out of nowhere—just started firing. No demands, no warnings. We’ve got families’ Christmas packages mixed in with medical supplies. They’re destroying everything!”
The anguish in her voice makes something violent unfurl in my chest. These aren’t just military targets or criminal shipments. These are supplies for isolated colonies, medicine for the sick, and yes—Christmas packages from families whoscraped together shipping fees to send love across impossible distances.
And Krax is destroying them to get to us.
“Strava, what’s your cargo status?” Noomi asks, her voice carrying the calm authority that used to make me forget she was barely five and a half feet of human fury.
“Mixed shipment, ma’am. Medical supplies for three colonies, emergency food stores, and about a hundred Christmas packages. If we lose these...” Her voice cracks. “Some of these kids won’t get anything. Their parents spent everything they had on shipping fees just to get something to them for Christmas.”
“You won’t lose them.” The promise comes out as a snarl, weighted with two years of hunting and the growing certainty that I’d tear through a dozen ships to keep that promise. “Noomi, I need you to—”
“I know.” And suddenly we’re moving like we used to, two minds in perfect synchronization. She takes the helm while I handle targeting, her piloting complementing my tactical thinking in ways that make my alien instincts purr with satisfaction.
We’re good together. Devastatingly, brilliantly good.
“Shadowhawk, you’re up,” I growl into my comm. “Four hostiles—three interceptors and a command vessel hanging back. Focus on the interceptors. I want that command ship to see what happens when they target Christmas.”
“Copy that, Captain.” Kex’s gravelly voice carries grim satisfaction. “Been itching for some target practice.”
The first of Krax’s interceptors—a sleek killer built for speed over defense—never sees the Shadowhawk coming. My crew brings her in from the sensor shadow while I coordinate targeting data from the Wandering Star, Noomi’s piloting giving us perfect firing solutions.
“Target locked,” Kex announces. “Fire.”
The plasma bolt from my ship catches the interceptor amidships, and it comes apart like tissue paper in a solar wind. No survivors. No escape pods. Just the clean death that beings who target children’s Christmas presents deserve.
“One down,” Noomi says, her voice carrying grim satisfaction. “Three to go.”
The remaining interceptors have noticed us now, abandoning their pursuit of the fleeing couriers to deal with the new threat. The command vessel—sleeker, more heavily armored—begins a tactical withdrawal. Smart. Krax isn’t risking himself when he can watch us fight his subordinates.
“They’re trying to box us in,” I observe, watching their approach vectors with predatory appreciation. “Standard hunter-killer pattern.”
“Good thing we wrote the book on breaking those.” Noomi’s smile is sharp enough to cut vacuum, and the way she looks at me—like I’m still the most dangerous thing in her universe—makes my blood sing. “Remember the Krassarian Gambit?”
Heat shoots through my veins at the memory. The most dangerous maneuver in our arsenal, requiring perfect trust and split-second timing. We’d used it exactly once, during a raid on a corporate convoy that had gone sideways. Nearly killed us both.
It had also led to the most intense celebration of our lives afterward, tangled together in our quarters while adrenaline and victory and pure, animal need made us forget everything but each other.
“I remember,” I say, my voice rougher than intended. “You sure you want to try it in a ship with no shield boosters? Or are you just showing off for me again?”
