willingly go
away ? No, she decided. She and Brent would have to run together. But if
anyone got hurt…
Fontana’s pulse accelerated.
There had never been so much as a hint of crime on Sagitariun. Yet she’d been
here all of five days and might get herself or someone else killed because
she’d used the space station as a contact point for finding out what the Track
Cartel was up to. Wouldn’t the Corps love the fact that one of their soldiers
single-handedly brought crime to the fantasy resort?
Yeah, Stephaney would be right
yet again.
Fontana silently cursed, then
grasped Brent’s hand. “Leave the doors open. He’ll think we ran.”
They hurried back to the wall
that butted up against the bathroom. If the man entered the room, he wouldn’t
be able to see them until he was even with the wall. She would have to be fast,
but she could disarm him before he got off a shot—she hoped. Fontana pushed
Brent against the wall, then pressed close beside him near the edge. She lifted
a finger to her lips. He nodded.
A second later, the man raced
past them into the room. Fontana leaped on him. He twisted as they went down,
the weapon pointed at her. She seized his arm, but another larger arm seized
the hand with the weapon, wrenching it back the second before they hit the
carpet.
Brent was on the floor beside
them, his fist crashing into the man’s face before the man could react. Blood
spurted from his nose. Brent seized her shoulder and yanked her to her feet.
She blinked. He had the weapon in his hand.
Fontana stared. “You sure you
haven’t had Corps training?”
He hugged her against his side.
“I played college roller-ball and am on the engineers’ triathlon team. Keeps me
in shape.”
She couldn’t believe it. The man
was genuinely enjoying himself. She’d wanted rough play. So did Brent.
Their attacker moaned. Fontana
dropped to her knees beside him. She racked her brain for anything that would
get Brent out of the room, but nothing reasonable rushed forward. Yeah, she was
going to have to let the guy get away. But how to accomplish that when Brent
was determined to save Sagitariun from falling into the sun—and save her from
herself in the process?
Chapter Eleven
The man’s eyes opened, and
Fontana seized his lapel and yanked him to a sitting position. “You go back and
tell the Bull we don’t like being fucked with.”
Would Brent buy that a 1920s mob
boss had sent a guy to get them with a modern weapon? For all she knew, it
could be true. She hoped it was true.
Fontana stood, pulling the man to
his feet, then shoved him into Brent’s arms. “Should we give him the same
treatment Jimmy’s boys gave us?”
Brent grinned. “Got any rope?”
“Strip him.”
Brent’s grin widened. “Perfect.”
“I’ll get a towel. We’ll tear
some strips, then tie his hands behind his back and toss him into the hallway.”
“You’re out of your minds,” the
guy said.
“Probably,” Fontana said, and
breathed a little easier. He hadn’t threatened to have the cartel come after
her if she didn’t release him, which was exactly the threat a cartel member
would make.
She took the weapon from Brent,
and he began to wrestle the man’s coat off. She stuffed the weapon into her
waistband and hurried to the bathroom. A muttered “Oof” and an
indistinguishable curse followed her. Fontana returned to see that Brent had
the guy on the floor, belly first, with his knee in his back. The man’s shirt
lay on the floor.
“Not bad.” She laughed.
Fontana crossed to the dresser
and pulled out the medical tape. Brent held him down while she wrapped his
hands behind his back. When they had his pants and underwear off, Brent pulled
him up. Fontana tracked her gaze down his body. He didn’t have Brent’s
physique, but he was nicely built, and his package showed promise—though, at
the moment, fear had the better of him, and he was about as uninspired as a man could get.
“I
away ? No, she decided. She and Brent would have to run together. But if
anyone got hurt…
Fontana’s pulse accelerated.
There had never been so much as a hint of crime on Sagitariun. Yet she’d been
here all of five days and might get herself or someone else killed because
she’d used the space station as a contact point for finding out what the Track
Cartel was up to. Wouldn’t the Corps love the fact that one of their soldiers
single-handedly brought crime to the fantasy resort?
Yeah, Stephaney would be right
yet again.
Fontana silently cursed, then
grasped Brent’s hand. “Leave the doors open. He’ll think we ran.”
They hurried back to the wall
that butted up against the bathroom. If the man entered the room, he wouldn’t
be able to see them until he was even with the wall. She would have to be fast,
but she could disarm him before he got off a shot—she hoped. Fontana pushed
Brent against the wall, then pressed close beside him near the edge. She lifted
a finger to her lips. He nodded.
A second later, the man raced
past them into the room. Fontana leaped on him. He twisted as they went down,
the weapon pointed at her. She seized his arm, but another larger arm seized
the hand with the weapon, wrenching it back the second before they hit the
carpet.
Brent was on the floor beside
them, his fist crashing into the man’s face before the man could react. Blood
spurted from his nose. Brent seized her shoulder and yanked her to her feet.
She blinked. He had the weapon in his hand.
Fontana stared. “You sure you
haven’t had Corps training?”
He hugged her against his side.
“I played college roller-ball and am on the engineers’ triathlon team. Keeps me
in shape.”
She couldn’t believe it. The man
was genuinely enjoying himself. She’d wanted rough play. So did Brent.
Their attacker moaned. Fontana
dropped to her knees beside him. She racked her brain for anything that would
get Brent out of the room, but nothing reasonable rushed forward. Yeah, she was
going to have to let the guy get away. But how to accomplish that when Brent
was determined to save Sagitariun from falling into the sun—and save her from
herself in the process?
Chapter Eleven
The man’s eyes opened, and
Fontana seized his lapel and yanked him to a sitting position. “You go back and
tell the Bull we don’t like being fucked with.”
Would Brent buy that a 1920s mob
boss had sent a guy to get them with a modern weapon? For all she knew, it
could be true. She hoped it was true.
Fontana stood, pulling the man to
his feet, then shoved him into Brent’s arms. “Should we give him the same
treatment Jimmy’s boys gave us?”
Brent grinned. “Got any rope?”
“Strip him.”
Brent’s grin widened. “Perfect.”
“I’ll get a towel. We’ll tear
some strips, then tie his hands behind his back and toss him into the hallway.”
“You’re out of your minds,” the
guy said.
“Probably,” Fontana said, and
breathed a little easier. He hadn’t threatened to have the cartel come after
her if she didn’t release him, which was exactly the threat a cartel member
would make.
She took the weapon from Brent,
and he began to wrestle the man’s coat off. She stuffed the weapon into her
waistband and hurried to the bathroom. A muttered “Oof” and an
indistinguishable curse followed her. Fontana returned to see that Brent had
the guy on the floor, belly first, with his knee in his back. The man’s shirt
lay on the floor.
“Not bad.” She laughed.
Fontana crossed to the dresser
and pulled out the medical tape. Brent held him down while she wrapped his
hands behind his back. When they had his pants and underwear off, Brent pulled
him up. Fontana tracked her gaze down his body. He didn’t have Brent’s
physique, but he was nicely built, and his package showed promise—though, at
the moment, fear had the better of him, and he was about as uninspired as a man could get.
“I
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