Trip was again alone, they wouldn’t be watching for her coming up from behind.
Trip swiveled in the opposite direction, pulling himself to his feet as she eased around the table’s edge. Hands shoved in pockets, shoulders hunched with his telltale leather pack stuck under one arm, he plodded parallel to the tall Taka in brown coveralls moving with the group from the table. Kid
was
good, when he wanted to be.
She followed a few paces behind, with the safety off the L7 and her face angled just enough to keep the burly men in her peripheral vision. They were weaving through the crowd, heading for the bar as she was, but she was sure they hadn’t seen Trip. The shorter, curly-haired guy was in the lead, and he was looking quickly left and right in an almost nervous fashion.
She could appreciate nervous. Her palms felt slick and her heart was hammering in her chest. She was a cargo pilot, for God’s sake. Granted, she’d grown up on freighter docks and knew how to fight as dirty as any dock brat did. Dirtier, thanks to some of her father’s crew. But that was more than fifteen years ago. She’d been hauling corporate executives and cargo for seven years now, and neither execs nor cargo ever shot at you. Well, almost never.
Shit
. Baldy was hanging back. Slowing down. And seemed to be watching the Taka—Trip’s cover—with the same sideways method she was using to watch him. But he was six, seven tables away, with a lot of patrons in between.
Then she remembered Fuzz-face elbowing the old man without remorse.
Innocent bystanders
wasn’t in this group’s vocabulary.
The Taka slowed, turning to say something to the human male behind him. Trip slowed, too, but in those few seconds when the Taka angled around, Trip was infull view. She knew he was, because Baldy suddenly straightened and grabbed Curly’s shoulder.
“Trip! Cover’s blown!” she ground out between clenched teeth. Then Baldy’s hand slid out of his pocket. And his hand wasn’t empty.
She pushed against Trip’s back, hard. “Run!”
Trip lunged, sidling around the stalled and startled Taka.
But Curly was already moving, shoving dockworkers and freighter crew aside, shouts and curses flowing in his wake. Baldy was a few steps behind him. Curly took a different axis, heading for the bar, palming a small laser pistol from his pocket as he went.
Bastard hopes to cut us off, trap us
. She couldn’t let that happen. She scanned the crowd quickly, praying for Pops or one of his techs. Someone to help, someone to cause a diversion long enough for her and Trip to get away—or serious enough to get the crowd to turn against the duo, who were now annoying patrons with their pushing and shoving but not yet doing anything to cause a really workable problem.
This was, after all, Trouble’s Brewing.
Then, in the midst of it all, a solitary ’droid ambled toward her, two capped coffee mugs on its tray. Their coffee.
Kaidee watched, astonished, as Trip grabbed one mug and flung it—no,
pitched
a perfect throw, beaning Curly on the side of his head. The man roared, hot coffee splattering and spilling down his face and neck.
“Look out! He’s got a gun,” Trip yelled.
People dove out of the way, their drinks tumbling, clattering against tabletops. Someone shouted, hard and harsh. A few turned for Trip, but then Baldy jerked his weapon up and fired—a low whine that told her his weapon was set for stun. She doubted it wascompliance with dock regs. It was simply that Baldy wanted Trip Guthrie alive.
With the appearance of the weapon, the focus of the crowd changed. Kaidee hit the deck just behind Trip. She heard more shouts, more thuds. She wasn’t the only one in Trouble’s Brewing who knew the sound of a stunner.
They had their diversion. She also hoped they had the patrons of Trouble’s Brewing on their side. Bar fights were one thing. Guns fired in the bar were another. Although once someone started …
“Stay down but go, go!” She
Trip swiveled in the opposite direction, pulling himself to his feet as she eased around the table’s edge. Hands shoved in pockets, shoulders hunched with his telltale leather pack stuck under one arm, he plodded parallel to the tall Taka in brown coveralls moving with the group from the table. Kid
was
good, when he wanted to be.
She followed a few paces behind, with the safety off the L7 and her face angled just enough to keep the burly men in her peripheral vision. They were weaving through the crowd, heading for the bar as she was, but she was sure they hadn’t seen Trip. The shorter, curly-haired guy was in the lead, and he was looking quickly left and right in an almost nervous fashion.
She could appreciate nervous. Her palms felt slick and her heart was hammering in her chest. She was a cargo pilot, for God’s sake. Granted, she’d grown up on freighter docks and knew how to fight as dirty as any dock brat did. Dirtier, thanks to some of her father’s crew. But that was more than fifteen years ago. She’d been hauling corporate executives and cargo for seven years now, and neither execs nor cargo ever shot at you. Well, almost never.
Shit
. Baldy was hanging back. Slowing down. And seemed to be watching the Taka—Trip’s cover—with the same sideways method she was using to watch him. But he was six, seven tables away, with a lot of patrons in between.
Then she remembered Fuzz-face elbowing the old man without remorse.
Innocent bystanders
wasn’t in this group’s vocabulary.
The Taka slowed, turning to say something to the human male behind him. Trip slowed, too, but in those few seconds when the Taka angled around, Trip was infull view. She knew he was, because Baldy suddenly straightened and grabbed Curly’s shoulder.
“Trip! Cover’s blown!” she ground out between clenched teeth. Then Baldy’s hand slid out of his pocket. And his hand wasn’t empty.
She pushed against Trip’s back, hard. “Run!”
Trip lunged, sidling around the stalled and startled Taka.
But Curly was already moving, shoving dockworkers and freighter crew aside, shouts and curses flowing in his wake. Baldy was a few steps behind him. Curly took a different axis, heading for the bar, palming a small laser pistol from his pocket as he went.
Bastard hopes to cut us off, trap us
. She couldn’t let that happen. She scanned the crowd quickly, praying for Pops or one of his techs. Someone to help, someone to cause a diversion long enough for her and Trip to get away—or serious enough to get the crowd to turn against the duo, who were now annoying patrons with their pushing and shoving but not yet doing anything to cause a really workable problem.
This was, after all, Trouble’s Brewing.
Then, in the midst of it all, a solitary ’droid ambled toward her, two capped coffee mugs on its tray. Their coffee.
Kaidee watched, astonished, as Trip grabbed one mug and flung it—no,
pitched
a perfect throw, beaning Curly on the side of his head. The man roared, hot coffee splattering and spilling down his face and neck.
“Look out! He’s got a gun,” Trip yelled.
People dove out of the way, their drinks tumbling, clattering against tabletops. Someone shouted, hard and harsh. A few turned for Trip, but then Baldy jerked his weapon up and fired—a low whine that told her his weapon was set for stun. She doubted it wascompliance with dock regs. It was simply that Baldy wanted Trip Guthrie alive.
With the appearance of the weapon, the focus of the crowd changed. Kaidee hit the deck just behind Trip. She heard more shouts, more thuds. She wasn’t the only one in Trouble’s Brewing who knew the sound of a stunner.
They had their diversion. She also hoped they had the patrons of Trouble’s Brewing on their side. Bar fights were one thing. Guns fired in the bar were another. Although once someone started …
“Stay down but go, go!” She
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