She wondered if he would, after everything. Yet, incredibly, he nodded, then turned his attention to the platform.

Gavra stood on the dais, flanked by four armed mercenaries. She eyed the crowd with a strange mixture of disgust and eagerness, as if she despised them but loved what they could do for her cred values. A voice amplifier attached to her shirt threw her voice across the warehouse. “Want to see what you’re bidding on?”

The mob roared its assent, raucous and eager.

Gavra motioned and two mercenaries stepped down from the platform, only to return a minute later. They held a woman between them, their grips tight on her arms as she twisted and struggled. She wore a grimy 8th Wing uniform, torn in places, and her dark hair spilled over her shoulders.

“For your buying pleasure,” Gavra shouted, “I offer you Lieutenant Celene Jur of the 8th Wing’s Black Wraith Squad.”

Another roar from the throng. The sound grew rowdy, avid, as the guards tried to tug the lieutenant up the steps to the dais, and she managed to kick one of the mercenaries in his upper thigh.

She took advantage of the moment, tugging her arm free from his grip. Her punch landed on the second guard’s jaw, but he did not release her. Three more guards surged toward her. She tried to fight them, but in a moment they had her up on the platform and completely subdued. One guard for each arm, and guards pinning her feet to the floor.

She glared at the mob.

The crowd loved it, bellowing its approval. Her silver eyes scanned the crowd, contempt plain in her lovely, bruised face. Mara tensed when the lieutenant’s gaze moved over Kell, worried that Jur would make some sign of recognition and give them away. A needless worry—the lieutenant’s expression did not alter. Neither did Kell’s.

Whatever Mara felt about Jur, there was no denying the lieutenant was both intelligent and a skilled fighter—just like Kell. Not much of a surprise that he had chosen her.

“Plenty of fire in this bitch,” Gavra crowed. She strutted over and stroked a proprietary hand down Jur’s face. The lieutenant jerked her head away, but the guards held her in place.

Gavra chuckled. “Whoever’s lucky enough to buy her is in for a great ride. Provided you can keep hold of your balls.”

Harsh laughter filled the warehouse. Only Mara was aware that Kell’s hands knotted into fists.

“Let’s start the bidding for the woman,” Gavra continued. “Opening at fifty thousand creds.”

The amount astonished Mara—even top-of-the-line Halu pleasure slaves cost only twenty thousand creds. It didn’t appear that Lieutenant Jur felt flattered, though. Her mouth curled into a sneer.

Despite the astronomical figure, someone immediately yelled out, “Fifty.”

“Fifty-five,” another shouted.

“Sixty.” This from Nalren, the slaver.

Soon, the warehouse shook from the bids flying quick and frenetic, like animals caught in a feeding frenzy.

Gavra looked euphoric, allowing the bids to pile higher and higher. A blissful chaos of rising profit.

Kell adjusted the folds of his scarf, and Mara knew the time had come. She braced herself.

Tension tightened her skin as she waited. In a moment, hell was about to break loose.

Sound and percussion rocked the warehouse as one of the walls exploded. Debris, smoke,

everywhere, and the panicked shouts of the mob.

“We’re under attack!” Gavra shrieked. “Guards!” Gun drawn, firing wildly, she fled the dais and disappeared through a small door. On her way out, she slammed her fist into a panel by the door,

filling the compound with the shrill of an alarm.

No one knew that the explosions had been triggered by Kell as he detonated the microbots scuttling across the wall. Instead, believing themselves under siege and unarmed, people shoved at each other, trying desperately to flee. Mara fought to keep from being swept away by the terrified crowd. It wasn’t a surprise to see that all the smugglers and scavengers fled. Only the mercenaries stayed, their continued presence ensured by the promise of creds. Profit made men brave.

These mercenaries fanned out to meet the assumed threat. As one of the mercenaries stood at the edge of the platform, Kell pulled the scarf from around his throat and whipped it toward the guard. It struck the sentry across the face, leaving a bleeding, angry welt. The scarf snapped again with a sharp crack. The guard lost his grip on his gun, and Mara grabbed it before the firearm could hit the floor.

It wasn’t a damned ugly scarf after all, but a weapon. A lash, with a jagged, cutting edge that deployed only when in motion. And Kell wielded it masterfully, beating back mercenaries charging across the floor toward him. She wanted to watch his fluid, deadly grace, but other things needed attention. Like the half dozen guards headed in her direction.

She ran to the side of the platform and took cover. Then, careful to draw fire away from Kell,

shot at the advancing guards. Three went down, and Mara kept up her assault. As she continued her cover, Kell leapt up onto the dais. With brutal efficiency, he used both his whip and his fists to mow down the mercenaries trying to take him down. She had witnessed fights both sanctioned and spontaneous from one end of the galaxy to the other. Nothing and no one ever fought as beautifully, as capably as Kell. He was action and purpose, a blur she could barely track. Something primal within her heated to see him transform fully into a lethal warrior.

Mara continued to hold back advancing mercenaries, giving Kell the time he needed to free the lieutenant. Though, she confirmed with a quick glance, Jur seemed to have the situation in hand—she took advantage of the confusion to kick free of most of the mercenaries holding her. Nobody could match Kell for fighting skill, but Jur made an impressive sight as she grappled with the last guard holding her.

As the guards fell back to regroup, Mara sprang up onto the platform. She picked up another dropped weapon so she held two pistols. She fired a plasma round into a mercenary lunging for Kell, then slipped behind the guard still struggling with Jur.

One gun barrel pressed to the back of the guard’s head, the other jammed up between his legs.

The mercenary froze.

“Good boy.” Mara nudged the pistol she held between his legs. “Let go of your shiny toy.”

His hand opened, releasing his grip on Jur’s arm. The moment he did, the lieutenant punched him in the jaw and he slid to the ground, out cold.

Shaking out her hand, Jur said, “I’m not complaining, but who are you?”

“A friend of Kell’s,” seemed the easiest, and shortest, explanation.

“Thank you, Kell’s friend.” Jur looked toward where Kell fought three guards. “Let’s give him a hand.”

Gods curse it, she really didn’t want to respect the lieutenant, but it was a challenge. She and Jur shared a nod, then sprang into the fray. Between Mara, Lieutenant Jur and Kell, they cleared the platform in less than a minute.

Kell turned to Mara and Jur. “Appreciate it.” His dark gaze moved over Mara, quick and attentive. “Hurt?”

She shook her head. “You?”

“Feels like old times.” He grinned, and her chest constricted at the sight. His smile dimmed a little when he looked at Jur, finally acknowledging her torn and dirty uniform, the bruises on her face.

“Which of these fuckers hurt you?”

“Just a few knocks, Commander.” She waved off his concern, but said, more gently, “The next time we meet, it should be under better circumstances. Maybe at the mess hall on base. Though the food’s better here.”

The contraction in Mara’s chest tightened. Kell and Jur bantered easily with each other, revealing a long history—far longer than Mara could claim. It doesn’t matter now.

Kell seemed satisfied that they were all in one piece, then leapt off the dais. “Weapons,” he said over his shoulder.