Page 12 of Alien Mercenary's Wife
Returning to his quarters, he reflected on the strange contrasts of his life: one moment holding an innocent child, the next receiving intelligence about attacks on warrior planets. The galaxy was full of contradictions, beauty, and violence existing side by side.
He picked up his dataflex again but found his attention wandering from the romance novel. Somewhere out there, people were making decisions that would ripple across the galaxy in ways they probably couldn't imagine. The attack on Izaea was one more piece in a puzzle he couldn't quite see the shape of yet.
But for now, his ship was quiet, his crew was safe, and they had a job that would keep them fed and armed. In his experience, that was about as much stability as anyone could hope for in this universe.
He stared at the romance novel's cover, but his mind wasn't on fictional conflicts anymore. Someone had just kicked a hornet's nest full of trained killers… Who knew how far those ripples would spread?
The message arrivedat 04:00, rousing Reese from the kind of fitful sleep that came with chronic pain and constant worry. A veteran she didn't know, claiming to have served with Dubois—Janet Dubois, who'd supposedly committed suicide three days ago. The message was brief, panicked, and insistent:They're watching me. Need to meet. Have information about the implants. Café Luna, Sector 7, 1100 hours.
Now, sitting on the transit car as it hummed through the underground tunnels toward Sector 7, Reese wondered if this was a trap. Her left leg had been tightening up since she'd gotten out of bed, muscles cramping in irregular spasms that reminded her how little time she might have left. But her hands were steady, and her mind was sharp. That would have to be enough.
She'd dressed carefully—civilian clothes that wouldn't mark her as military, but sturdy enough for quick movement if necessary. Her service weapon was concealed beneath her jacket, though she hoped she wouldn't need it. The last thing she wanted was a firefight in a crowded public space.
The transit car was half-empty, typical for mid-morning travel between sectors. Office workers heading to late meetings, students with datapads, and a few maintenance technicians incoveralls. Normal people living normal lives, going about their daily business.
She used the reflection in the window to scan the car behind her, a habit from her service days that had saved her life more than once. Most of the passengers looked authentic—tired commuters, bored travelers, people absorbed in their own business. Nothing set off her internal alarm system, but she remained alert as the train pulled into Sector 7.
Café Luna sat on a busy corner, three blocks from the transit station, exactly the kind of public place that should have felt safe. Glass windows offered clear sightlines to the street, multiple exits, and heavy foot traffic that would discourage anything overt. Reese approached from the east, keeping to the crowds of pedestrians as she studied the area.
The café was busy, filled with the usual mix of office workers grabbing lunch and students nursing single cups of coffee while they worked on datapads. She scanned the faces, looking for someone who might be her contact—nervous, probably older, showing signs of the stress that came with being hunted by corporate assassins.
No one fit the description.
She checked her chronometer. 1105 hours. Five minutes late, but not enough to explain an empty meeting. She found a position across the street, pretending to read on her datapad while keeping an eye out for anyone who looked like they were waiting for someone.
Ten minutes passed. Then fifteen.
Her contact wasn't coming.
That should have been her first warning, but it was the woman in the business suit who triggered her real alarm. Mid-thirties, professional appearance, sitting alone at a corner table with a clear view of the café entrance. She'd been nursing the same cup of coffee for twenty minutes, and her attention keptdrifting to the street from the datapad in front of her. Yeah, she was definitely watching for someone.
Ice shot through Reese’s veins as she looked around and spotted the second watcher… a man in maintenance coveralls sitting on a bench near the transit station entrance, ostensibly waiting for transport but actually scanning everyone who passed. When he shifted position, she caught a glimpse of the comm unit in his ear.
Coordinated surveillance. Multiple assets positioned to track anyone coming to or leaving the meeting. Her lips pressed together. The meeting was a setup.
The smart play was to abort immediately, but she forced herself to wait another five minutes, maintaining her cover as another pedestrian checking messages on her datapad. She needed to be certain before she made any moves that would confirm she was their target.
A third watcher revealed himself when he checked his chronometer and spoke quietly into his collar comm. Corporate security, probably. Definitely not military, and nowhere near good enough to fool her. No, these were goons hired to make an inconvenient problem—her — disappear.
She sighed.
Shit. That meant her contact was either dead or had never existed in the first place. Either way, this meeting was blown.
She flicked her datapad off and headed for the transit station, moving at a casual pace that wouldn't trigger anyone’s attention—just another pedestrian going about her day. The cramp in her left leg tightened with each step, but she ignored it. She didn’t have time for her body’s shit. Not today.
Turning the corner, she glanced into a window ahead. The woman in the business suit was tailing her. Great, they’d made her. Reese didn’t alter her pace, using the windows of the shopsaround her to try and spot the other two. But nothing. Just the one tail.
Where had the other two gone?
She entered the transit station, and the skin between her shoulders crawled. Now the other two at the café made sense. They didn’t need to tail her; they already had people here. Questions rolled through her mind as she made her way down the stairs to her platform. How many watchers did they have in place? How long had they been planning this operation?
The platform was crowded, filled with the usual mix of commuters and travelers. She positioned herself near the middle of the crowd, leaning against a pillar where no one would be able to sneak up behind her.
Two minutes until the next departure. The platform looked normal—commuters waiting, conversations, the usual urban transit atmosphere. Nothing obviously wrong, but something still felt off. Maybe it was the way the maintenance worker near the entrance kept glancing at his chronometer, or the subtle wrongness that prickled along her spine.
Whatever it was, her instincts screamed at her as the train approached the platform with a rush of displaced air and the familiar hum of magnetic propulsion. The crowd surged forward in anticipation of boarding, but she hung back.
A chill crawled up her spine. Every survival instinct she had told her to get away from this platform, this train, this entire situation. Right now.
