Page 88 of Alien Mercenary's Wife
Her alien prince.
Her husband.
Her everything.
22
How the other half lived.
The gated community was expensive and exclusive, with perfect lawns, marble fountains, and security guards to keep out anyone who didn't belong. Max Russell's penthouse sat at the top of the most expensive building, forty floors up, with a view that encompassed most of the city.
Reese shifted the Scorperio unit on her shoulders. The Latharian Lord Healer might have fixed her fucked up body until it was good as new, but the damn thing was still heavy as hell. Beside her, Eris moved with predatory grace as they skulked in the shadows.
"Damn… Murphy's good," Eris said quietly, studying the building's security feed on her dataflex. "The cameras are on loop for the next hour, and the doorman's been paid off."
"Perks of having a president in your corner." Reese checked her weapon one-handed. "You sure about this?"
"Fuck, yeah. This asshole put my mother in the hospital twice." Eris's voice was cold with fury. "She finally got the courage to leave him, got a restraining order, and filed for divorce. And what does the bastard do? Threatens everyone sheknows, gets lawyers to drag it out, and makes her life hell. I want to fuck him up, good and proper. For her. And for all of us who suffered thanks to his company's shoddy fucking tech."
Reese grunted in agreement. "Then let's do this."
They slid from the shadows, heading for the front door of the building. Once inside, they walked through the lobby like they belonged there, looking like residents in the expensive clothes Sparky had procured from somewhere. Reese had taken one look at the labels and decided not to ask any questions.
The doorman didn't even look up from his magazine as they passed.
The elevator ride dragged on. Eris was a coiled spring beside her, years of anger ready to snap. The car took them directly to the penthouse, the code Murphy had provided bypassing any of the usual security. When the doors opened directly into Russell's living space, they stepped into obscene wealth—floor-to-ceiling windows, artwork worth more than most people's homes, leather furniture that had probably cost more than either of them had made in a year in the service.
Max Russell stood at the bar in his living room, pouring himself a whiskey into a crystal tumbler. He was handsome, with silver hair, wearing clothes that screamed designer tailoring. He looked up as they entered, surprise flickering across his features before settling into practiced charm.
"Eris." His smile was all fake warmth. "What a pleasant surprise. And you brought a friend. How delightful."
"Hello, Max." Eris set down her bag with deliberate care. "We need to talk."
"Of course. Can I offer you ladies a drink?" Russell gestured toward his collection of expensive liquor. "I have some excellent single malt."
"This isn't a social call." Reese moved to block the exit while Eris began unpacking the Scorperio interface unit. The neural crown gleamed under the penthouse's expensive lighting.
Russell's expression shifted as understanding dawned. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"
"Giving you exactly what you gave us," Eris replied, assembling the interface with the ease of long practice. "Defective neural implants that slowly destroy your nervous system. Seemed only fair."
"You're both insane." Russell backed toward the windows, his composure cracking. "I'll call security?—"
"Go ahead." Reese pulled out a small device, and the jamming frequencies crackled to life. "Communications are down. We've got about forty minutes before anyone notices."
"This is about your mother, isn't it?" Russell sneered. "Still playing the protective daughter? That bitch got what she deserved, and so will you."
Eris went perfectly still. "What did you say?"
"You heard me. She's a bitch, and so are you. Always sticking your nose where it doesn't belong." Russell's mask dropped completely, showing the violence that had terrorized Eris's mother. "You think I don't know what you are? What you've become? Terrorist scum, both of you."
"Terrorist scum with very specific skill sets," Reese said. "Skill sets that include operating Scorperio neural interfaces."
The interface unit hummed to life, diagnostic lights painting the penthouse in blue and red. Eris lifted the neural crown, its contact points gleaming like small fangs.
"Here's how this works, Max," Eris said calmly. "You're gonna sit in that chair, and we're gonna plug you into this baby right here. It's the only one of its kind left…a first-generation Scorperio interface. The kind with the defects you helped cover up."
"You can't do this." Russell pressed against the windows, his eyes wide. "This is murder."
