Page 38 of Stars in Umbra
She forced herself to inhale, latching onto her inner control to give her the impetus to move away from him.
‘Sante, Mo,’ she murmured, stepping back, needing the distance before she did something reckless.
She turned, walked toward her flyer, the intensity of his gaze lingering on her back the entire way.
As she boarded, she flicked a glance over her shoulder.
He tipped his chin. ‘Take care of you, mama.’
Why did that endearment strike her so deeply?
Why was it so alluring, so freakin’ intimate and loaded?
She smiled to cover up her disquiet. ‘Sante. I’ll reach out.’
8
More Patience Than A Saint
MOLAN
In a subterranean bunker beneath Sable HQ, deep below the layers of security and the buzz of Eden II’s streets, Mo stood in his element.
Sleeves rolled, gloves off, and the scent of scorched laser charges in the air.
The space was industrial and stripped back, a former forge chamber turned into a weapons lab, loaned to him by the Riders for ‘specialized R&D.’
Though everyone knew that was code forMo needs a place to blow shit up without questions.
A sterile, surgical light from the overhead fixtures glinted off the collection of firearms laid out on the table.
Less firearms and more instruments of precise destruction, they included modular hybrid plasma rifles, magnetic rail shotguns that hummed with latent energy, and compact sonic disruptors.
All sleekly modified and, for the most part, legal.
Standing beside Mo were two specters from his past, their gazes fixed on the plume of acrid fumes coiling from the muzzle of the custom-built carbine in his hand.
He tapped a control on his wrist console, and the far end of the subterranean range transformed; its narrow walls telescoped inward to conceal the sealed, secure firing booth.
‘Smooth action,’ the woman purred, her voice like honeyed smoke. ‘Works flawlessly, from what I can tell. Though it does prove you’re still hoarding all the pretty toys.’
‘Only for you,’ Mo replied with a smirk, lowering the rifle. ‘Exclusive access, of course.’
She was tall, with a waterfall of platinum blonde hair and red lips curved in a smile of amusement.
Her name was Alara Trevino, a former Galician demolitions expert with the Six Flaco mob, infamous for setting off charges while in stilettos and making it a fashion trend.
Beside her, twitching with the nervous energy of someone always two steps from bolting, was Barwick.
No surname, just freakin’ Barwick.
The Falasian was skinny, stooped, with sunken eyes and fingers that tapped compulsively against the table edge, as if he were entering code on invisible keys.
Barwick had been the merc group’s data rat.
Still was, apparently.
‘You’ve gotten boring,’ Alara sighed, glancing over the curated display. ‘All thislegalshit. Where’s the napalm-drone chaos cannon I know you’ve got stashed in the back?’
