Page 36 of Alien Mercenary’s Wife (Lathar Mercenaries: Warborne #7)

The transports pulled away from the courthouse in different directions, quickly disappearing into urban traffic. Around them, courthouse security finally responded to the commotion, but the real operatives had already vanished.

T'Raal rolled onto his side, feeling returning to his limbs as the taser's effects faded. His comm crackled with Red's voice, sharp with concern.

"Boss? Boss, I lost visual on your position. What's your status?"

Before he could answer, boots surrounded him. Three operatives formed a loose circle, weapons trained on his position. The one who'd tasered him was frowning at his scanner.

"That's impossible," the operative muttered. "Taser hit him dead center. He should be down for another ten minutes minimum."

T'Raal pushed himself to his knees, then stood with fluid grace. The operatives stepped back, suddenly uncertain. They hadn't counted on Latharian physiology.

"Stay down!" one of them barked, raising his weapon. "Don't move!"

He straightened to his full height, towering over the humans. His hood had fallen back during the fall, revealing distinctly alien features that made the operatives exchange nervous glances.

"Shit," someone whispered. "He's Lathar."

The lead operative was frantically working his scanner, running facial recognition protocols. The device beeped, then beeped again, cycling through databases with increasing urgency.

"What's the readout?" another operative demanded.

"That's... that can't be right." The scanner operator's face had gone pale. "Facial match confirmed. Database shows Imperial clearance. High-level diplomatic immunity."

"Diplomatic immunity?" The team leader looked confused and increasingly worried. "What the hell is Imperial nobility doing at a terrorism arrest?"

T'Raal said nothing, enjoying their confusion. Somewhere in the Imperial databases, his biometric signature was flagged with protections he'd never asked for.

"Sir," the team leader said, holstering his weapon with apparent reluctance. "We... apologize for the misunderstanding. You're free to go."

"Of course I am," T'Raal growled.

The operatives stepped back, creating a clear path away from the courthouse. They watched him leave with expressions that mixed relief and concern—relief that they wouldn't have to explain attacking Imperial nobility, concern about what kind of diplomatic incident they might have just avoided.

T'Raal walked away from the courthouse where three innocent veterans had just been disappeared by corporate killers. His comm crackled again.

"Boss? What's your status?"

He looked back at the steps where Reese had been taken, rage and determination burning away everything else. These draanthic had no idea what they'd just done.

"Status is draanthed ," he growled into the comm. "They took all three of them."

" Draanth . Orders?"

He glanced back at the courthouse.

"Pick me up," he snarled, already striding away. "We're going to war."

The holding cell stank of harsh chemicals and piss. Reese sat on the metal bench bolted to the concrete wall, trying to tense her left leg. Nothing. The limb felt like dead weight attached to her hip... had done since they'd ripped the neural stimulator off during the strip search.

Now, six hours later, her body was falling apart. Her left hand cramped into a useless claw every few minutes, and her balance was shot to hell.

The cell was maybe eight feet by six feet. Concrete walls, concrete floor, a metal toilet in the corner. No windows. A single fluorescent light buzzed overhead with an irritating flicker. The door was solid steel with a meal slot that hadn't opened since they'd thrown her in here.

She'd been separated from Hughes and Mason after they'd been arrested.

They were probably interrogating them right now.

She hissed and leaned her head back against the cold brick wall.

She hoped not. Neither of them was in good shape.

Hughes, with his trembling hands and deteriorating condition.

Mason hid it better, but Reese had seen the tremors that wracked her and the way she stood still every so often to hide the fact that her leg wasn't responding properly.

Either could break under the right kind of pressure.

Footsteps echoed in the corridor outside her cell. She shoved herself to her feet, using the wall for support as her left leg threatened to buckle. Whatever was coming, she'd meet it on her feet.

The door lock disengaged with a click. Two guards entered first, weapons drawn but not aimed. Behind them came a man in an expensive suit who looked like he never had to raise his voice to get what he wanted.

"Captain Payne." The suit settled into a metal chair that one of the guards had brought. "I'm Agent Morrison. I'd like to discuss your activities over the past several months."

"I'd like to speak with my lawyer." Reese kept her voice level. "And I'd like to know why three disabled veterans seeking medical compensation have been charged with terrorism."

Morrison smiled coldly. "Your lawyer is being contacted. As for the charges, we have evidence linking you to terrorist networks operating against human interests. Grave allegations."

"What evidence?"

"Communications with known anti-government extremists. Financial transactions with suspicious intergalactic accounts. Conspiracy to undermine Terran authority through fraudulent litigation." He consulted a tablet. "Quite an impressive resume of seditious activity you have going on here."

She just looked at him. It was all total bullshit, but it sounded official enough that a judge might buy it.

"I've been seeking medical treatment for service-connected disabilities," she said. "Filing lawsuits against corporations that sold defective equipment to the military. Nothing I've done constitutes terrorism."

"Ah, but you see, that's where things get complicated." Morrison leaned forward. "Our investigation has revealed that your so-called medical condition is entirely fabricated. Psychological rather than physical. And a very convenient excuse for anti-government activism."

"The neural implants are real," she said. "The damage is real. The veterans who've died are real."

"The veterans who've committed suicide, you mean." He leaned back in his chair. "Tragic cases of individuals who couldn't cope with civilian life. Their deaths have nothing to do with medical equipment and everything to do with mental health crises."

"That's a lie."

"Is it?" Morrison stood, moving closer until he was just outside her personal space. "Or is it the story of a disturbed veteran who's convinced other mentally unstable individuals to join her crusade against the government that served them faithfully?"

Her left hand seized up, her fingers curling into a familiar claw. She tried to hide the spasm, but his attention sharpened.

"Having some difficulty there, Captain?"

"Muscle cramp." She forced her hand open, though the effort sent pain shooting up her arm. "Common enough in facilities like this."

"Indeed. Stress can manifest in many physical ways." he returned to his chair, making notes on his tablet. "Psychological pressure often creates psychosomatic symptoms. Tremors, paralysis, even full neurological breakdown."

She got the message loud and clear: anything happening to her body would be written off as mental problems, not what they'd done to her or because of the missing stimulator.

"Where are Hughes and Mason?" she asked.

"Your co-conspirators are being questioned separately. I'm sure they're providing very enlightening information about your activities together." Morrison's smile suggested he knew something she didn't. "Cooperation tends to be rewarded in cases like this."

She bit back her amusement. Basic interrogation bullshit. Turn on each other or else. Who did they think they were dealing with?

"We're not conspirators. We're veterans seeking justice."

"Justice." He frowned as he repeated the word "An interesting choice, given your association with alien terrorists who attacked federal facilities."

She arched an eyebrow. "What alien terrorists?"

"The Warborne mercenary group. Known criminals and murderers who've been linked to multiple attacks on government installations." He consulted his tablet again. "Surveillance footage clearly shows you boarding their vessel after the metro bombing incident."

Great. Of course they had footage.

"They saved my life." She folded her arms.

"You mean that they extracted a valuable asset after a failed terrorist operation," Morrison corrected. "The bombing was designed to eliminate witnesses to your conspiracy, wasn't it? Clean up loose ends before they could compromise your network?"

Holy shit. They were flipping everything around.

She laughed. "That's insane."

"Is it? Or is it the logical conclusion when we follow the evidence?

" Morrison stood again, pacing the small cell with a confident energy.

"A disgraced military officer with psychological problems. A fabricated lawsuit designed to undermine public confidence in federal institutions.

Alliance with known criminals and terrorists. The pattern is quite clear."

Reese's vision blurred as another muscle spasm ripped through her back. The damaged nerves were firing random signals, her nervous system slowly crumbling. Soon she'd be back to stumbling, falling, and needing help for the most basic of things.

"I need medical attention," she said, though asking felt like defeat.

"I'm sure the facility physician can provide appropriate psychiatric care." His smile was smug. "Medication for anxiety, counseling for trauma-related stress. Whatever psychological support you require."

Mental health care, not actual medical treatment.

"The other veterans in our lawsuit," she said. "Are you planning to arrest them, too?"

"What other veterans?" Morrison's expression was perfectly innocent. "According to our investigation, the lawsuit was primarily your operation. A few mentally unstable individuals were convinced to participate in fraudulent litigation, but nothing approaching an organized conspiracy."

"You won't get away with this," she said, but the words felt hollow as soon as they left her lips.

"Get away with what? Investigating terrorist activity? Protecting federal interests from anti-government extremists?" He gathered his tablet and moved toward the door. "Captain, you've been watching too many conspiracy theories. This is simply law enforcement doing its job."

The guards prepared to follow him out, but Morrison paused at the threshold.

"One more thing. Your alien friends? They won't be coming to help this time. Any attempt to interfere with federal custody will be considered an act of war against Earth. I doubt even the notorious Warborne are prepared for that level of escalation."

The door sealed, leaving her alone with fluorescent buzzing and the pain radiating through her body. She slumped against the wall, no longer able to maintain the pretense of strength.

T'Raal's face filled her mind—the careful way he'd held her during nightmares, the look in his eyes when he'd carried her to safety, and how carefully he'd touched her. The memory made her chest tight with emotions she'd been too afraid to voice.

She loved him.

It hit her suddenly, cutting through everything else, and a tear tracked down her cheek.

She loved his stubborn determination to protect everyone around him. Loved the way he'd built a family from outcasts and warriors. Loved how he'd accepted her broken body and fierce independence without trying to fix either.

And she'd never told him.

The regret was worse than the muscle spasms, worse than knowing her body was failing again. She'd had the chance to say the words that mattered most, and she'd wasted it on pride and fear and the stupid assumption that there would always be more time.

Her left leg gave out completely, sending her sliding down the wall to the concrete floor. The landing jarred her spine, sending fresh waves of pain through her system. But the physical pain was nothing compared to the possibility that she might never see T'Raal again.

Never get to tell him she loved him.

She closed her eyes and tried to remember the sound of T'Raal's heartbeat beneath her ear, the warmth of his arms around her, the way he'd whispered her name in the dark.

She was going to die in this concrete box.

Die without seeing T'Raal again, without telling him how she felt, without stopping these bastards from killing more veterans.

Hughes and Mason would break under interrogation or disappear entirely.

The remaining lawsuit participants would be hunted down and killed.

They'd win. Change the story, destroy the evidence, and keep getting away with murder. All her fighting was for nothing.

Everyone she'd tried to save would die anyway.

The hopelessness crushed her more than the pain did. It sat in her chest like a weight, making it hard to breathe.

They'd won.

And the people she loved would pay the price for her failure. And she would never see the man she loved again.

She'd lost everything.