Page 42 of Alien Mercenary’s Wife (Lathar Mercenaries: Warborne #7)

H ow 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 she knows, 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."

"No, this is justice." Reese moved closer, herding him toward the chair Eris had positioned beside the interface. "Murder would be quick. This is gonna take months, maybe years. Like it did for all those veterans you condemned."

"Hughes can barely hold a cup now," Eris added, securing restraints to the chair. "Ryans has seizures. Williams went missing because he couldn't live with what you did to him."

Russell bolted for the door. Reese intercepted him in three steps, catching his arm to spin him around. He stumbled, expensive shoes sliding on marble, and crashed into the chair Eris had positioned. Before he could recover, restraints clicked into place around his wrists and ankles.

"This is illegal," he gasped, struggling against bonds designed to hold enhanced soldiers. "I have rights?—"

"So did the veterans you murdered." Eris positioned the neural crown above his head, contact points gleaming in the light. "Funny how rights disappear when you're inconvenient."

"The interface will hook into your nervous system in seconds," Reese explained. "First, you'll feel great. Maybe even better than normal. That's the honeymoon part."

"Then the degradation starts," Eris continued, lowering the crown toward Russell's skull. "Since you don't have the same implants as the veterans, we're using the external interface. Don't worry—it'll do the same damage. Muscle tremors. Loss of coordination. Progressive paralysis."

"Please." Russell's voice cracked. "I can pay you. Whatever you want?—"

"What we want," Eris said, engaging the neural contacts with a soft click, "is for you to experience exactly what you put those veterans through."

The interface activated with a low hum. Russell's body went rigid as the neural connections established, his back arching against the restraints before relaxing as the initial integration completed. His breathing steadied, pupils dilating as the system flooded his brain with artificial stimulation.

"How do you feel?" Reese asked.

Russell blinked, testing his responses. "I... fine. Better than fine. This is... incredible."

"Enjoy it while it lasts." Eris began packing away their equipment. "You've got maybe six hours before the first symptoms start. Tremors in your hands, probably. Then it spreads."

"The beauty of it," Reese added, shouldering her pack, "is that no one will believe you. Corporate executive claims his neural implants are defective? Must be stress. Maybe early-onset dementia."

They moved toward the elevator, leaving Russell locked in his chair with the interface humming against his skull. He struggled against the restraints, but the neural crown's weight made movement impossible.

"This won't work," he called after them. "I have the best doctors, the best technology?—"

"Same technology you gave the veterans," Eris replied without turning around. "Same doctors who diagnosed them with psychological problems."

The elevator doors started to close, and Russell's voice rose to a shout. "You won't get away with this! I'll hunt you down, I'll destroy you?—"

"Good luck with that," Reese said as the doors sealed shut.

They rode down in comfortable silence. The lobby was still empty, the doorman still reading his magazine. They walked out into the night like they'd never been there at all.

"Think he'll figure out how to get free?" Eris asked as they reached their transport.

"Eventually. But not before the damage kicks in.

" Reese dropped into the passenger seat, feeling a satisfaction she hadn't known since losing her squad.

"By the time he gets help, he'll be another rich guy with weird symptoms. And he doesn't have the training to deal with neural loads like we did, so it'll hit him way harder. "

"Couldn't happen to a nicer guy." Eris started the engine, already thinking ahead. "We need to get back soon. Don't wanna miss the celebrations."

Reese smiled, thinking of T'Raal waiting for her on the station. Princess. The title still felt strange, but she was getting used to it.

"Definitely. T'Raal will kill me if we're late to our wedding," she said.

As they pulled away from the gated community, Reese caught a glimpse of the penthouse windows high above. Somewhere up there, Max Russell was learning what justice felt like.

She smiled.

And damn… it was good to know that.

Draanth . He was getting married.

T'Raal stood at the altar, adjusting his formal uniform for the third time in as many minutes. The ceremonial hall stretched before him like a cathedral of light, walls of crystalline material that caught and refracted the warm amber glow from overhead fixtures.

His hands trembled slightly as he smoothed the rich fabric of his dress uniform. Imperial black and gold, with the formal sash that marked him as Crown Prince. The weight of it still felt odd across his chest, but today... Today, it felt right.

Behind him, the soft murmur of guests taking their seats rose. Imperial dignitaries mixed with his crew, an unusual combination that would have been impossible just weeks ago. Sparky's laughter carried across the hall, followed by Red's sharp whisper to sit the draanth down and behave himself.

T'Raal bit back his smile. Some things never changed.