Page 12 of Alien’s Love Child

CHAPTER 12

DAVIN

I watch Jesse's red hair disappear through the window, my chest tightening. The catwalk creaks under my boots as I shift position, peering down at the scene below. Xander sits in a metal chair, gesturing animatedly to the crime boss.

"The dispersal system is nearly perfect," Xander says. "Once it's weaponized, you'll be able to target specific genetic markers. Anything from weeding to pest control to-"

"Pest control," the boss chuckles. "I like the sound of that."

My finger traces the trigger of my rifle. From this angle, it'd be clean – one shot through that brilliant mind of his. The Alliance's bounty specified alive, but right now, dead seems more appealing. The less people who know about this weapon, the better.

I adjust my scope, centering it on Xander's temple. The scientist keeps talking, explaining complex terms to simple criminals who probably can't spell 'genocide.' The irony would be funny if it weren't so dangerous.

"You really think you can pull this off?" The boss's skepticism mirrors my own thoughts.

"Please." Xander pushes his glasses up his nose. "I know what I'm doing. I just needed more time to perfect it. Something my contacts were offering me, but I like yours much better."

My jaw clenches. The bounty's not worth it – not if the Alliance gets their hands on this. They'd use it just as readily as these thugs. Sometimes the right thing means walking away empty-handed.

I steady my breathing, preparing for the shot. Three guards, all armed. I'll have about two seconds after taking out Xander before they pinpoint my location. The window Jesse used is fifteen feet behind me. Doable.

A guard shifts, blocking my shot. I curse under my breath, waiting for him to move. Below, Xander continues outlining his plans for mass murder, wrapped in the sterile language of science.

One of the guards sneezes, echoing through the warehouse, followed by a sharp intake of breath. Our eyes lock. His hand drops to his weapon.

"Shit."

I roll left as bullets spark against the catwalk's metal railing. The whole structure shudders under my feet as I sprint toward the far end. More shots ping around me, forcing me to zigzag.

"Up there! Don't let him escape!"

My boots thunder across the grating. A bullet grazes my shoulder, burning through fabric and skin. The pain barely registers – I've had worse during basic training.

"Get Xander out of here!" the boss bellows.

Below, chairs scrape against concrete. I risk a glance down to see them shoving Xander toward a side door. One of the guards slams his palm against a red button on the wall. An alarm wails through the warehouse.

"Really?" I mutter, vaulting over a stack of crates. "Like this wasn't complicated enough."

Heavy boots pound up metal stairs at both ends of the catwalk. More guards pour in through the main entrance, their weapons trained upward. I'm running out of options and space.

"Surround him!"

The catwalk trembles as bodies converge from both directions. I count eight new guards, plus the original three. Not great odds, even for me.

A bullet whizzes past my ear. I duck behind a support beam. The old saying from my drill sergeant rings in my head: "When outnumbered, change the rules of engagement."

I glance at the chain supporting this section of catwalk, then at the crowd of guards below. Sometimes the best way out is down.

"Here's hoping Jesse forgives me for this mess," I mutter, taking aim at the chain's weak point.

My shot rings true, striking the chain's weakest link. Metal shrieks against metal as the catwalk lurches. Gravity takes hold, and I sprint forward, using the falling bridge's momentum to launch myself toward a stack of crates.

"Look out below!" I call out, because I'm just that kind of asshole.

The catwalk crashes down with a thunderous boom. Two guards disappear beneath the twisted metal, their screams cut short. Dust billows up, coating my throat. I roll behind the crates as bullets pepper the area where I landed.

A guard rushes my position, combat knife drawn. Amateur move. I grab his wrist, twisting until bones crack. His knife clatters to the ground.

"Thanks for the gift," I say, snatching up the blade.

He swings wildly with his other hand. I duck under the punch, driving the knife up through his ribcage. Hot blood spills over my fingers as he goes limp.

"Behind you!" another guard shouts.

I spin, using the dying man as a shield. Bullets thud into his back as I draw my own knife with my free hand. The blade whistles through the air, embedding itself in the shooter's throat. He drops his gun, hands clutching uselessly at the steel protruding from his neck.

"Seven left," I mutter, letting the dead guard slide to the floor. "Time to even these odds a bit more."

Gunfire erupts from multiple directions, forcing me back behind the crates. The warehouse echoes with shouted orders and pounding boots. They're trying to flank me, but they're disorganized. Scared. Two quick deaths will do that to green recruits.

I wipe blood from my hands onto my pants, retrieving my thrown knife from the guard's cooling body. The familiar weight settles comfortably in my palm.

"Spread out!" one of them barks. "Don't let him slip away!"

I slip between the shadows of fallen debris, tracking movement through the settling dust. Two guards break from their group, heading toward my last known position. Rookies.

"Check behind those crates," one whispers. "I'll cover you."

I slide the knife between my teeth, tasting metal. The closest guard's breath comes in sharp bursts – fear making his movements jerky, unpredictable. His partner keeps his gun trained forward, completely missing my approach from the side.

My hand clamps over the rear guard's mouth. The knife finds the soft spot under his ear, silencing any warning he might have given. I ease his body to the ground, boots scraping concrete.

"Marco?" The remaining guard turns. "Did you hear some-"

I surge forward, driving my shoulder into his chest. His gun clatters away as we hit the ground. He opens his mouth to scream. My fist connects with his throat, crushing his windpipe. He thrashes once, twice, then goes still.

"Thanks for the dance," I mutter, retrieving his weapon. Standard issue Alliance sidearm – decent enough.

The door where they took Xander looms ahead, reinforced steel with an electronic lock. Nothing military grade, but enough to slow down most people. Lucky for me, I'm not most people.

I wedge my knife into the control panel's seam, prying off the cover. The wiring inside is basic – red to blue, cross the green, and... The lock clicks open with a soft beep.

Inside, Xander huddles in the corner like a frightened rabbit. The boss lounges against a desk, oddly relaxed for someone whose men I just eliminated.

"I knew there was something off about you." Xander's voice cracks. "The way you watched me on the ship, how you always seemed to be wherever I went. Should've trusted my instincts."

"Your instincts?" I keep my stolen gun trained on the boss. "Those same instincts that told you genetic weapons were a good career move?"

"Now, now." The boss pushes off from the desk, hands raised. "Let's be civil about this. Those men out there? Useless, every last one. Couldn't even handle a single intruder properly." He starts a slow clap. "Impressive work, truly. The way you dropped that catwalk?" He motions with his fingers against his lips, making a kissing sound, and flourishes his hand in the air. "Beautiful. Never seen anything like it."

"Thanks for the performance review." My finger tightens on the trigger. "But I didn't come here for compliments."

"Of course not." He grins, still clapping. "You came for him." He jerks his head toward Xander. "And after that display, I'd say you've earned him. And more."

I let out a chuckle, moving closer to the boss, gun aimed between his eyes. "I doubt you'd like the sort of reward I have in mind."

"Think about it." The boss spreads his arms wide. "You've got talent. Real talent. The kind that could take you places in an organization like mine. Fastest growing syndicate on Glimner. We've already done away with Talipa and her crew. And we're just getting started."

He reaches into his coat and retrieves a cigar, which he holds out to me. "Whatever the Alliance is paying for this sniveling genius, I'll double it."

"Not interested." My grip tightens on the gun.

"Triple it then." He takes a step forward. "Come on, friend. You're clearly not Alliance – too much style. Too much..." He waves his hand, searching for the word. "Panache. We're expanding faster than any syndicate in Glimmer's history. The money's good, the benefits are better, and the retirement plan?" He taps his temple. "Can't beat it."

"There's not enough money in Glimmer's entire economy to make up for what he wants to do." I jerk my chin toward Xander, who's still cowering in the corner. "Mass murder wrapped in scientific jargon is still mass murder."

"Such principles." The boss clicks his tongue. "That's really quite..." His hand moves, quick as a snake. "...a pity."

The gun appears in his grip like a magic trick. But he's not aiming at me – he's pointing at something behind my shoulder. I spin, catching sight of the industrial tanks lining the wall. Warning labels flash red and yellow.

"Shit-"

The muzzle flash blinds me. Glass shatters. Heat slams into me like a physical wall, lifting me off my feet. The world turns orange, then red, then black. The last thing I hear is Xander's startled yelp and the boss's low chuckle before everything dissolves into darkness.