Page 8 of Grumpy Alien Billionaire (Mates of Veritas #2)

CHAPTER 8

LANZ

T he first rays of sunlight paint the sky in soft pinks and oranges as I guide my car through the empty streets. Tyler's perfume lingers in the air, mixed with the scent of sex and satisfaction. Her fingers brush against mine on the gear shift.

"Your place is just ahead?"

"Right there." She points to a modest apartment complex.

I park and rush to open her door. The morning dew sparkles on the grass, but nothing shines brighter than her smile. My lips find hers, and the kiss tastes of promise and possibility.

"When can I see you again?"

"I have work in a few hours." She traces a finger down my chest. "Then I'll need a nap. But later tonight..."

"I'll call you after nine."

"Perfect."

One more kiss, deep and thorough. I watch her walk to her building, memorizing the sway of her hips, the bounce in her step.

The drive to Truth-1 passes in a blur. My thoughts keep drifting back to last night - the taste of her skin, the sound of her moans, the way she yielded to my touch. The morning traffic parts before my car like water, sensing my impatience to start the day so it can end and I can see her again.

I park in my private spot beneath the towering spire of Truth-1. Even the familiar weight of responsibility settling on my shoulders as I enter the building can't dim my mood.

The elevator doors slide open to the top floor of Truth-1, and I stride into my office with purpose. The morning’s meetings are a blur of human-centric nonsense—spreadsheets, quarterly reports, and the occasional sycophant trying to impress “Alonzo Ramone” with their latest pitch. I smile, nod, and sign where I need to, but my mind is miles away—or more accurately, down by the docks where Fishy Joe’s Cannery sits, rusting and forgotten.

After lunch—a plate of seared ahi tuna that I barely taste—I lock my office door and pull up the surveillance feed on my compad. The Vakutan Scout Drone hums to life in the airlock bay, its cloaking field shimmering as it powers up. I flick my fingers across the holographic interface, sending it on its way. The drone zips out of the building, skimming low over the waters of Sunny Cove, its sensors scanning for any anomalies.

“Let’s see what you’re hiding, Bob,” I mutter under my breath.

The drone approaches the cannery, its sensors picking up heat signatures and movement inside. I lean forward in my chair, golden eyes narrowing as the feed shows the drone slipping through a cracked window. The interior of the cannery is dark, littered with rusted machinery and crumbling walls. Shadows flicker across the screen, and then—nothing. The feed goes black.

I stab at the controls, trying to reestablish the connection. “Come on, come on…”

Static. Silence. The drone doesn’t respond.

I sit back in my chair, a low growl rumbling in my chest. My fingers drum against the desk. “Never send a drone to do a Vakutan warrior’s job.”

I stand, rolling my shoulders as I undo the knot of my tie. The human disguise peels away like shedding a second skin, revealing the crimson scales and hardened ridges beneath. My golden eyes gleam in the dim light of the office.

“Time to put on the real power suit.”

I stride across my office, the plush carpet muffling my steps. My fingers brush the frame of the Monet hanging on the wall, feeling for the hidden latch. A soft click, and the painting swings open to reveal a keypad.

The numbers glow faintly in the dim light. My fingers dance across the pad, inputting the 124-digit code from memory. The floor beneath me rumbles, and a hidden panel slides open with a hiss. A set of stairs leads down into the armory.

“Finally,” I mutter, stepping down into the cool, shadowed room. Racks of weapons line the walls, their polished surfaces gleaming under the soft LED lights. Plasma rifles, particle cannons, and disrupter pistols—all the tools of a Vakutan warrior. I pass them by, heading for the flight suit rack.

I slip into the sleek black suit, the material molding to my scales like a second skin. The jet pack clicks into place with a satisfying snap, the weight familiar on my shoulders. I grab a compact plasma pistol and tuck it into the holster at my side.

The tunnel entrance yawns at the far end of the armory, a narrow passage leading down toward the shoreline. I step inside, the walls closing in around me as the entrance seals shut behind me. My compad flickers to life as I move, and I open a secure channel to Veritas HQ.

“Drone investigation of Fishy Joe’s Cannery has failed,” I say, my voice echoing in the confined space. “Getting a naked eye view instead. Increase Grolgath readiness level from one to two for the Sunny Cove area.”

“Acknowledged,” comes the reply. “Proceed with caution, Lanz.”

“Always.” I smirk, cutting the connection as I pick up speed. The tunnel slopes downward, the air growing cooler and damper as I near the exit. The faint sound of waves crashing against the shore reaches my ears.

The tunnel ends in a concealed hatch, which hisses open to reveal a rocky outcrop overlooking the water. The cannery looms in the distance, its rusted facade barely visible in fog. I crouch low, scanning the area with narrowed eyes.

“Alright, Bob,” I murmur, adjusting the straps on my jetpack. “Let’s see what you’re up to in there.”

I leap into the air, the jetpack roaring to life as I glide silently toward the cannery. The wind whips past my face, carrying the tang of salt and the faint scent of decay. The cannery grows larger with every passing second, its darkened windows like empty eye sockets.

I land on the roof with a soft thud, my boots barely making a sound on the corrugated metal. The place looks abandoned, but I know better. My fingers brush the plasma pistol at my side as I crouch low, listening for any signs of movement.

“Let’s make this interesting,” I whisper, creeping toward the edge of the roof. The scene is still, but I can feel the tension in the air—a storm waiting to break.

The scent of Grolgath hangs thick in the air, a mix of damp scales and something metallic, like blood left to dry in the sun. My nostrils flare as I step deeper into the cannery, my plasma pistol gripped tight in my hand. The place is a maze of rusted machinery and crumbling walls, shadows stretching long and jagged in the dim light filtering through broken windows. Every creak of metal, every drip of water, sets my nerves on edge.

“Where are you, you slippery bastards?” I mutter under my breath, my golden eyes scanning the darkness. The scent is everywhere, but there’s no sign of them. Not yet.

A skittering sound catches my attention, sharp and quick, like claws on metal. I spin, my pistol snapping up to aim at the source. A rat darts out from behind a pile of debris, its beady eyes glinting in the faint light. It freezes, staring at me, its whiskers twitching.

I don’t lower the gun. Not yet.

“Alright, you little furball,” I growl, stepping closer. “You’re either dinner or a spy. Which is it?”

The rat squeaks, its tiny body trembling. I crouch down, keeping the pistol trained on it. “Speak up. I know you Grolgath can shapeshift. What’s your game here? What are you planning?”

The rat just stares at me, its nose twitching. I wait, my finger hovering over the trigger, but there’s no sudden transformation, no flash of green scales or milky white eyes. Just a rat. A regular, Earth rat.

I lower the pistol with a frustrated snarl. “Damn it. I’m interrogating rodents now. Pyke’s never going to let me live this down.”

The rat scurries away, disappearing into the shadows. I stand, shaking my head. “Get it together, Lanz. You’re better than this.”

The words are barely out of my mouth when a bright flash of light blinds me. I throw up an arm to shield my eyes, but it’s too late. The first laser blast hits me square in the chest, the impact slamming me back into a support strut. My armor absorbs most of the blow, but the heat sears through, leaving a scorch mark on my scales.

“Son of a—” I dive behind the strut as more blasts rain down, the air sizzling with energy. The smell of burnt metal fills my nostrils, heat radiating from the beams as they slice through the air around me.

I press my back against the strut, my heart pounding. “Alright, Bob,” I shout over the din. “You’ve got my attention. Let’s see if you can keep it.”

The blasts keep coming, each one closer than the last. I grip my pistol tighter, waiting for a break in the barrage. My mind races, calculating angles, distances, and the odds of making it out of this alive.

“Come on, you overgrown lizards,” I mutter, peeking out from behind the strut. “Give me something to work with.”

My compad chirps as I pull it from my belt, the holographic display flickering to life. The scan reveals a network of automated turrets - dozens of them - their targeting systems far more precise than even Vakutan reflexes.

"Clever bastards." I unclip my jetpack, fingers dancing over the controls. "Let's see how smart your toys really are."

The jetpack rockets skyward on autopilot, drawing immediate fire. Red beams slice through the air, tracking its erratic path. My muscles coil as I count the seconds, waiting for the perfect moment.

"Now." I sprint for the window, glass crunching under my boots. The sea stretches below, dark and uninviting. A laser catches my shoulder as I dive, searing through the flight suit. Another grazes my leg.

The impact with the water drives the breath from my lungs. Salt water floods the burns, setting my nerves on fire. I grit my teeth, pushing through the pain as I swim deeper, letting the current carry me away from the cannery.

I surface near the shore, dragging myself onto the rocks. My wounds throb, but they'll heal. The real sting is to my pride.

I could call Pyke, have him send a strike team. But the thought makes my scales itch. This is personal now.

"I can handle this myself." The words taste like iron in my mouth. "I'll get my revenge for this insult."

I pull out my compad, wincing as the movement pulls at my burns. "Soanzo. Need a pickup. Sending coordinates."

"Right away, sir. Everything alright?"

"Just a minor setback. Have the med kit ready."

The speedboat arrives within minutes, sleek and silent as it cuts through the waves. The crew helps me aboard, their faces carefully neutral as they take in my scorched flight suit and burns.

Back on the Golden Odyssey, I strip off the ruined suit and step into the shower. Hot water cascades over my scales, washing away salt and blood. The burns already start to heal - one of the perks of Vakutan physiology.

"Your clothes, sir." Soanzo's voice comes through the bathroom door. "And the doctor is standing by."

"No doctor needed." I wrap a towel around my waist and open the door. "But I'll take those clothes."

The fresh suit feels good against my scales. I adjust the tie, studying my reflection. The human disguise settles back into place, hiding any trace of injury.

"Cancel my afternoon appointments," I tell Soanzo. "I need time to think."

"Of course, sir. Shall I have the chef prepare something?"

"Just coffee. Strong."

I settle into the yacht's study, spreading maps and blueprints across the mahogany desk. The cannery's layout stares back at me, mocking. Those turrets weren't there by accident - Bob knew I was coming.

But now I know what I'm up against. And next time, I won't be walking into a trap. Next time, I'll be setting one.

Let Pyke and the others think I'm just another suit pushing papers. When I drag Bob and his Grolgath cronies back to base in chains, they'll remember who I really am.