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C ryon II

The feeling of being watched had lingered for some time as Dorane LeGaugh traversed the interior levels of the spaceport that was still under construction and probably would be long after he had turned to dust. He’d ignored the sensation at first. He was accustomed to drawing attention. Wealth, power, and influence made people watch you for different reasons. But this was different. The eyes tracking him now weren’t the calculating stares of rival entrepreneurs or the greedy glances of those who wanted a piece of his empire.

This was the gaze of a predator.

And he didn’t like being hunted.

A soothing blue glowed from the metal structures lining the streets. The lighting on the artificial moon replicated the full spectrum of light found on most inhabited planets within the galaxy, including blue light to regulate circadian rhythms and red light that supported mitochondrial function and cellular health. The artificial moon was a vast sprawl of steel and neon, a refuge for criminals, exiles, and people who were both ambitious and didn’t mind getting their hands dirty.

Cryon II had its own gravity and atmosphere thanks to the translucent shield surrounding it. The shield was a marvel of technology by itself. Every corridor, every alley, every docking bay held stories of betrayal, deals gone wrong, and the unspoken rule of survival—kill or be killed—but they also told stories of success, which drew those hoping for a better life.

Dorane had thrived in this environment. If anyone knew the harsher realities of life amongst those considered outcasts, it was him. Hunger and the desire to not be one of the dead had been a driving force of his success—along with a huge amount of luck and preparation.

Which was why the fool tailing him had no idea just how badly he had miscalculated his target.

With a slow, unhurried stride, Dorane veered left, stepping away from the main thoroughfare. The streets here were narrower, the overhead lights dimmer, casting deep shadows across the rusted metal walls. Steam hissed from the grates lining the alley. The scent of purified air tinged with exotic food and spices from the nearby restaurants hung thick in the air.

He didn’t break his pace. The footsteps behind him hesitated for a fraction of a second before continuing. It was the sound of indecision.

Too obvious. And too greedy for whatever bounty they hope to get, he mused.

Dorane smirked, adjusting the cuffs of his coat as he passed a row of old cargo containers. This part of the station was quieter, used primarily for storage and docking overflow. Fewer witnesses and less chance of an innocent pedestrian wandering into the fray.

His gaze swept the area, his mind categorizing every scenario of the fight that would invariably occur. He slowed his steps when he came to the spot where he would have the best advantage. A light overhead, beaming a warm white, would shine on his opponent while he remained in the shadows.

Perfect.

He turned sharply to the left and stood in the shadows beside a stack of metal crates, slowing his breathing, waiting.

It took less than five seconds.

The assassin moved into view—a silhouette against the neon reflections in the alley’s puddles. Dorane studied his opponent when he paused just out of the light. Tall, lean, dressed in a dark fitted bodysuit with reinforced armor plating. Disappointment filled him.

A bounty hunter.

There wouldn’t be much of a fight. The man would be more used to bringing in his prey alive than killing them. He would hesitate when it mattered. Whoever had put a price on Dorane’s head must have made it enough to entice the idiots who were too stupid to live.

In a blur of movement, Dorane struck.

The assassin barely had time to react before Dorane’s blow brutally connected with the man’s ribs, sending him stumbling sideways into a sharp, pointed edge of an open crate. The scent of blood, the man’s grunt of pain, and the clatter of the man’s weapon against the ground made Dorane smile. He almost felt sorry for the bounty hunter—almost.

The man twisted, his fingers fumbling for another weapon, but Dorane was already ahead of him. The weapon in his hand glowed briefly as it sliced through clothing, flesh, and bone. The assassin’s mouth opened in a silent scream, shock pouring through the man as he grabbed what was left of his arm and fell to his knees.

The fight was over.

Dorane stepped forward, holding his weapon against the assassin’s throat. He couldn’t see the man’s face. It was obscured by the helmet he was wearing. The assassin’s breathing was heavy and uneven, the sound of it mixing with anguished moans. The smell of urine filled the alley.

“You really shouldn’t have taken this assignment,” Dorane tsked. “This is far above your pay skill.”

Dorane’s reflection stared back at him in the faint glow of the man’s visor. He pressed the glowing tip of his weapon just below the man’s neck.

“Who sent you?”

Silence.

Dorane sighed. He shifted his grip, sending a short but powerful charge into the man. A thin line of dark blood welled against the edge.

“Let’s try this again. I can be very patient,” he murmured. “But you look like you don’t have that kind of time.”

The assassin exhaled sharply. “There’s a price on your head—a good one.”

Dorane raised a brow. “How about telling me something I don’t know, like who placed it?”

“A powerful man.”

Dorane chuckled. “A wealthy one, yes. A powerful one, maybe. A smart one would have known better.” His smile turned sharp. “Give me a name?”

The assassin remained silent.

Dorane sighed and tilted his head. He hated when his opponents thought he would show mercy. They would die. It was just up to them how fast it happened. Impatient, he reached down and pulled the man’s helmet off. He already knew what he looked like. He didn’t need to stare into his reflection. What he wanted to know was who the idiot was who thought they could kill him.

Beneath the visor, Dorane recognized the Melskarian that was a frequent visitor to the moon. The normally deep violet skin, marked with faint bioluminescent patterns that pulsed in time with his breathing, was now a pale, translucent violet. His jet-black eyes were glazed with pain and defiance.

“I thought you were smarter than this, Bro’qi,” he noted. “You don’t take jobs lightly. Which means someone really wanted me dead or you were really desperate.”

Bro’qi clenched his jaw but said nothing. Dorane sighed theatrically, tightening his grip.

“Come now, at least tell me who is stupid enough to?—”

“The Legion.”

The words were barely above a whisper. Dorane’s amusement faded. He had expected it to happen one day. He had known that his power, wealth, influence, and personal army would eventually be considered a threat by Coleridge and Andri Andronikos, but hearing it confirmed sent a pulse of cold fury through his veins.

There were only two people in the Legion who had the power—and the arrogance—to put a price on his head.

“Which one?” Dorane pressed before he shook his head in sardonic amusement that didn’t reach his eyes. “Or was it both?”

Bro’qi hesitated. Dorane could see the light beginning to fade along with the bounty hunter’s coloring. He had lost a lot of blood.

“There’s no stopping them now. I heard Coleridge killed his son. It’s only a matter of time before they get you. There’s no one to stop it now.”

Dorane stilled.

Roan.

The former Legion general. The man who had dared betray the most ruthless organization in the known galaxy. A silent curse slipped from his lips. Dorane had tried to warn him.

His grip tightened fractionally. He had expected Roan to suffer consequences, but if the Legion had already executed him, then things were escalating faster than he had expected. He exhaled through his nose.

“Well, that simplifies things.”

Bro’qi dropped his good arm down to his side. Dorane cursed when he saw a faint glow through the fabric of the Melskarian’s trousers. Rising quickly to his feet, Dorane sprinted for the cargo containers he had stepped behind minutes earlier. He barely made it to safety before a brilliant flash of white light followed by a shockwave strong enough to shift the heavy containers lit up the alley.

Dorane cursed when a stream of retardant gases released. Covering his nose and mouth, he slid into the gap between the containers and the wall behind him, rolling away from the gruesome scene. Once he was safe from the noxious gases and smell of burnt flesh, he dropped his arm to his side and strode down the alley.

The encounter hadn’t been a complete waste.

He slid his weapon into his pocket when he heard footsteps approaching from behind. He didn’t bother turning around. The faint hint of a smile curved his lips at the unmistakable heavy tread. These were footsteps he would recognize anywhere.

“How did it go, Jammer?” he asked.

Jammer’s massive form loomed beside him, arms swinging wide as he fell into step with Dorane. “Good. How’d it go with Bro’qi?”

“You could say explosive,” he replied with a chuckle.

“For fuck’s sake, Dorane. You know, normal people don’t go looking for assassination attempts,” Asta snapped, not bothering to hide her displeasure with him.

Dorane shot a wink at his second-in-command when she fell into step on his other side. Unlike Jammer, she was much lighter on her feet and more difficult to hear coming.

Dorane laughed. “Where’s the fun in that? Besides, I needed information and he was stupid enough to accept the bounty.”

Asta’s tail flicked in exasperation. “You’re insufferable.”

Jammer snorted. “So, how close were we to guessing it right?”

Dorane brushed past them, rolling his shoulders. “Spot on, like always.”

“Fantastic. You know you’re going to have to give me a raise if you want me to keep you alive,” Asta called out behind him as he pulled ahead of them.

Jammer chuckled. “A raise sounds good.”

“You know you guys love the challenge,” Dorane replied, lifting his hand.

“Why does this feel like it is going to be even worse than usual?” Asta groaned, picking up speed to catch up with her wayward boss.