Page 10 of The First Spark (Dynasty of Fire #1)

The pajama-clad passengers in the Chimaera ’s extravagant mess hall were tired, grumpy, and whiny, a combination that grated on Zane’s nerves.

A woman was ranting, and an older group muttered amongst themselves, casting dark looks in Zane’s direction.

He scowled. As if he had any control over the matter.

If they were this upset about a maintenance delay, they were going to mutiny when they found out the real reason they’d dropped from the stargate route.

“We’re supposed to be in Rouvain at eight,” snapped a Briti woman, as her pink skin flushed scarlet. “I have an appointment at the art museum. How much time is this going to take?”

“Just an engine problem, ma’am. We should be underway shortly.”

The woman sniffed, tugging at the mink stole she’d thrown over a silk nightdress. “I’ll be sure to mention this in my review. The service on the Aquamarine was much better. ”

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Zane inhaled deeply. If they made it out of this, she was welcome to complain as much as she wanted.

Despite the constant whining and the passengers griping about being roused at five in the morning, tension hung heavy in the perfumed air.

The crew who knew the truth about the delay were silent and motionless, bracing themselves for the hell about to descend.

Ancel guarded the front doors with both hands braced on his pulser; Nova lacked her usual cheer as she dealt with shouting guests in the corner.

Crea was lounging at a table with other dancers.

A few nervous passengers huddled in groups, murmuring furtively.

No sign of Hannover.

He glanced at his chrono. Five-sixteen. Stotz and the Feds were a minute late.

With a hand braced on his pulser’s grip, Zane stared at the door and waited.

The chrono ticked by, and they didn’t appear. He relaxed his grip. Maybe it was already over. He didn’t want to think about what that meant for Hannover, yet he couldn’t help but hope Stotz’s absence meant the rest of them were safe.

He glanced at Ancel, who was as rigid as a board. Ancel grimaced and nodded.

Zane’s hands grew slippery on his pulser.

No such luck. They were coming.

As if the rest of the hall could sense it too, the crowd fell silent. Even the old man barking at Nova about his missed flight to Carik’s victory rally shut his mouth.

The doors buzzed. As they slid open, shouts of confusion and fury thundered through the hall. The older elites were silent and stoic, but the younger ones, those less blinded by loyalty to Carik, hugged their families close.

A young man whirled on Zane and unleashed a string of curses.

He clenched his jaw.

“My apologies for the delay,” Stotz said. “This is just a routine check. Admiral Krii happened to be passing by and wanted to make sure things were in order. His men will be scanning your chips, then they’ll be leaving. ”

Zane cringed. Stotz was going to get himself killed, taking that sharp tone with Krii.

Krii stepped in front of Stotz, folding his arms and surveying the crowd. “Your captain is right. This won’t take long if you cooperate.”

He gestured to his black-armored troops, mostly human men with assault rifles crossed over their dark breastplates. They fanned out to cover the exits, lowering tinted blast shields over their heads. Zane swore under his breath. Three dozen men. Krii meant business.

“These men will be checking your identification chips,” Krii continued. “If you could line up in front of them, I’d greatly appreciate it.”

No one moved. No one spoke. Most froze with shock and affront on their faces, clutching at their jeweled handbags and fur-lined coats as if the idea that such a thing could happen to them was unthinkable.

Zane nearly snorted.

Krii’s lip curled as his hand drifted to his holstered pulser. “I suppose, if necessary, we could do this by force. And if you don’t want your ID scanned, we can start making arrests.”

They bolted to form lines, trampling over extravagant chairs and falling table decor.

A man clipped Zane’s shoulder as he barreled past him.

Zane marched towards Ancel and Nova, who huddled at the middle of the furthest line.

Snippets of hushed conversations drifted past him as he sidestepped weeping socialites and dodged the older passengers spoiling for an argument.

“You do understand,” a man said to a legionnaire, puffing his chest out, “that my family personally contributed a million credits to the Prime Minister’s campaign…”

“Good for you,” Zane muttered. These people were idiots.

He tried to cut through the line between him and Ancel, but a woman glared at him. Scowling, he trudged to the back of the line, which stretched to the furthest marble wall.

Icy fingers clamped around Zane’s wrist, and he froze mid-step.

He didn’t want to turn, but he did anyway.

Smudges of mascara ringed Hannover’s bloodshot eyes. She didn’t speak. She didn’t have to—the fear on her deathly white face said enough .

Zane pressed his lips together. She needed help, and once upon a time he’d stood in an enlistment office and pledged to help those who needed him. He could save her. Otherwise, Carik’s men would find her, have their way with her, and kill her.

But he’d tried playing the hero for someone before, and she’d ended up dead in his arms. He’d nearly died with her.

She had been worth his life. Hannover wasn’t. He’d already lost too much to her family.

“There’s nothing I can do,” Zane muttered, marching away.

“Please.” Her light footsteps rushed after him, and she dove into his path.

“ Please. I’ve checked all the exits, and I can’t…

I’ll give you whatever you want, anything , I swear it—” As he tried to sidestep her, she blocked him, wringing her hands.

“I swear it. On my aunt’s soul, I swear it, just please, please help me get out. ”

Something that felt a hell of a lot like guilt settled on his chest. He glanced at the carved entrance doors and grimaced. There was no way he could sneak her out without getting shot.

Don’t get involved.

The murmured conversation near them stopped, and Zane tensed as a pair of men stared at him. Flashing a bland smile, he shifted so they could see his security badge. They looked away.

The second someone got a glimpse of her, she was dead or worse, and he was directly in the line of fire.

He gritted his teeth. Being the hero wasn’t worth it. Not at the cost of his life.

Zane stepped around her.

“Anything,” she repeated, shaking. “Anything at all.”

He paused. She’d give him all of Avington if he demanded it, everything he and Mom had dreamed of.

But there was no way she was making it out alive, and he wasn’t going down with her.

He pushed her away, muttered “sorry,” and headed towards Ancel.

Pulserfire erupted.

Zane hit the ground, twisting to reach his pulser as screams rang out. He stayed down for one, two, three , then leapt to his feet. The crowd was screaming, racing in all directions. Dammit, dammit , they needed to get down so he could see.

Pulsers roared. Zane dropped to a crouch. Blue rings of light, stunners, blasted through the air where his head had been. Panting, he scrambled behind an overturned chair.

Hannover ran.

Stun blasts pummeled the wall behind the chair. Zane hissed, glancing around the armrest. Another volley shrieked towards him, pinning him down.

His pulser charge was at half. He hadn’t made it back to his room to plug it in for the night. Cursing, Zane flipped it to stun.

Staying was suicide. He needed a way out. Exits—doors were blocked. Vents, too high. Sewage…

Kitchen door. Twenty paces away. He could dive into the tunnels, swim to the hangar bay.

Sewage it was.

Zane lunged to his feet and charged towards the door, firing blindly behind him. “This way!” he bellowed at Hannover.

He blasted twice. Legionnaires crumpled outside the kitchen’s double doors.

He reached the golden doors and hauled one open. With sweat shining on her flushed face, Hannover sprinted towards him. Legionnaires were hot on her heels. He fired over her head. One-two-three, one-two-three .

“Chute!” he roared, flinging an arm towards the metal grate on the far wall.

Hannover charged past.

Zane slammed the door shut and bolted across the room. His hands shook on the pulser. He gasped for air, but nothing came.

Legionnaires burst through the door. Zane dropped behind a chiller, swallowing the coppery tang in his mouth.

The chute was ten steps away. As a blur of beige fabric darted towards the grate, a legionnaire lined up the shot.

Zane lunged, tackling him to the ground. He wrestled the soldier’s pulser from his hands and smashed it against his face. The man screamed, but Zane was already moving, ducking for cover behind a counter. The blasts turned on him.

The hatch slammed shut. Hannover had gotten into the sewer.

Red blasts thudded into the granite behind Zane. He shielded his head as glass shattered, striking the tile floor. His heart hammered.

Red bolts. Not to stun, but to kill.

Zane’s stomach turned as he flicked the switch on his pulser. He’d sworn to never kill again, but the civilians were out of the crossfire, and if the Feds were playing hardball, so would he. There were at least a dozen of them fanning out. Their heavy boots thudded through the room.

His rattling breaths filled the sudden silence. Any moment, they’d be on him.

The grate was five steps away.

The only way to get out of this alive was to run.

Zane inhaled deeply. Then he bolted towards the chute and pried the lid open.

Scalding pain ripped through his arm. He roared, but he couldn’t stop.

Diving into the opening, he slid through the grimy shaft and dropped into a lake of food scraps, human waste, and green water.

Mordir, the smell ...