Free Collision Course by Zoe Archer

if he had enough time to get her up against the wall. His hands up her skirt. Her legs around his waist.
    “Leave the talking to me,” she said.
    “Seems to be a common refrain.”
    She shrugged, but her smile was pure devious charm. “This is my territory. 8 th Wing came to me for assistance. Well, my assistance means you have to keep your mouth shut.”
    “How convenient for you.”
    Betraying the cunning brains that lurked beneath her gorgeous exterior, she said, “You hate not being in control.”
    “It’s better for everyone when I call the shots.”
    She folded her arms across her chest, and the gesture made her already lifted breasts rise just a little higher. “Anybody ever call you arrogant?”
    “All the time.”
    Her laughter was rueful, but admiring. Then, quietly, almost to herself, she murmured, “Don’t make me like you.”
    Before he could question that statement further, the doors to the elevator slid open. Mara stepped out, he went right behind her, and they found themselves in smuggler’s paradise.
    He became aware of two things at once: the noise, and the smell. Voices combined to form a discordant ocean, yelling to be heard above the pounding music. Laughter. Shouts, both jovial and angry. A table broke. Somebody screamed. The music continued.
    Bodies, alcohol and sticky smoke merged into one viscous cloud of smell. Sex, too, musky and thick, scented the air. Peering into the darkness, he thought he might have seen a couple—or threesome—engaged in what should have been a private activity, except they were on a stage.
    “Like it?” Mara shouted.
    “It’s not the officers’ mess.”
    The club, or whatever one might call such a place, spread out in an arrangement of large, smoky rooms. Tables and booths filled the rooms, and each had its own bar, tended by men and women who looked like they would sooner stick an infrared blade through your eye than take a drink order. A distant wall held a bank of windows, offering a panoramic view of Beskidt By, but no one seemed to care what was on the other side of the tinted glass.
    Mara moved into the room and he trailed after her, his gaze constantly moving, assessing the situation. He didn’t like the minimal number of exits, nor the fact that they were dozens, if not a hundred, stories up, leaving too few options in case they needed to leave in a hurry. Shadows clogged every corner. They could hide any number of threats. The patrons of the club were a who’s who of wanted criminals. He recognized one slave trader, three drug dealers, and at least a dozen smugglers.
    He just hoped none of them recognized him. Doubtless they’d disembowel him on one of the stages if they knew he was 8 th Wing. Seemed like the kind of entertainment the crowd would enjoy.
    Mara strode through the thick of it, completely comfortable yet also…regal. She called out greetings as she walked. Almost everyone knew her, and she knew them. “Giri—I haven’t seen you since that specerij lab explosion. Face is healing nicely. Edlyn—you promised me an ether processor, and I’m still waiting. Is that Qadir? Did you collect that bounty, yet? Well, you always get less when you bring them in dead. Yes, even in pieces.”
    If Mara was accepted as one of their own, Kell was the subject of hundreds of wary stares. Several people actually did double takes when they saw him walking with her.
    One hulking thug with a face webbed with scar tissue lumbered out of his seat, then placed himself deliberately in his path. Kell shifted to walk around Scar Face, but the man kept stepping in his way.
    Kell fought a sigh. These pissing matches were annoying as hell.
    “Pretty little drawing you got there.” Scar Face jabbed a meaty finger into the tattoo on Kell’s arm.
    Kell only stared at him.
    “What’s it mean?” Scar Face pressed.
    “It—”
    “Means you like sucking cock.” Scar Face laughed at his own joke.
    Gods, the fucker’s brain had to be in reverse proportion to