They docked. Striker dropped the yoke and stood up.
“Grab her and let’s go.”
“Does C.D. know we’re here?” Phantom asked, following him into the passenger compartment.
“Yes.”
Evie Martell was awake, but finally seemed to have gotten it into her head that she should shut up. She watched Striker pass with wariness in her eyes, but no fear. Whether or not it was because Phantom was being his usual comforting self at all the wrong moments, Striker didn’t know, but he was appreciative for the silence. He was not often this stressed. Not even during runs was he this stressed.
It was hard not to be this stressed with his cells dividing themselves into dead, synthetic flesh.
He needed to stop thinking about stress.
Striker stopped in front of the locked doors and fingered his gun grips while he waited for the pressurization to equalize on the other side. Behind him, Phantom prepped Evie for transport. As far as Klick had been able to tell, her biggest injury was in her upper spine. There was no way for them to tell if it was permanently damaged, but the girl hadn’t died, and she didn’t appear to be in any debilitating pain. Klick had given her a few, strong anesthetics, and bequeathed the bottle to Phantom for the rest of their trip. Striker was glad it kept the girl immobile for now. Phantom had wanted to divert to a hospital, but they were almost at the end. There was no time for diversions.
The digital meter beside the door blinked green.
“Time to go,” Striker said over his shoulder.
Phantom appeared at Striker’s side, holding Evie as gingerly as possible. She didn’t seem to be in any more pain than before, although her glare had intensified.
“Ready,” Phantom said.
“Remember, let me do the talking,” Striker said.
The door swished open. Four people stood on the other side, all wearing face-hugging, black, reflective masks and matching armor. They carried sleek rifles across their chests. Behind them, Striker could see the elegant, immaculate backdrop of a rich man’s ship. Curtains. Marble. Paintings. Luxury.
As soon as the door slid away, the figures whipped their guns around and aimed. Evie whimpered. Striker held up his hands.
“We’re here to see C.D.,” Striker said. “We have the goods, and we’re expected.”
No answer. The four figures simply stared. Striker and Phantom held their ground. Evie hadn’t spoken a word—thank goodness—and Striker hoped she wouldn’t be tempted.
“All right,” one of the figures said after an eternal pause—their voice warped by the same type of device C.D. used. “Disarm yourselves.”
“That’s not how we play.”
“Do it.”
Phantom nudged him.
Striker glared out of the corner of his eye, but said nothing. Instead, he let a few seconds slip by—to give them a sense of his dissatisfaction—and then reached for his belt. The four figures tensed, but Striker just removed his holsters and placed them on the floor between his boots. Phantom held out Evie, and Striker took her for a few moments while Phantom did the same. Then he handed her back, wiping the traces of her blood from his palms onto his pants.
Two of the figures crept forward—all four guns still trained on them—and confiscated the holsters, pistols included.
“This way,” the leader croaked.
The figure led the way into the exquisite lobby. A large, gilded fountain stood in the center, flanked by marble benches and an array of potted trees. Real trees, too, which were hard enough to keep alive on a spaceship. Besides the décor, a platoon of black-suited servants scuttled about, scrubbing the place with brushes and a variety of sweet-smelling cleaners.
“The master apologizes for the inconvenience,” the head gunman said. “But a mansion must be cleaned sometimes.”
Phantom muttered something under his breath—Striker didn’t hear what, but he could guess. He didn’t much like the looks of this place, either. It made more sense now why their purse was a “cool” eighteen million. If there was any opposite to the world where Striker and Phantom had spent their whole lives, this was it.
“Wait here,” the leader said.
The figure disappeared through a double door. The other three kept Striker, Phantom, and Evie at gunpoint. The girl looked all right. Under the brighter lights of the large station, she was terribly pale, but not as bad as she could have been given the circumstances. Some blood still seeped through her bandages. A massive bruise had formed on her temple, although it looked cleaned and tended to.
The figure reappeared. “You may enter.”
Striker followed without a word. The massive doors parted.
“Welcome,” someone said.
A young woman sat on the other side of the broadest, shiniest desk Striker had ever seen. She rested her elbows on it and gave him a prim smile from behind a sheen of crimson lipstick. She looked her years—much too young to be running a space station, let alone an entire branch of Apex Genetics. But her youth didn’t seem to pose any problem to her confidence as she waved them in.
One of the black-masked figures ushered Phantom to a violet divan, where he lowered Evie.
“Hmm… she’s in pretty bad shape,” the woman said.
“You know, it’s not a very good idea to give out your real initials to men who hunt and kill people for a living,” Striker said, spinning her own name plate to face her. “After I found out Apex Genetics was behind this, it was a matter of Googling you, Miss DiVazzo.”
Carmen DiVazzo’s smile did not falter. “In retrospect, I guess I could have used a fake name, but… even if you had discovered my company was behind the deal on the first day, you wouldn’t have stopped.”
“Maybe not,” Striker said. “But people who make mistakes wind up dead, and it would be a real shame for someone your age to die because they didn’t know any better.”
“Careful, now,” Miss DiVazzo said. “Guests are usually polite to a hostess.”
“Save it for later,” Phantom whispered to Striker.
“Besides,” Miss DiVazzo continued. “None of that matters now that you’re here. Of course I’m disappointed you couldn’t bring all three children, or that you had to come aboard my vessel at all, but what’s done is done. You did your best, I suppose.”
“Could’ve done better if we had known Lance Martell was their father,” Striker said. “You’ve chosen to pick your bone with a skilled mercenary.”
Miss DiVazzo twitched. “You think I don’t know that?”
“I think you’re floundering under a company your father knew how to run much better than you do, especially when it comes to handling enemies.”
She shoved her chair back and stood. “Don’t talk to me like that in my own office.”
“Pardon him,” Phantom said. “He’s stressed.”
“I’m not stressed, I’m angry,” Striker growled. “We’re being played by a child, and that injured girl’s father is on his way to take her back and kill us in the process. Do you know how many of my men he’s already killed? I haven’t lost anyone in years, and now this. I didn’t want to lose anyone to you!”
He slammed his fist on Miss DiVazzo’s exquisite desk, rattling everything that sat on it. The masked figures jumped to attention, their guns almost brushing Striker’s coat.
Phantom grabbed his arm and growled. “Control yourself.”
A heartbeat passed in silence. Striker glanced at the guns and then straightened.
“My apologies,” Striker said.
“No, no, it’s all right,” Miss DiVazzo said. Something in her voice had changed. “I can understand what you’re going through. I’ve experienced it. Thanks to Lance Martell… the man who at this very moment is coming here to save his daughter and who is simultaneously walking straight into the trap I have set...” She leaned forward and placed her hands on the desk. “The clouds gather, Mr. Striker, and the storm is going to break right here in this space station. And when he shows up to see it, I must thank you for a job well done. For now, all we have to do is wait.”
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