Hunting Kat (2 page)

A quick look in the mirror confirmed he’d pass cursory inspection. His dark hair, cut close around the sides and back, remained a touch long on top. His face had been cleaned up, the claw marks across one temple healing quickly under clear medical sealant. He’d have to shave in the next day or two, but the shadow across his jaw was still short enough to look well kept.

“C’mon, man, you planning on creating a crime scene tonight, or you trying to look pretty for the hell of it?” DeSarto threw a towel in his direction.

Rygard grinned, a line of white teeth flashing in the mirror. “Not looking, my man, but I’ll keep my options open.”

In truth, he never fished for the kind of female companionship most soldiers indulged in off duty. Oh, he could have it easily enough, but those encounters left a man empty. Aside from the professionals and cybers, the Dear John communication he’d received before this past mission had soured him on honest-to-goodness ladies.

“Good. You need to move on and get your system running again. Find happy again.”

Rygard chuckled. “Yeah, you pegged me, Mr. Happy.”

He fell silent as he looked in the mirror and saw the other man’s expression in the reflection. Compassion looked out from a battle-scarred face, not soft but knowing. DeSarto had been present when the Dear John communication came in. The entire team had been there. Plenty of them had received similar messages of their own, all beginning with Dear and ending with “I kicked your boots to the curb.” Centuries old, the messages had become a recurring bit of history in the service.

He’d met her between tours on a long stay home. She became the light in his life, made him happy. Her friends told him they’d never seen so much joy in her and all because of him. But reality kicked in when he’d returned to duty. Suddenly, she didn’t think it so great to be a soldier’s girl if he wasn’t there to flaunt to her friends. Truth came out, she landed richer game long before she’d caught Rygard, a different sucker located inside the solar system sitting at a desk job. He’d only been a side piece for the greedy bitch.

She never returned the engagement ring he’d spent a year’s pay on.

He sure as hell didn’t want it back.

His men, they all knew what it did to a man. Shit, their unit specialized in the extremely dangerous and ridiculously impossible. They never knew their destination until they arrived or if they would return until they made it back. Each man went out on the next mission to purge the hate and leave behind the drama of civilian life. A mission had a specific objective and clear set of orders, letting them focus on the reason they enlisted in the first place, to protect and serve their planet and their race. Happiness came and went with the women who loved the idea of a soldier but not the reality of loving one. The only sure thing for any of them? They never waited long for the next mission.

“I need a drink.” DeSarto made the statement an imperative. “You need several. Let’s get going.”

Rygard stared into the mirror for another moment, then turned away. Funny how he’d left on the last mission looking to forget her. Instead, he’d piled on a mess of other issues.

“It doesn’t bother you, man? What we did this last time out?”

DeSarto halted, a muscle jumping in his jaw. “We followed orders.”

“There’s orders, and then there were the direct orders. They had nothing to do with our original objective—”

“You going to question our CO?” DeSarto looked him directly in the eyes. “In the field? Not me, man. I’m not going to call him on the extra cargo.”

It wasn’t the first time the missions had twisted, that side trips were added. Commands given in the field had less to do with strategy and tactics and more with monetary gain. What they’d done, under orders or not, left a bad taste for all of them. None of the soldiers looked each other in the eye on the jaunt back to Dysnomia Station, and every man immediately hit the showers to wash the blood of innocents from their hands.

Rygard slammed his fist down on the dresser. Too much greed in the damned universe. A man couldn’t trust anyone or anything, not even his own gut.

What he needed to do was hit the bar and find oblivion at the bottom of a glass. Maybe then there’d be room in his head to make the one immediate decision looming in the next day.

“Rygard, man, you think too hard.”

True fact.

The lower levels of Dysnomia Station were only well lit if the denizens were willing to spend the cred. None of them were. Corridors curved and crossed then curved again, creating an elaborate labyrinth of gloom and flickering auxiliary glow strips.

A human might have been intimidated, the shadows an effective deterrent to those who didn’t belong. Kaitlyn knew better.

A controlled shift had taken her years to learn, but it proved a useful trick to change only her eyes to cat physiology. She knew from experience they remained blue while the shape of her irises morphed into slits. She’d never seen a true cat with blue eyes. Color aside, she could see in the dark just fine.

Darkness provided cover. It made prey easy to stalk. The corridors held no secrets from the panther side of her. In fact, they remained suspiciously clean. The random piece of trash or crumpled beverage can lay on the floor, but none of the disgusting refuse indicative of a true slum. She smelled rancid sugar, carbonated beverages spilled and allowed to spoil, and the unpleasantly ripe odor of unwashed bodies. Yet the circulating air flowed clear of the scents of fear, violence and death or sickness. These halls held no threat and the denizens weren’t likely to be one either.

She stalked toward Unit 141-I, confident she was the top predator in the territory.

Kaitlyn came to a stop, pausing to flick a thoughtful look around the doorway. The danger wasn’t of the simple, direct, stab-you-in-the-back nature. It had more technological savvy, elegance. She stepped into the blind spot of the micro-surveillance camera and presumably the safety zone from the laser threads installed around the entryway.

“State your name, purpose and ship of origin.” A tiny hologram of some sort of nematode floated where a normal person would have stood.

Kaitlyn couldn’t help a faint grin. The little squirmy had a shock of red hair and a blue ascot. For an invertebrate, he was kind of cute. She wanted to bat at him with a paw to see if the hologram responded. “Kaitlyn Darah. Messenger run for Captain Devron Rishkillian.”

Their ship had no name. They flew a mercenary vessel, after all. Sometimes it benefited to come and go without everyone taking note of their conveyance.

“Security passed.” The itty-bitty worm tilted his head to the side. “Come inside, have a cup of brew.”

The door slid open with a
whoosh
and her nose flooded with the richly sensuous smell of coffee, not the mud they usually served in station commissaries. Her nostrils flared. She tasted the air a second time. No, not the cheap stuff. The scent of properly roasted beans, freshly ground, greeted her.

Whatever whack message run this turned out to be was worth it to find a source of good coffee.

“Whoa…” A heavyset man rotated on a motorized chair to face her, pushing magnification goggles away from beady, close-set eyes. He blinked twice, leaning his not-so-impressive bulk forward to study her. “You don’t look like a merc. Dev’s team is supposed to be leet.”

Uh-huh. And a nerd on servos would know what it took to be elite?

Kaitlyn crossed the room.

Nerd-boy watched her approach. Not in fear, but shrewd assessment. “Speed, plus three. Agility, plus three. Appearance, definitely plus five. Intimidation, minus two—even with the visible boot knives and combat knife.” He pulled the goggles off his broad forehead and began to clean them with the hem of his shirt. “Ever consider laser-or sonic-based firearms? Maybe ballistics?”

Her temper flared. “You want intimidation?” She shot a hand out, catching his throat and lifting him by the jaw until he hung a few inches above his seat. Glaring, she let a growl rumble up from her chest and bared her teeth, the canines elongated to sharp fangs. “How’s this?”

Eyelids blinked over dilated pupils and stubby fingers scrabbled against her grip. “K-kick-ass factor, plus five. Overall hawtness, plus ten.”

Kaitlyn let him down with a thump. The motorized chair groaned under the return of his weight. She had partially let him off because he gave off no scent of fear, only excitement and a touch of arousal. No flailing or sudden movements to incite violence from her predator side, no threatening gestures or attempts to pull a weapon. He was harmless. Okay, maybe a little creepy, but harmless.

Also, he was a damned heavy nerd-boy.

“I’m Kaitlyn,” she offered, feeling awkward. Dev had wanted her to practice her people skills. It might be a tad belated but hell, better late than never.

“Kaitlyn Darah, I know.” Nerd-boy massaged his throat with a rueful scowl. “I’m Boggle. Dev said you’d be impressive. I’m so rarely impressed anymore.”

He turned his chair to a counter and grabbed two steaming beakers. One sloshed when he shoved it in her direction. She hesitated, looking at the dark liquid. By smell, the source of the lovely coffee aroma, but why the hell serve good stuff in a freaking beaker?

“Go on.” Boggle sloshed a bit more as he waved the beaker back and forth. “It’s just coffee.”

Gingerly, Kaitlyn took it, careful not to touch his hand. Another deep whiff almost had her eyes rolling into the back of her head and she couldn’t wait any longer. She took a slow sip.

Heaven.

“Oh yeah.” She came back to herself to see Boggle watching her. His grin transformed his face into boyish glee. “You’re the perfect anthropomorphic. Everything about you screams cat.”

She’d been purring. So long aboard ship, surrounded by shipmates who knew what she was, she’d lost her caution. The coffee turned bitter on the back of her tongue. Dev proved right again—she needed to get out more, keep her guard up and her attention sharp. She placed the beaker on the counter. “Glad you enjoyed the freak show.” She took the data stick out of the pouch attached to her thigh. “Here, message delivered. I’ve got an experiment to get back to.”

She turned, but Boggle zipped forward. “Wait!”

In a flash, Kaitlyn leaped on top of the chair, balanced the balls of her feet on the armrests. Her face stopped a breath away from his and her hand gripped his throat, again, a fraction of a second away from maiming him.

A rush of arousal filled the air. Gross. She hadn’t scared the piss out of him, she’d pushed him into a money shot.
Oh, ewww.

Dev was a dead man. Improve her social skills, her ass.

She jumped back, landing lightly with a strong urge to wash her hands.

“S-sorry,” Boggle breathlessly apologized, but his voice turned earnest as he rushed to continue. “I wanted to meet you. I’m sorry. But you’re magnificent, a perfect blend of visceral instinct and cold efficiency. I know everything there is to know about your history. The Triton Moon Base incident, your capture. I have the details on your virus and genetic code—I even pulled all of your old school records. I have stats on every mission you’ve been on.”

Jeezus, if this represented Dev and Skuld’s idea of a matchmaking attempt, they were both dead.

Boggle held up both hands. “I know I don’t have a chance. I’m definitely not your type, and that’s fine with me. I just…I wanted you to meet me.”

Kaitlyn paused. Just meet? She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, poised to move, but undecided.

He looked around frantically, reaching over to a console and pulling up data. Heavy as he was, those fingers flew across the terminal with a speed and delicacy rivaling a Terran hummingbird.

“I’m a hacker. I retrieve intel on every mission for Dev and conduct client assessments,” Boggle babbled, sweat beading at his forehead. “I wanted you to have direct access to me if you needed any help along those lines. You need connections independent of Dev. You need to develop a network of informants and contacts for the future. I wanted to be the first. I can support you better than anyone else out there and I’m not afraid of what you are.”

Obviously not. Prey rarely went out of its way to come face-to-face with her. Strange, the more he spoke, the less inclined she felt to leave.

She knew if a person lied through a hundred unconscious tells. Body language, eye movement, heart rate and breathing. Scent provided another tell to her panther’s nose.

Boggle told the truth. Not many people did.

“I’m creeped out by you.” Her tone flat, harsh. She suffered a flash of guilt. Probably not a normal thing to say, or nice, but she would be honest too.

His entire bulk shrank in on itself, but a smile trembled above the double chin. “Look. I know what I look like. And I’ve come across with all the wrong signals. You’re the first flesh-and-blood female I’ve risked meeting in person in years.” He swallowed loudly, his tongue slipping out to lick his lips. “I know you have trouble with the social skills too. I figure we’re even there. You deal with me, I’ll deal with you. No pressure.”

Kaitlyn paused, holding perfectly still as she considered. He had a point. Several actually. They did have common ground between them, sort of. If she looked past the perverted tendencies and physical form, he had been up front and was a fundamentally good person. Her gut told her so.

Besides, people usually made her wary or tempted her to hunt them. Boggle was just Boggle. Neither threat nor prey.

Yeah, no, that line of thought wasn’t what a mainstream girl would follow either.
Oy.

Decision made, she stepped back into touching range and held out a hand.

His grin returned, a look of pure delight. He wiped his hand on his pants and shook hers, the touch only slightly sticky.

“So.” He looked over to his console. “I’ve got your first bit of intel.”

She waited. He sweated.

“And?” she finally prompted.

“Don’t hit me.”

She chuckled, the unaccustomed sound clumsy in her throat, but he
did
know her. “I won’t.”