Page 21 of A Runaway for the Alien Mercenary

Shit. The docking clamps were still engaged. Her gaze flicked to Rann as the engine output climbed.

“Rann… If you move us before those clamps disengage⁠—”

The engines deepened into a hungry growl. Not the familiar wheeze and grumble they usually gave her. This was different. Either he’d found power somewhere in the old girl that Blythe hadn’t known she had, or he was about to rip the docking cradle clean off the station.

“I know,” he said. “So get them released if you want to get out of here.”

She swore under her breath and pulled up the systems override screen, keyed in the authorization codes, and sent the command. A warning flashed amber across her display.

RELEASE REQUEST PENDING. DOCK CONTROL CONFIRMATION REQUIRED.

“Of course it bloody is,” she muttered, jabbing the command again. “Release, you stubborn bastard.”

The clamp light changed to green.

She sucked in a breath and ran the rest of the checks. The boarding ramp was already up… Main bay pressure equalized… Inner airlock cycled and sealed.

“Green across the board,” she said. “Go!”

Rann eased the ship forward, and it slipped free of the docking cradle. She looked up through the main viewscreen. The outer bay sat ahead of them, huge doors open onto hard black space, the guidance lights still glowing green. That could change in a heartbeat, and if those doors locked down, they were completely and utterly fucked.

Stevie slid into the jump seat beside Blythe and dragged the harness onto one shoulder as she reached for the other secondary console. Her fingers flew over the comm controls.

“Dock control, this is Tango Whiskey⁠—”

The cockpit speakers shrieked hard enough to make Blythe flinch as static filled the air, then cut off.

“Tango Whiskey-37-Alpha,” the dockmaster snapped. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? Your departure window isn’t till tomorrow. Return to your docking berth immediately and prepare for inspection.”

Blythe’s jaw tightened until her teeth hurt.

Inspection. Right. There was no way they could go back, not if Joe knew they were here. It would be utter suicide.

Stevie leaned closer to her console. “Dockmaster, this is expedition leader Weston. We have an emergency⁠—”

“Return to berth,” the dockmaster cut in. “Failure to comply will result in containment measures.”

“Yeah,” Rann said. “The situation’s draanthed six ways to Sunday, Jex.”

It took Blythe a second to realize he wasn’t speaking to either of them or the dockmaster. He had one hand steady on the controls, the other pressed to his ear.

“I’m gonna need some help here. They’re on to us.”

She exchanged a glance with Stevie.

The easygoing charter pilot had vanished. Rann sat forward in the pilot’s chair, shoulders set, watching the rapidly approaching bay doors with a stillness that made the hairs rise on her arms.

He looked older.

Not in the face, exactly. He was still handsome as fuck, the bastard, but the rest of him—the way he held himself—had changed.

Who the hell was he talking to?

Blythe glanced over at Stevie again, and the other woman gave the smallest shake of her head. He wasn’t on the ship’s comms, then.

Which stopped being relevant when the guidance lights above the outer doors flicked from green to red.

“Oh, shit,” she breathed as the enormous bay doors began to move.