Cypher (The Dragon's Bidding Book 2) (10 page)

In the short glimpse
she’d had of the ship, it had resembled a Lister Pulsar, but she recognized the
markings of an imperial warship, its smart paint programmed to display the
royal seal.

Maks Kiernan smiled too
broadly not to be in on this plan. “It’s the prototype for the second
generation Gyrfalcon-class corvettes. Miah Lister brought it to Rokotski
shipyards when she arrived for the celebration. We’ve had time to put a crew
aboard her and start to break them in, but I think she flew it herself for that
stunt.”

Lister had boasted that
she could refit a Pulsar to a warship in a matter of days. Perhaps not an idle
boast. “It’s beautiful. And I hope the first of many to come. What are you
going to christen her?”

Kiernan’s lips thinned.
“Ransahov’s already named her. Since she’s going to be the first of a new class
of ships, it seemed fitting to name her after the new head of the Fleet. She’s
going to be the
Wolfgang Amadeus Youngblood
. The crew we put aboard her
have already taken to calling her the
Mad Dog
.”

Fitz couldn’t breathe.

“I’m sorry, Kiddo. We
were going to surprise the both of you.” He captured her hand in his big blunt
fingers. “Come on, let’s get this pageantry crap over with.”

He ascended the dais,
taking the position to the Emperor’s right and one step below, the spot where
Wolf should be standing in his red uniform. She blinked away the tears that
stung her eyes as she slipped in behind him, as she would have for her
bond-partner, with Bartonelli at her shoulder. On Ari’s left, her civilian
officials fell into a similar phalanx.

A shadow flowed across
the dais, stopped at her feet and reached up to brace his paws against her leg.
Jumper’s eyes widened.
“He’s here, Boss Lady, somewhere. I caught a trace of
his scent, but I can’t tell where, what with all the stinky stuff you humans
slather all over yourselves.”

“Where were you when
you smelled him?”

“Scoping out the buffet
tables in the back. I heard they had neubeast steak tartare, so I thought I’d
better check it out.”

“Could you touch his
mind?”

Jumper scanned the
crowd and hissed.
“No, but then Wolf’s not here, is he? It’s that other one.
I don’t know the taste of his thoughts well, and there are a lot of other
people out there tonight whose thoughts aren’t too pleasant. It’s hard to pick
out one asshole in a sea of assholes. I didn’t see anyone who looked like him
either, but then he can disguise himself real good.
”

“Disguise?”

“Yeah, he can dress
himself up so even his momma wouldn’t recognize him.”

Another of her
partner’s talents she didn’t know about, and one that could be a major
complication tonight. “Jumper, can you circulate around the room and try to
pick up his scent again? If you do, get back to me as quickly as possible, or
can you reach me mentally?”

Jumper scanned the
crowd.
“Through this bunch of drunks, losers and toadies? I doubt it.”

“But I can
,”
Faydra padded to her mate’s side.

“Let me know the second
you suspect someone, and I’ll come check them out. And be careful, you two.”
Fitz watched the pair melt into the crowd, and caught the end of their
conversation.

“Come on, Sweet Paws.
Let’s start back at the buffet table.”

“No eating, Jumper.
This is work,”
the pale, spotted cat reminded him.

“Calicos.”
Fitz felt sure the last remark, delivered with wearied exasperation, was for
her mind alone.

She stretched up to
whisper in Kiernan’s ear. “Jumper says he’s here. I’m going after him.”

The admiral gave no
outward appearance of concern, but she felt his body tighten. His public smile
never faltered as he cautioned her, “Just remember, this isn’t the man you
love. From all you’ve told me, this is a stone-cold killer. Take him down
quickly. Don’t hesitate. And don’t take any unnecessary risks.”

“Hey, Maks, this is me.
When have I ever taken chances?”

Kiernan snorted. “When
all hell breaks loose, I’ll watch out for her.” He jerked his head toward
Ransahov, who still swaggered around, illuminated in the spotlight, whipping
her audience into a frenzy.

Fitz raced off the
dais, Bartonelli at her heels. They plunged into the crowd, intent on locating
the Gold Dragons contingent. She found them at the edge of the throng,
separated from the masses by an open space, as if the citizens of Striefbourne
City didn’t want to sully themselves by associating with common mercenaries.
Doc Ski had shed her hospital whites and donned a GD dress uniform. A glass of
champagne in one hand, she was engaged in an animated discussion with Fen
Donkenny.

“You didn’t tell me
Wolf uses disguises,” Fitz said.

The two mercenaries
exchanged a startled glance. “We assumed he’d mentioned it to you,” said Ski.

“Well, he didn’t, and
Jumper says he’s here. He can smell him.” For as much as she loved the man,
Fitz had only known Wolf for a matter of a few months, and keeping secrets was
second nature to him. What else did she not know that could get them all in
trouble? “What kind of disguises does he use?”

Donkenny scratched his
chin. “I remember that contract we took in the Landers Federation where he
snatched a corporate executive right out of a cocktail party. That put an end
to the conflict real quick.”

Bartonelli snickered.
“Yeah, the one where he got all gussied up like…” Her eyes widened. “Oh, shit,
like an expensive hooker.”

A spike of adrenaline
shot through Fitz, igniting her combat systems and filling her with a jittery
energy. “Cinnamon Hot. Admiral Pettigrew’s escort.” She elaborated when the two
mercenaries gaped at her. “Tall, silver outfit, long black hair. Built like a
sex-bot.”

“That sounds like it
could be him,” Donkenny said.

Fitz started to
thought-click her comm, but remembered the assassin’s ability to monitor all
the frequencies. “Sergeant, find Lieutenant Pike. He should be in the
surveillance office. Have him instigate a Level One alert, but quietly. I don’t
want to tip off our target.”

Fitz opened her beaded
bag, checking that she could grab the tiny Cauldfield pistol easily. “I wish
this damn purse could hold the slug thrower.”

Donkenny stepped close
to her and reached under his cape, withdrawing an Acton Mk IV from a holster at
his back. Using his body to shield his action, he slipped it into her bag.
“I’ve served with Wolf too many years not to come prepared.”

The weight of a real
weapon against her waist reassured her. “We need to get eyes on Ms. Hot to make
sure it’s him. It would be unfortunate if we shot an innocent hooker.”

“Those two words don’t
seem to go together,” Ski remarked.

“Colonel Donkenny, you
take the left side of the room; I’ll check this side. If you see her…him, don’t
try to take him alone. Imagine you’re trying to take down Wolf, but enhanced
and without his scruples. One ping on your comm to let me know you’re still
looking. Ping me three times if you spot him, and I’ll home in on you.

“Doctor, you stay back,
but not too far. I’m not giving him time to do anything. I’m putting him on the
ground before he can pull a weapon. I’ll try to stun him, but because of the
symbiont, he won’t stay down long enough for me to pull his spike. Lethal force
may be necessary so that his wounds overwhelm the symbiont’s ability to heal
them and put him into a coma. I’ll need you to get him to medical and bring him
out of it. I guess we’re lucky he’s in disguise, so the public won’t know we’re
blowing away their new Triumvir.”

Fitz plunged into the
swarm of celebrants, her hand resting on the clasp of her purse, ready to pull
the weapon and fire in a single augmented motion. As she searched for silver,
she picked out the color everywhere, a silver jacket, dress, or cape, but not
the tall buxom form of the assassin. She found it easier to think of him that
way: as just another killer she had to take down. If she allowed herself to
think of her target as the man she loved, she might freeze when it came time to
pull the trigger—if only for a second. But a second would be all he’d need. She
hadn’t been a Lazzinair long enough to get over the fear of taking a slug in
the gut.

Where were the cats?
What good were they as advance scouts if you couldn’t stay in touch with them.
There had to be a better way to contact Jumper. She’d hoped his bond with
Faydra would provide the link she needed, but she’d heard nothing from the
pair.

The single ping on her
comm advised her that Donkenny’s luck had been no better than hers. She replied
with one hit.

At the rear of the hall,
the crowd thinned to knots of people clustered together trying to converse over
the babble of speechmaking and cheering. A few stragglers made a run on the
buffet tables, intent on getting first pickings before the ceremonies ended and
the stampede toward the food began.

A series of explosions
echoed through the hall. Fitz dropped into a crouch, hand diving into her bag
to grip the pistol, but then she remembered the fireworks display that signaled
the climax of the Emperor’s sermon. Ari strutted in the glow of the spotlight,
red hair gleaming.

Fitz cursed. The damn
fool had taken off her helmet. She might as well paint a target between her
eyes that said
shoot me here.

The Emperor’s voice
rolled over the assembled crowd, extolling her new vision of the Empire,
promising prosperity, wealth, and all those bright tomorrows that only
politicians seemed able to glimpse. And her audience followed her every stepped
of the way to that future. Fitz tuned out the propaganda and returned to the
hunt.

“Boss Lady, the buffet
table to the right of the west entrance.”
Then the cat’s
presence disappeared from her mind before she could order him to get clear.

She veered toward the
exit, halting behind a group of business types arguing the virtues of the
newest model aircar. As she pretended to listen to their chatter, she scanned
around. No silver, but she did spot a fat man in admiral’s whites.

Pettigrew stood not far
from the exit, shifting his weight from foot to foot, crossing his arms over
his chest, then uncrossing them. He looked to his right, then away. His
nervousness exposed his part in the plan. When he glanced to the side this
time, she followed his gaze.

Silver stood at the
buffet table, selecting pastries to fill a plate as he chatted with a man whose
gaze seemed incapable of rising higher than the bosom in front of him.

Fitz needed to be
closer to make a positive identification. Between the table and the wall, a
walkway allowed servants to replenish the rapidly disappearing food. Guards at
parade rest held station at intervals along the wall. As she slipped behind the
table, she tapped the breastplate of the first soldier and hand signed:
Alert.
Silence.
She picked up a plate and eased along, appearing to study the
offered fare, until she closed to within two meters of the tall figure.

The silver jump suit
bore a high beaded collar, hiding the laryngeal prominence. The shoulders were
too wide for a woman, not that any man would notice with such an ample pair of
breasts staring him in the face. The hips were too narrow, the waist not curvy
enough and, where the metallic fabric clung to the arms and thighs, muscle
bulged. Fitz had no doubt that a male body hid beneath that outfit, but was it
Wolf—or rather, the man who had stolen his body?

Feigning interest in a
tray of chocolate truffles farther down the line, Fitz eased closer. The man
held his head down, a fall of midnight hair covering half of his face. From
what she could see of it, makeup had been skillfully applied to alter the
appearance of his bone structure, but that couldn’t fool her facial recognition
program.

Fitz reached for a
truffle, but slender silver-tipped fingers grasped the confection first. Her
head snapped up and found eyes as dark brown as the chocolate studying her. Red
lips smiled at her above a cleft chin so familiar. Her tongue knew the shape of
that dimple, even in the dark. Overlaying an image of Wolf on the face before
her, her inhead display flashed a message: match confirmed. It hadn’t been
necessary. She knew.

Fitz pinged her comm
three times.

Lacking the
sophisticated tracking equipment she had inside her head, Donkenny wouldn’t be
able to locate her immediately. For now, she was on her own. Her combat systems
analyzed her target and shunted all the information onto her inhead.

The bulge in the bag
over his shoulder no doubt represented a pistol, likely a Cauldfield, since it
didn’t register on scans. Almost certainly that outfit hid body armor,
requiring the kill setting on the Acton to punch through it. The smaller pistol
in her bag wouldn’t do it without chancing a head shot. And she wondered if a
Lazzinair could survive that. Thank Hansue for Donkenny’s paranoia.

All this flashed
through her brain in the time it took the assassin’s red lips to pull back into
a smile. “You look particularly stunning tonight, Gray Eyes.” He set the plate
down and backed away, moving with the stiff posture of a predator who’s
discovered an interloper in his territory.