“You always did hit hard,” she said.
“And you were always quick,” Fairchild replied. “But you’re slowing down. This life of luxury has made you soft.”
Rook snarled, and attacked, but it was only a feint. A second thrust came an instant later, and this time the edge of the blade nicked Fairchild’s cheek just below her left eye.
Slash. Dodge. Thrust. Block. Feint.
Circle.
“You know,” Rook said, starting to breathe heavy. “When I told Slayn about you, he wanted to try and bring you over to our side. I told him it would never work. You’re too committed to the Guild. And Bryce. And Daddy Dane.”
The mention of her dead teammates sent a surge of energy through Fairchild’s body. Rook must have mistaken it for a lack of focus, because she chose that moment to make her move, pouncing across the table, blade thrusting like a fang.
But Fairchild’s focus was sharper than ever.
She twisted out of the way at the last moment, catching Rook’s arm and swinging her own body up and around to trap the woman’s head between her thighs. It was the same move she had used against Nash in the octagon, and it worked even better now. The momentum sent them tumbling onto the next slab over, and Fairchild landed on top, straddling her enemy’s neck and chest. Her bare thighs were slick with sweat, and the last of Dutton’s seed was still leaking out of her, dripping onto her opponent’s skin. She squeezed her legs together hard.
Rook’s face darkened. She tried to stab Fairchild from behind, but Fairchild caught her wrist. That left one hand free to pummel Rook’s face, but she didn’t know if she’d be able to beat her unconscious before she broke free. Already the woman was starting to arch and buck.
“Fairchild!”
It was Reece, shouting from the doorway. He had a rifle in one hand, confiscated from a fallen guard. In the other, he held apistol. As soon as Fairchild looked in his direction, he pitched the smaller weapon in her direction.
She caught it, jammed the barrel against Rook’s forehead, and fired.
In the Guild, she’d been taught to double-tap her enemies whenever possible. Two rounds to the dome, just to make sure. She gave Rook three for good measure.
One for Bryce. One for Dane.
And one for herself.
Rook’s head came apart like a burst melon, staining Fairchild’s crotch with gore. The woman’s body went limp beneath her. Dead.
Fairchild didn’t waste any time gloating. She dismounted the corpse and rushed to the door where Reece was waiting with a second pistol for her. She took it.
“Good work,” he said.
“Where’s Slayn?”
“Don’t know. Let’s find him.”
***
It took all of ten minutes to clear the ship. Dutton and Nash did the bulk of the killing, cutting down Slayn’s men with their own weapons, looting guns off the dead whenever they ran out of ammo. Reece and Fairchild performed cleanup duty, finishing off the wounded and murdering the occasional hider. When it was all over, the four Mercs regrouped on the ship’s bridge.
There was no sign of Slayn.
Nash shoved the bloody remains of the pilot aside and dropped his own perfect ass into the seat. A few taps on the control board brought up a scanner image.
“There,” he said, pointing.
Fairchild saw it. A tiny speck shooting away from the ship at high speed.
“Escape pod,” she said.
Nash started to swing the ship around to give chase, but it was already too late. A second later, the speck disappeared.
Slayn had made the jump to hyperspace.
