I tilt my head. “No?”
“You’re going back to Novaria Prime.”
I nearly choke on my cigar.
“What? Are you punishing me for being too effective again?”
Dowron doesn’t flinch. “We need someone for a high-profile witness protection assignment. The Nine’s involved. It’s political.”
My claws curl involuntarily. “Babysitting?” I snarl. “You want me to babysit some fragile meat sack who saw something they shouldn’t have? I didn’t survive four tours, three mutinies, and one orbital bombardment to be some nanny with a plasma rifle!”
“She’s a critical asset?—”
“She’s a civilian.”
“She’s a target.”
I pace, every step cracking the blackened soil beneath me. “Dowron, you send me back to Novaria and I will personally replace your spine with a collapsible chair.”
“Voltar—”
“I have a reputation!”
“You have a record.”
He flicks his fingers. The holo shifts.
A figure appears—full body, paused mid-movement. Human female. Small frame. Red hair coiled like fire. Bright green eyes that don’t look scared so much as annoyed—like she’s mad the world dared inconvenience her.
“Her name’s Sable Jackson,” Dowron says.
I stop mid-rant.
I don’t know why, but something about the image catches in my chest.
She’s… sharp. In every sense. Delicate-looking, sure, but there’s steel in her shoulders, defiance in the way she’s turned slightly away from the camera like it caught her on the offensive. Even frozen in pixels, she looks like she’s trying to get back to business.
I suck in a slow drag of cigar.
“She’s a hair stylist,” Dowron adds, like that’ll dissuade me.
I exhale a ribbon of blue smoke.
“She got herself into this,” I murmur.
“She saw one of Otto’s men execute a debtor in broad daylight. She refused protection.”
“Ballsy.”
“Idiotic.”
I chuckle. “My favorite combo.”
I stare at her holo longer than I mean to.
Dowron shifts awkwardly. “So?”
I roll the cigar between my fingers, watching the ember dance.
