She lay on the platform and listened to the transports leave. She didn’t move, didn’t breath, her body freezing, and her fingers turning blue.
If she lost a finger…
She counted her own heartbeats until she ran out of patience for counting.
It seemed like a long time, but it probably really wasn’t that long, she finally convinced herself it was save to up and get out of there.
She got what she needed. She hoped, anyway. There was a story here, and she was determined to find it. Frozen fingers be damned.
She pushed herself up from the plasteele, palms flat against the cold deck, finally taking a breath.
Hands came from behind.
One clamped over her mouth. One locked her left arm against her body. She felt the press of metal implants against her cheek — low-grade, rough-edged, the kind that came from places that didn't ask questions — and the breath of someone who had been waiting.
Waiting. Drinking. And looking for a target.
Damn.
Damn.
Damn!
"What're you doin' out here all alone?" he said softly, and the softness was worse than shouting.
Her blaster was on her right hip, locked. She needed her left hand free. She didn't have her left hand free. She tried spinning, tried pulling, felt his grip adjust and tighten. He knew how to hold someone. He'd done this before.
Stop thinking about that. Think about what you have.
She had her right arm, mostly. She swung it back hard and low.
He folded.
Not enough.
His grip broke just slightly and she wrenched away and almost made it two steps before he caught her again — grabbed her arm, swung her around like she weighed nothing.
She hit the container with the full momentum behind her. Metal clattered against the ground.
The breath left her body.
The dock tilted.
She grabbed the container edge and told herself she was not going to pass out on a loading dock in wet clothes and that was absolutely final.
She reached for the weapon she carried.
It was gone.
She looked at her attacker.
He had her blaster.
She watched him raise it.
Everything slowed down.
Breathe.
