Below him, Vaath let out a soft snore, totally out of place for a male who’d just been assaulted. The little trall.
After he counted another ten, just to be sure, he lifted his hand cautiously. Yes, the bleeding had all but stopped now, which was good. The last thing he needed was to leave a trail of blood from the scene of the crime all the way to the female’s ship.
Shifting his grip, he checked Vaath’s pulse at the neck. It was strong and steady. Good. The kid would wake with a headache that would make a hangover feel like a gentle hug, but at least he’d wake up.
Raaze settled him against the wall. Chin on chest, legs splayed, the look of a guard stealing a nap. Then he stepped back.
He’d planned defensive drills for the team for tomorrow. Footwork and shoulder discipline. But now there wasn’t going to be a tomorrow.
Not for him. Not here. Not with these males?—
He cut the thought off and headed off down the corridor. He had places to be and trall to steal.
The store’s door wasn’t locked. He shook his head. Why would it be? Who the hells stole spare parts on a prison planet where there was nowhere to go? The sheer laziness of the administration was the only thing he actually respected.
Slipping inside, he let the door shut softly behind him.
The smell hit him as he extended his senses to make sure that he was alone in here. Machine oil and stale, recycled air and the sharp tang of mineral from the cold rock beneath his feet.
Draanth, would it kill them to get some heating down here to get rid of the mustiness? You’re gonna get a lung infection or something. There’s probably mould spores down here.
His eyesight adjusted, and all he could see was rows and rows of metal shelving, stacked high with components.
Before every match he’d ever played, he’d made sure to walk the pitch and analyze footage of his opponents, read how they moved and assessed what their weak points were. He was almost obsessive until he’d figured out the slow pivoter and the lazy defender, or the draantic who telegraphed left before he cut right. Then, when he was on the pitch, in seconds, he could tell exactly where a play would break.
But this time, there had been no walk of the pitch and nothing to analyze. He was in a place he’d never seen before, and suddenly he realized he had no draanthing idea what he was supposed to be looking for.
Everything on the nearest shelf was round. Or rectangular. Or round and rectangular with extra tubular bits attached to it. Some cylinders looked important. Some looked decorative. Some looked like they existed purely to make him feel stupid. Which, given his current situation, they probably were.
Draanth. He’d promised the pretty little female the part.
Worse than that… He’d staked his dignity on the part.
And now he stared at a wall of industrial nonsense and froze.
Well, this lot might as well be labeled in ancient Grakaanian for all the good it does you.
He shook his head and sighed. Fine.
If precision was out, then it would have to be brute force.
Stripping off his jacket, he winced as the movement tugged the cut on his arm. Blood seeped from the edges of the wound. Annoying, but not a big problem. He was spreading the jacket on the floor. He studied the shelves again and then got to work.
If he didn’t know which one was right, he’d have to take anything that looked even possibly like it might be what he needed.
The first shelf went fast. A heavy steel tube that might matter, followed by a handful of couplings, the only purpose might have been to join one bit of expensive nonsense to another. He had no idea. They both went in the jacket.
Moving on to the next shelf, he selected a coil of flexible piping and a box full of things that might have been fuses if he squinted hard and looked sideways. There were two components he couldn’t identify at all, but they had that look of something engineers got hard over.
He moved down the line like it was a drill.
Grab. Assess. Throw in the jacket. Move on.
His arm began to throb… A hot line of fire that flared every time he had to reach up high. Hissing between his teeth, he stopped long enough to tear the ruined sleeve from his shirt and wrap it tight around his forearm. He tied it off with his teeth and yanked the knot tight.
Good enough. It would have to do until he reached the ship.
By the time he finished, the jacket had become a lumpy sack of stolen metal. Tying the sleeves together, he tested the knot, then hefted it. It was heavy and awkward, but that wasn’t a problem. He was strong, and he was used to carrying things that fought him.
