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The Gente led her up to the next deck and along a long featureless gray corridor.

“Where are the rest of my crew?” Wren said.

“We only captured three females,” he said.

Her heart plummeted to her feet. “What about the Apexians?”

“Ah, the deceitful aliens who tried to take you from us. The ones who were supposed to come to your rescue.” His laugh was low and full of darkness. “They’re dead.”

She spun around and glared up at him. “Don’t lie! They’re not dead.”

He growled and backed her against the wall, keeping the gun pressed to her side. “They slaughtered several of my men. They deserved to die.” He whacked an access panel, and the door beside Wren opened. “Get inside.”

She hurried away, glad she was no longer breathing in Gente stench. She froze, and her pulse raced. This was someone’s personal quarters. She backed up and slammed against his chest.

“This is your home for now,” he said.

Wren turned and stepped away. “You can’t have me. You don’t even know I’m safe to be with. Humans carry disease.”

He kept the gun in one hand as he traced a finger across her face. “Your blood profile was sent through to us. I know all about you, Wren Tulloch. You’re healthy. You’ll give me a child if I fuck you enough.”

She swallowed her fear. “I don’t believe my friends are dead. And even if you hurt them, the others will follow. You won’t get away with this.”

“Let me show you how successful our campaign was.” He strode to a panel on the wall and opened a video display. He pressed an image.

Wren stepped forward, her eyes wide as she witnessed the vicious fight between Striker, Rexx, and Blaze. They’d been overwhelmed by Gente using their shielding tech to sneak up on them. Gunfire rang out, and bodies fell.

Her breath vanished as she watched Striker surrounded by two Gente. He fought back, taking one down, but the other fighter got him. The video image faded.

She turned to the Gente. “What did you do with him?”

“He’s dead in the dirt where we abandoned him. Why does it matter to you?”

Fire burned inside Wren. Striker wasn’t dead. She’d know if he was lost to her. She struck out with a fist, landing a blow squarely in the Gente’s throat.

He choked and gagged, one hand going to his throat as he raised the gun.

Wren kicked the gun out of his hand and threw herself at him, raining blows on his torso. Her ribs protested as she fought, but she wasn’t backing down. She slammed her knee in between the Gente’s legs, backed up and smashed the flat of her foot against his chest.

He slammed against the wall with a pained grunt.

She raced for the fallen gun. Her fingers brushed it when the Gente tackled her to the ground and pinned her beneath him, squashing her face to the floor.

Wren’s bones creaked, and her lungs burned as she bucked and writhed to get him off her. She slammed back with her hips, giving herself enough room to flip over. She jammed her feet either side of the Gente’s hips and used her body weight to tip him off her.

She tried to scramble away, but his fingers curled around her bicep, his grip punishingly tight.

Wren whacked the flat of her free hand into his nose.

He growled and smashed his fist into the side of her head.

Her neck cracked back, and her vision dotted black for a few seconds. Wren bit his hand until he roared in pain and released her.

She half-fell, half-threw herself off him, reaching for the gun again.

His foot crunched on the back of her head. “Enough!”

She was holding the gun but couldn’t get the right angle to shoot.