Born of Fire

Good.

Syn watched the Partini closely as the alien lunged for him. He caught the alien’s wrist before the knife could make contact with his skin.

The Partini tried to pull loose, but Syn held fast with one hand. “Tell me?” he asked snidely, “What smells like shit and screams like a girl?”

He shot the Partini in the knee.

The Partini screamed like a woman meeting her long-lost best friend as he crumpled to the street, his poisoned knife falling on the concrete with a metallic clink.

Syn kicked the knife into the darkness, out of the assassin’s reach. “That’s right. You.”

The Partini glared at him. “A blaster against a knife isn’t fair.”

He approached him slowly. “No shit . . . and so goes my incentive to fight fairly. You want fair, play with kids. You wanna come at me, make out a will.”

Looking down at the gaping wound in the Partini’s leg, he arched his brow at the scaly bone that protruded. “I never knew Partinie had articulated bones. Very interesting. I wonder what the rest of your skeleton looks like.”

Fear flickered deep in the alien’s eyes.

Syn slid the plate back on his blaster and checked the charge level. Satisfied it would fire several more rounds, he released the plate and let it snap loudly back into place. That should make them piss their pants.

Those who were still alive anyway. The others had already done that.

He stared coldly at the assassins. “I suggest you recant your contract on me first thing after you have your knee tended. The next time you come at me, the authorities will have to run a DNA scan to identify your remains.”

The Partini glared at him with hatred, but Syn recognized the fear that underlay the hate. He’d made his point. These assassins would never again bother him.

Satisfied, he glanced back at the human who was still whimpering. The man had managed to tie a ragged scarf around his injured hand and watched him as if he expected Syn to kill them.

He probably should, but he wasn’t quite that cold-blooded.

At least not tonight.

“There’s a hospital two blocks down on your right. I suggest you use it.” He left them to tend their injuries.

No good deed goes unpunished.

No doubt he’d live to regret his mercy tonight as he regretted any time he’d ever been nice to someone. It always came back to bite him on the ass.

So be it.

Tired of the endless wave of assassins and tracers who forever sought him, he headed to the landing bay down the street and climbed aboard his sleek, black fighter, which still had burn marks on the paint from his earlier attack. With any luck, he just might make it through the next few hours without someone else trying to kill him.

He doubted it.

“Of all the time to run out of whisky . . .” Figured his flask would be empty.

But one thing stood certain, the next time someone came at him, he wasn’t going to be as nice. He was tired of being blamed for crimes he hadn’t committed—tired of fighting for a life that didn’t seem worth the effort.

Basically, he was just tired, period.

Yeah, well, it’s penance for all the crimes you did commit and got away with.

That was always a possibility.

Of course, his worst crime had been surviving a life that should have killed him before he learned to walk . . .

You think you’re so special, don’t you? You and those arrogant eyes just like your mother’s. But you’re nothing, boy. You’re from my genes, cut from the same cloth as me. Just. Like. Me. So don’t be thinking you’re better cause you’re not. We’re shit and that’s all we’ll ever be. At least I know how to make money. You can’t even take a hit without crying like your sister. Worthless bastard.

Syn could still see the look of hatred on his father’s face. Feel the blow of his fist whenever Syn made the mistake of getting too close to him.

Yeah, the old fart was right. In the end, he was worthless.

Not wanting to go there, he checked his coordinates.

It didn’t take long to reach his nearby home planet of Kildara. Unfortunately, the midafternoon sun hung high on his city, its bright, glaring rays making his light-sensitive Ritadarion eyes water in protest.

He hated the day, the heat, the noise—the light that hid none of the street’s ugliness.

Even though he lived in the best district of Broma, all he had to do was travel three blocks over and he’d see enough homeless, impoverished people to twist his stomach raw. He’d done his best to forget his past, but it just didn’t seem possible. Every time he thought he’d managed to bury that shit so deep it could never rise up, something or someone always brought it back to him with sharp, crisp brutality.

Disgusted, he entered his oversized apartment. He had too many other problems to deal with and he was really too tired to think.