Hellsky (Hunter-Killer #3)

Chapter 19 - Poison

Brackenshaw was tired and angry, and that was not a good combination.

She sipped at a glass of throat-burning shiner, hoping that the alcohol might torch away some of the frustration that boiled away inside her, but so far she hadn't had much luck.

The bar was quiet right now – the closest little dive to Stamm Basin's armoured walls – filled with a smattering of other off duty personnel. There were a few scouts, a squad of militiamen and even a group of Hunter-Killer pilots in one corner playing cards with lukewarm enthusiasm. Warm orange yellow lights burbled in the corners, and a skinny young man behind the bar polished metal tankards, whistling quietly to himself and keeping his eyes down.

Since the incident, everyone was on edge. For all she knew this might be the last quiet drink she would have for a very long time.

So she sipped, and she seethed.

Upon returning with the body of the saboteur, she'd been informed that the man she'd shot was one Private Nallas Parsher – a trooper of the line in the Scout Cadre with a spotless record and three years of violent service. She'd never met him personally, but his record was like a polished gemstone, just the kind of person she would have wanted to serve with.

That made her gut churn with rage. How could someone go from that, to a murdering extremist who might just have re-started the war?

Her fingers tapped irritably against the tabletop as she tried to make sense of it. The Blackwaters were already looking into Parsher's background, his known associates, his squad mates – Everflowing, they would probably be checking out anyone who'd breathed the same air as the guy.

But for some reason that didn't make her feel better.

The bomb that had blown up half the Liaison plateau was beyond the skill of someone like Parsher to make. That meant there were well-connected people somewhere in Brekka spoiling for a fight, and with enough money, charisma or plain old power to influence a soldier with a fire to burn. She wondered how many Parshers there might be hiding under her nose.

What would it take for her to get tipped back into that mindset? Not so long ago she'd have relished the prospect of blowing up a bunch of Scraegans. Let 'em come. Let war take its course and let the winners write the history books.

But she'd seen a lot in the short years since then. She'd seen a terrible new foe rise up out of the sands of Rychter, one bad enough to get human and Scraegan to put their differences aside. Then she'd fought alongside the creatures that for her whole life had been Brekka's bitterest enemies. It had taken some getting used to, but she got there in the end.

"Drown me," she muttered and swallowed the last of her shiner, leaning back and trying to lose herself in the pleasant fuzz of the potent spirit.

She didn't get much time to enjoy it.

"Lieutenant Brackenshaw?"

Letting out a weary sigh, she opened her eyes and looked up at the sound of the unfamiliar voice, her jaw clenching tight. She wasn't in the mood for small talk or any further grilling from her higher-ups about what happened. Truth be told she didn't really know what she was in the mood for. She felt like punching something.

Walking crisply across the bar towards her was another woman in an unmarked beige fatigues. Brackenshaw's brow furrowed in a suspicious frown. She didn't recognise the woman from the branches of Brekka's military, and she didn't have any identifying bars of rank. She did, however, have a sidearm holstered at her hip, and two fresh glasses of shiner in her hands.

Brackenshaw straightened in her seat to examine the newcomer. She looked a little older, with heavily tanned skin and short dark hair clipped just below her ears. Bright blue eyes shone as she gestured to the seat opposite.