“Talk or die.” Grif slammed his opponent’s back against the alley wall.
Red dust settled on their bare skin like splashes of blood. He cinched the hangman’s knot tighter against the male’s trachea and stepped back to scan the area.
His teammate Ryker should have been back with the weapon by now.
“Tell me what I need to know and there’ll be no unnecessary suffering. Otherwise,” Grif gripped the rope at the giant’s neck and continued with his usual script, “you won’t like what happens next.”
He’d laid out the threat so many times, he didn’t need to think about it anymore. After two planetary rotations in Dragath25’s prison mines, his skills as an interrogator and a killer were honed to brutal perfection.
This particular mission was supposed to have been a quick, uncomplicated grab and go. Enter 223’s gang territory without detection, steal the weapon, and depart without a trace. But, of course, it wasn’t working out like that. An all too familiar outcome on Dragath25.
With a flick of his wrist, Grif loosened the knot at the male’s throat. Not much. Just enough to allow for a small sip of air. “You get one chance. Where’s my crewmate?”
“Stop right there.” An unfamiliar voice sounded from behind.
Grif swiveled, his ax already raised—only to find empty air.
Not magic. Just the burned-out patchwork of twisted steel that served as the gang’s shelter distorting the sound, making it appear the speaker was close by, even though no one was in sight.
He scanned the perimeter. Had to be coming from one alley over on the other side of the building.
His captive bucked, attempting to call for help.
“Not happening.” Grif slammed his fist into the giant’s chin. The male’s eyes rolled back. Lights out.
Grif retrieved his rope.
No way was he leaving without it. It was probably his one and only favorite thing about this damn planet. The commander’s female, Ava, had discovered a plant that was shit for eating, but had silklike fibers ideal for making blankets, clothes, shoes, and—when weaved together—the strongest and softest rope he’d ever held. Braided and plaited it worked well as a lash. Twisted together it formed a nearly unbreakable cord.
Feeling the weight of it in his palms had been like coming home.
When he’d been a boy, rope had been a form of pain and torture, a means of stealing his control. He’d reclaimed it as he grew into a man, taking the instrument that had been used against him and turning it into his greatest strength.
His favorite strand was coiled at his hip before his unconscious captive even hit the ground.
Using his stealth training, he pushed his size thirteen boot off the fucker’s shoulder and sprang from one side of the narrow alley wall to the other until he’d leapt onto the roof.
For a big guy himself, he could be amazingly quiet. A neat trick he’d also learned too young.
Dropping to his belly, Grif slithered forward. The pitiful encampment, an impromptu-looking mess of slapped-together hovels, spread out before him. It appeared like a small blemish on an otherwise endless spread of undulating red sand and lifeless desert, cooked every rotation by the two bloodred suns perched high in the sky.
Most of the campsite was empty. He and Ryker had waited to make their move until the majority of inhabitants headed out to rampage, but they’d known there would be stragglers left behind to cause problems.
If you waited until there was no chance of a threat on Dragath25, you’d be waiting until you were dead.
He made it to the far side of the roof.
About ten lengths down the alley, two burly men stood with their backs angled toward him. They shouted at something, their arms gesturing wildly.
The hulking men wore twisted rags around their waists. One of the shouters was bald. The other rocked a wild, tangled mess of braids. Both were covered in dirt and bruises and weighed down by the same low-tech weapons common to Dragath25: primitive homemade shovels, daggers, and axes.
Nothing he couldn’t handle if it came to that.
Then the bald guy shifted and Grif saw the reason for the shouting.
Definitely not Ryker. The target of their aggression was a furry lump that barely reached the men’s shoulders.
Not an animal he’d seen before, but he was far from an expert on Dragath25 fauna. A lot above ground was still unfamiliar—and disturbing as hells.
Still, dwarfed between the muscled men, the furball appeared pretty harmless.
The good news for Grif: this was not his problem. The bad news: he still had