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 no clue where Ryker was. Time to return to the giant and get some answers. A few minutes in kuri bondage and the gang member should be more than ready to talk.
Losing his teammate was no way for Grif to prove to the commander he was worthy of greater responsibility.
It had surprised Grif to hear their leader was considering ceding control. He didn’t understand why someone in charge would want to give it up, especially to spend more time with his female. Still, Grif was happy for the guy. The commander had risked everything to help them escape the prison mines, he deserved to do what he wanted.
Making it to the surface had changed everything. Sure, the shell of the prison planet was still a harsh, brutal place, rife with massive animal predators and gangs of roving rapists and murderers. Sure, the threat of the Council and its desire to eradicate their entire crew still loomed large.
But they’d claimed a solid patch of land to serve as the settlement and begun to not just survive, but live. They’d reinforced the perimeter, begun to build shelters of stone and red clay, dug trenches to carry water from the springs to the homes, and filled the caves with scavenged supplies. They were scraping and clawing to turn Dragath25’s wasteland into a thriving community.
Grif intended to do whatever it took to protect it.
He shoved back on his elbows, taking one last glance at the scene below.
Baldy raised his shovel higher, as if about to take a swing.
The creature jerked back, the fur parted and…a hand snaked out, palm up and out as if warding off an attack.
A delicate, small hand. With five long, thin fingers and short, ragged nails.
Grif’s understanding shifted. Along with his priorities.
Not an animal, after all. A human. A female. Covered from head to toe in a thick animal pelt that hid every inch of her.
That camouflage wouldn’t save her here.
Gripping the roof edge, he flipped over and, legs dangling, lowered himself until he dropped to the dirt without a sound. He slid into a low crouch.
Ryker always gave him shit about having a White Knight complex, but the judgmental bastard wasn’t here now.
Even if he were, it wouldn’t change things for Grif. There were two kinds of people in the world. Those he needed to rescue and those they needed rescuing from. The categories were simple, uncomplicated, and immutable.
He slunk closer.
“Look, cunt. We told you—”
Rising like a cresting wave, Grif slammed his ax into the back of the man’s head. The bully with the braids folded without another sound.
“What the fuck?” Whirling, the other guard swung his weapon.
Not fast enough. Grif’s rope lashed out, striking the bald man’s wrist. The shovel flew from his hands. Grif took advantage, connecting the flat of his ax with the male’s jaw. The gang-mate crumpled.
Grif’s attention snapped to the covered female.
She stumbled back, that small, delicate hand still up and out. Ragged nails, but clean. Small cuts on her fingers. The skin on the back of her hand appeared more golden that any he’d seen before. He chalked it up to a strange trick of the light.
“It’s okay.” He was close enough now to see narrow eye slits and, beneath them the hint of long, dark lashes and a sliver of blue eyes as bright as an iridescent solar flare. Pretty.
Her palm slapped the air to ward him off.
An optimistic effort. She was so tiny, the top of her head barely reached his chest.
“Don’t be afraid.” He stepped over the downed gang-mate. “You’re safe. But we can’t stay here.”
There wasn’t a lot of time for planning or questions. Those would have to come later. Once he’d located Ryker and they’d completed their mission. Plus, his expertise with females leaned more toward the initial, lighthearted banter that reeled them in and the hard, rough fucking that kept them beneath him through the night. Anything more had been ground out of him long ago.
He took another step closer. “I’m one of the good guys.”
No answer. No movement. Definitely no swoon of relief.
He offered up his best smile, replete with gleaming white teeth, square jaw, and bright green eyes that crinkled at the corners, care of his family’s Irish Old Earth ancestors. The whole package reminded him far too much of a face he despised, but females tended to have a different reaction. “Think of me as your friendly neighborhood rescue team of one.”
Still nothing.
He shifted his expression to sympathetic. “You’re scared. I get it, but this isn’t the time for hand-holding. You need to head to the largest cliff.” He gestured toward the highest set of towering jagged rocks. If she’d been resourceful enough to cover herself, he was confident she could make her way to the hideout while he searched for Ryker. “There’s a cave at the bottom. Hide there. My teammate and I will come for you.”
Not even a grunt of acknowledgment.
If not for the heavy rush of breath beneath the pelt, he might have been talking to a fur coat.
The helpless ones were always the worst.
“I don’t have time for this.” Old memories roughened his voice, cracking his façade. “You can’t stay here.” He reached for her, intending to give her a nudge in the right direction.
The ball of fluff and fur exploded, a small hand wrapping around his forearm as small, sharp needles sank into his flesh.