Supremacy's Outlaw: A Space Opera Thriller Series (Insurgency Saga Book 3) by T.E. Bakutis (top 100 books of all time checklist .TXT) 📗

Bharat hadn’t considered, some course of action he just couldn’t see. He knew from past experience that the best way to figure out what he’d missed was to go back over everything he hadn’t, so he’d start at the beginning of it all. At the beginning of the grand plan he’d created with Fatima, then locked away inside his PBA until she said the three-word phrase that unlocked it.

And he’d find some way to fix everything he’d screwed up.

10: Holo

THREE MONTHS EARLIER

Sitting across from Bharat in a cramped booth in a cramped nightclub, wearing a nice suit over concealed flexsteel body armor, Jaxon Cole looked like just another rich asshole in a club full of rich assholes. Yet their contact continued to make them wait. The Creed was the most prestigious nightclub in Star’s Landing, though “most prestigious,” in regard to Star’s Landing, was the equivalent of a participant trophy in grade school football. Ceto really was a shitty planet.

The Creed had been some sort of warehouse once, and its stark, straight lines remained, but whatever entrepreneur bought the place had added what they probably thought was “style.” The owners had added a second deck supported by metal poles, around which glowing streamers of purple and blue wound like mechanical ivy. Circular metal tables parked around the edges allowed people to drink and make out in near darkness amidst the club’s mind-throttling, repetitive electronic trash music.

The bar was backlit in light blue, with a bunch of top-shelf booze that wouldn’t even be found on the bottom shelf of a Phorcys club. A motley crowd danced and writhed in the center, where there were no tables, and others leaned against the railing on the second deck. The club was impossible to secure, and the sightlines were fucked. Bharat had hated it on sight.

The only positive Bharat could see was that he and Cole had acquired a private booth with only one obvious way in or out — the stairs leading to it. Bharat leaned back in the booth and kept his eyes on the painted windows on the second-floor wall. Wi-Vi would see right through those, and anyone hoping to get the drop on them would probably come from that direction.

It wouldn’t do to have their meeting with a Star’s Landing crime boss interrupted, and in Bharat’s experience, people who interrupted meetings generally came crashing through windows. As for the stairs, he trusted Cole to watch those. He’d trusted Cole to watch his back for almost four years now.

“Got ’em,” Cole murmured. “Finally.”

Bharat’s sensitive ears, enhanced by his Personal Brain Assistant and noise-filtering implants, picked up the rhythmic tapping of their contact’s narrow heels as they ascended the stairs. Each click was confident and unhurried, as were the heavier, flat footfalls that no doubt belonged to her bodyguard. Neither sounded like they cared they were an hour late, but given the background Bharat had on their contact, he suspected the late arrival was intentional. It was, simply put, a flex.

In regard to their contact, psych had been right about everything so far. The Supremacy’s infamous intelligence gatherers/psychoanalysts were very good at anticipating how people would act. In this case, Bharat was almost disappointed.

“Gentlemen.” Elena Ryke, Star’s Landing crime boss extraordinaire, paused at the end of their small booth, hands clasped behind her back. “I trust you’ve not been waiting long?” The club lights lit her pale skin alternately blue and pink.

Though Ryke had her dark hair bound up in a rather impressive headdress consisting of needles, tiny skulls, and ribbon, she wore a revealing green dress that clung to her languid curves. The outfit looked entirely impractical for any sort of wet work. Then again, everything psych had on Ryke said she preferred to do her wet work in private, with sharp instruments, with people who were heavily restrained.

Bharat didn’t particularly care what got Ryke angry, or what got her off, but he hoped the crime boss’s rumored flair for the sadistic wouldn’t complicate what was, at its core, a simple transaction. Senator Tarack had information Ryke could use to bend Ceto’s politicians to her will, and Ryke had the money to buy it. Any crime boss would make that deal.

Cole scooted over in the booth to make room. Bharat could have scooted over as well, but he didn’t. That was the plan.

“Sasha,” Ryke said, “be a dear and watch those stairs, would you? These gentlemen and I have business.”

Ryke settled in beside Cole, closer than he probably liked. She smiled at Bharat like the predator she was, then frowned past Bharat. “Sasha?” Her bodyguard was still there.

“Yes, ma’am.” Ryke’s light-skinned bodyguard — Sasha — inclined her head, but didn’t step away. “Are you absolutely certain you don’t want me to stay?” Like Ryke, Sasha wore a shimmery dress, red, though Bharat suspected Sasha could rip the skirt off and have freedom of movement. Sasha also wore flats.

Ryke tsked and waved one hand. “Your concern is adorable, but you’re questioning my orders. I’ll have to punish you later.” After a long moment, she smiled Sasha’s way. “Oh, don’t make that face. We’ll both enjoy it.”

Bharat didn’t miss the way Sasha’s wary eyes lingered on him and Cole. This woman hated the idea of leaving her employer alone with two Advanced commandos. Bharat wouldn’t like that either, but it wasn’t like Senator Tarack ever gave him a say in the matter. He empathized with people who worked for sociopaths.

“Yes, ma’am,” Sasha said again. She backed away, reluctantly, and strode off.

Bharat didn’t watch her go, but he listened. He suspected Sasha would head down the stairs leading to this very private booth, then take up position at the bottom. That was what he