Chapter Four
Plopping her bag at her feet, Kyra leans forward, examining the ships boarded. A few private family ships, a couple of large transports and a few miscellaneous ones.
"Ya lookin' for somethin'?"
Kyra faces the speaker, a greasy mechanic. "A ship."
The man snorts. "Good one, lady. Anythin' special?"
"Preferably one leaving today," Kyra answers, trying to appear casual.
"Nothin' takin' passangers 'cept a fellow who stopped for fuelin'," the mechanic offers, a rare kindness.
"What's the name?"
"Jack Sykes. Ship's name is Opaline," the mechanic told her, "old ship, but sturdy. Bit like my wife." He laughs, too high and too loud for his appearance.
Kyra manages a smile and small chuckle. "Sounds good. Which station's it docked in?"
"Sector 5B 223," the mechanic answers, "just down the way." He jerks his head behind him.
"Thanks," Kyra says graciously, picking up his bag.
"Sure," the mechanic says back and resumes looking up at the listing.
She gives the man a short wave before following his directions. The sector is busy, throngs of people going in and out. In a way, this soothes her; she's less likely to be noticed.
Kyra stops in front of 223, looking up at the ship. The mechanic is right, she thinks with interest. It's one of those old ships with thousands of nooks and crannies for hiding goods. She doesn't do much of that kind of work, but it often coincides with her jobs.
A small screen at the dock tells her that the owner, Mr. Sykes, is in the ship. She steps forward, peering into the dark entrance. Funny, she wonders why the owner hasn't bothered to turn any ramp lights or door lights.
Shrugging her shoulders back, Kyra tries to shift herself into a kinder, softer persona. Over the years, she has learned to subtly morph her body language and words to fit into a person's expectations.
"Hello?" she calls out into the obscurity, taking a careful step.
No one responds, and she thinks that the docking computer is wrong. Maybe he forgot to change his status. Or maybe he can't hear her from outside.
"Mr. Sykes?" Another step and she's hovering in the doorway.
Again no one answers. Impetuously, she decides to walk in anyway and look around. If she finds him or he finds her, she can explain easily enough, and this gives her an unobstructed chance to explore Opaline.
It's too dark, she notes. Inside the ship, it seems like any light has been extinguished.
Something isn't right. The thought slams into her and every instinct in her body rebels as she takes another step into the darkness.
"Hello?" Her inquiry is too soft and quiet this time, like her voice doesn't want to be found. Spinning on her heel, Kyra prepares to bolt, ready to escape out the door.
A shadow snaps out from the dim, and with a loud bang, shuts the door, enclosing them in utter darkness.
"Wasn't sure if the mechanic would actually find you."
She knows the voice like her own. He found her. Again.
His stupid pseudonym, Jack Sykes, is a mockery of her, she realizes with a sickening lurch in her stomach. He set out the simplest of all traps, and she practically handed herself to him on a silver platter.
Kyra's heart smashes against her chest deafeningly. Her eyes move wildly, struggling for even a sliver of light. She can hear him moving closer, a soft swish.
Shit, shit, shit. Why didn't she listen to her instincts the moment she stepped into the ship?
"Scared him shitless, I thought he'd pass out," he chuckles, "guess I shoulda paid him for his good work."
Blindly backing up, Kyra feels her bag slip from her shoulder and fall to the ground. He seems to follow her motion, because his massive hand grabs her bicep, curling in an iron grip.
"How'd you find me?" She manages, hating how weak her voice sounds. She's better and stronger than that.
"Easy," he says with another rumble. "Your pilot's messy. Leaves tracks when she don't have to."
Kyra refuses to rise to the taunt, letting it glide by. She edges her foot forward, trying to feel her surroundings. Her hands roam over the wall behind her. She finds nothing useful and her foot only collides into his bigger one.
He tugs her forward, hard enough for her body to lurch and tumble. She hisses at the sharp pain in her shoulder from the motion, and she rears back, wildly punching the dark in front of her.
If she aimed anywhere near him, he artfully dodged her fist. He laughs as she stumbles a little.
A hot, angry flush unfurls itself up her neck and into her cheeks. She is trapped and all she can do is fumble around like a pathetic toddler while he stands there, mocking.
"Cute," he comments, the mirth tangible in his voice. "You're not afraid, are you Jack?"
He's behind her now and his breath on the base of her neck. Her muscles tense and she turns her head, staring hard into the dark. She desperately wishes she could see, but nothing appears, just more darkness.
"Of course not," he answers for her. "Mercs're afraid of nothing. Ain't that right?"
He is in front of her again and this constant shifting is disorienting, unnerving. Her hand moves out to hit him but all she catches is air.
All of the sudden, a warm finger traces a line on her neck, and the shock makes her gasp and jump. She reaches up to grab his hand, but instead slaps her neck.
Under her palm, she feels a raised thin line. A line she knows is white as snow and trails five centimeters at an angle along her jugular. "Don't," she rasps, her hand still covering the scar.
"I have to ask," he says casually, "why aren't you with your crew? They're leaving soon."
She doesn't answer, just stands stoically with her hand on her neck, a useless shield. The wall digs into her spine and she is hit with an appalling sense of déjà vu.
She stares into the impenetrable darkness, trying to catch a glimpse of liquid silver and a shifting shadow.
"I told you, Jack, you started this," his voice is too close, "why don't you finish it?"
Gritting her teeth against the drowning sense of hopelessness, Kyra tries to think of any escape. "Why're you doing this, R—"
She cuts herself from saying his name to his face. She won't give him that crumb of satisfaction.
But he knows she won't, and she can practically feel the smirk forming on his lips. "Now that was interesting."
Kyra's heart picks up again. It's frustrating how badly she needs a slice of hope—a ray of sunshine. Literally.
There's a flashlight in the bag, she remembers and hope sparks in her mind.
It's near her, she thinks and concentrates on moving her toe a bit, feeling for a soft material that yields under shoe.
"Do I scare you, Jack? That why?" He asks, now stepping closer again.
"No," Kyra replies coolly, her foot finally touching her bag. He must be looking at her and doesn't notice her foot, she thinks with relief.
"Then say it," he demands, his face close to hers.
Kyra braces herself against the wall. "Riddick," she breathes and then her arm shoots out, clipping his nose hard enough to break. A kick to his solar plexus makes him stumble.
Falling to the ground, Kyra kicks again, jamming her foot in what feels like his neck. She rips her bag open and yanks everything out until she finds the wonderful feel of a long, plastic cylinder.
The flashlight.
Pressing the small switch, it flickers on, an explosion of light. She aims it at his face, straight into his molten silver eyes. He groans in pain, and she scrambles to her feet.
She has seconds, at most, before he regains his composure and kills her.
With her the flashlight in her white-knuckled hand, Kyra finds a stray pipe on the ground. She swings it hard enough that he collapses in a heap.
Her breath is coming in harsh pants, and Kyra looks down at his closed eyes and the laceration on his scalp that oozes blood.
She needs to secure him tightly. Then she can get her money. And her revenge.