“Jewelia, you go in through the back. Krill thinks there may be an escape tunnel, so check that out first. We don’t want her slipping past us. I’ll go in through the front and make my way to the office. If we avoid the Saletins we’ll be out of here in fifteen minutes,” Darrion Artenan said. He looked pointedly at Jewelia. “No killing anyone this time.”
Darrion chambered a round in his weapon and then holstered it. He reminded me of a cowboy from one of the 20th Century American westerns I had seen on my commpad a few years ago. Except, instead of leather, he wore luminescent red Terelian Dragonhide. And, rather than a revolver, the gun he carried was a silver Colt Titanium Lazerline Pistol that gleamed in the light of Belloua 3’s sun.
“I can’t make any promises,” Jewelia said slinging her weapon of choice, a Molovian .223 Hellfire rifle, onto her back. The gun was huge, the end of the mussel hanging a foot from the ground on her six-foot frame. She checked the rest of her arsenal. Two pistols were strapped to the side of her thighs, a small curved dagger hung from her belt and two smaller knives were in each boot. She always came overdressed to every party, but I guess that should be expected of an ex-assassin.
The locket had disappeared three years earlier from the private collection of Sasha’s great-great-great grandniece. To her it was more than just a relic of a Saint, it was an heirloom of her family, of which she was the last survivor. The collection was being turned over to Fr. Konecsni at the Vatican Museum for safe keeping. Fr. K, as everyone called him, had turned to Darrion for help with getting the relic back.
Darrion’s crew was made up of himself and two others: Jewelia, the ex-assassin, and Krill, the cook, the mechanic and everything else. Then there was me, Lillyanne of Troppe Recovery. I have the gift of finding lost and stolen items, mostly lost keys. On occasion, Darrion would let me tag along on a mission to recover the relic I helped locate.
“What do you want me to do?” I asked.
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