Low. Sharp. The warning signal.
Every Xylan and human in the compound snaps to attention at once. Texon goes rigid beside me, his claw already on my arm, pulling me back from the window.
“They’re here,” he says.
I expect Xylan. Maybe six of them, like before. Maybe Kryzon and a handful of his old crew trying one more desperate attempt.
That is not what comes out of the jungle. What comes out of the jungle isgreen.They emerge in a tight tactical formation, six, then eight, thentwelve,spreading out as they move. Green-skinned and muscled like they were grown in a lab. Short green horns curl back from their foreheads. They’re wearing armor. They’re carrying weapons that definitely do not belong on a mining planet.
“Green Horns,” I breathe.
“Mercenaries.” Texon’s voice has gone deep. “Off-planet. He hired them.”
“How did they even?—”
“The transporter disk. They came in quietly overnight. Must have.”
Holy crap.
This is not a crew. This is a small army.
And then the Fever Brothers start fighting, and I forget how to think.
