And some more...would be a larger tidbit, but La'ra himself forced me to rewrite the unposted section. Overly aggressive bastard.
-------------------------
CHAPTER FOUR“This…could take days.” Woram warned. It was planetary night outside. The planet's dome had darkened, to create the illusion of a world where night and day were different.
“Then it will take days.” La’ra shrugged. “Some hunts are long.”
The younger Klingon’s computer screens displayed the Andorian’s home. Guards went through their shifts, staff came and went, all as their personal schedule demanded. In the twelve hours the Klingons had watched the place, they’d seen nothing La’ra felt worthy of investigation.
They had, however, confirmed that it was the right residence. The daughter had appeared, in the late afternoon. She’d exercised on the lawn, sparred in Andorian fashion (which meant knives) with one of the guards. She’d been clothed the entire time, much to Turg’s blue-curious regret.
It was remotely possible that they were still sniffing the wrong
targ. The woman they’d watched through a clandestine splice into the city’s security net could be some other Andorian woman of the correct age with obvious military training who just happened to be holed up in what was looking increasingly like the home of a government-endorsed privateer, but La’ra was willing to take such a wild chance.
The Commander shook his head, and laughed quietly.
“Your shift is up anyway.” He reminded Woram. The NCO growled with relief, and stood. One of the other Marines was next. Khlas went after him. Then Leral. Then himself.
Days, he reminded himself.
* * *
Day came, harsh light from Khorsham's star streaming in as the dome became transparent for a few hours. Night crept in with little fanfare.
The Klingons took turns monitoring their quarry, sitting idle for two hours each before standing, rubbing their irritated eyes, and moving on to some other activity. The inside of the warehouse could withstand a decent assault now, with fire traps and barricades and other defensive preparations long since made. And of course, it was kept clean.
Meals were local fare, acquired by Khlas in his guise as yet another ne’r-do-well Klingon for hire. They had combat rations, but Klingons preferred real meat in their bellies. They ate, waited, wrestled, cleaned their weapons, told stories of their battles, and occasionally their loves.
It was a valuable experience, La’ra knew. A strengthening of bonds. Not as good as combat, but worth having…provided the wait didn’t go on long enough to tempers to fray.
Ensign K’tal was taking a shift at the monitors when something new finally happened.
“Commander,” the Marine called. La’ra rose from cleaning his disruptor.
“What’s happening?”
“Someone we haven’t seen before,” The Ensign declared. He adjusted a camera. A vehicle was arriving at the Andorian's home. It looked somewhat expensive, the transport of someone who could afford some small amount of luxury.
The man who emerged was human, dressed well, La’ra supposed. It was very hard to get a feel for another sentient being through computer images, but something about his body language seemed furtive, someone used to looking over his shoulder. The guards conducted him indoors.
“Give me his image.” La’ra growled. Around him, other Marines were looking up with curiosity. Leral, asleep on her mat, was stirring.
K’tal captured the new man’s face. La’ra pulled out his communicator.
Topic: Daggers in the Night (Read 32884 times)