“Well, not exactly. He was said to be a deserter and swearing to kill you in all kind of ways. But then, people say all kinds of things, don’t they?” Allison’s brow pinched. “What if he’d decided at the last minute to go back to the mine? What if he wasn’t really violent? I needed proof.”

Kalico finally got a full breath. Struggled to get her shivering muscles under control and sidled over to lean against the bar next to Shig. “Ever thought about sending a message through com?”

“Wasn’t my business until he pulled that pistol.” Allison walked over, picked up the bottle of rye and inspected the label. “You got another glass?”

“Cabinet. The one with the brand-new bullet hole.” Kalico gave a half-hearted wave.

Somehow the bullet had missed the glassware. Allison retrieved a tumbler, poured herself a finger, and sipped. “That’s the good batch. That last one? Not so much.” She glanced over. “Shig, you all right?”

“I suppose these things remind us how fragile the search for moksha is. It seems I’ve temporarily misplaced my sattva.” He took another swig of Kalico’s rye, placed a hand to his belly.

“Allison, what the hell are you doing here?” Kalico demanded, staring down at the bleeding corpse on her floor. Damn, that was a lot of blood. And the man’s bladder had let loose, his hands were twitching, death quivers running down his legs.

Allison—preoccupied with the rye she was rolling across her tongue—swallowed, nodded approval. “Heard we lost the Maritime Unit. That you’ve got trouble down at Corporate Mine. That doesn’t bode well. Then this toilet-sucker spouts off, figuring it’s your fault his wife is dead. Shit on a shoe, we can’t afford to lose you—and especially not Shig in the bargain. Next couple of years? We’re going to be hanging on by a fricking thread as it is.”

Kalico pried her glass from Shig’s fingers, tossed off the last of the rye. Then she narrowed an eye. “But you don’t even like me.”

Allison gave her a deadly grin. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

Shig had his eyes closed, taking deep breaths. He had the placid expression back on his face. That part of him, at least, was recovered. But looking close, Kalico could see that his hands were still shivering.

Surely it couldn’t be because of his near-brush with death, let alone the body on the floor. This was Donovan, after all.

Maybe—given his reputation as a drinker—the rye just didn’t sit well with him?

EPILOGUE