Chances were it was going to strike at them the second it saw them coming, would attempt to jump bodies and take hostages, and flat out fight them to the death to avoid capture. It was what Young would’ve done, had it been him who’d been on the run alone on a hostile planet. It was a shitty situation bound to turn violent and Young was prepared to do whatever was necessary to avoid any more casualties, even if that meant destroying the alien and its involuntary host.

It didn’t mean he didn’t feel sorry for the poor bastard. Seemed like it was always the civilians who were getting it.

SIXTEEN

RILEY didn’t go back to his room immediately. Instinct and habit guided his steps across the motel parking lot to his truck, and he’d unlocked it and slid behind the wheel before his brain had caught up with his body. There was no reason to leave. He doubted anybody had noticed what had happened.

Hell, he wasn’t sure Blondie had realized how close he’d come to dying.

Riley had left the blades at the roadhouse, hadn’t thrown the first punch, had paid for his drinks promptly and in cash instead of opening a tab….

Chances were nobody would remember much about him except for his knife-throwing skills.

He’d almost killed that guy.

Jesus. Fucking. Christ.

He tried to kill you first, McClane reminded him quietly. He pulled a knife on us… on you. I thought—

“Shut up,” Riley ordered, voice shaky, but clear. He had rarely felt more sober. It wasn’t even so much that the situation had spun out of control so fast. That was just how bar fights happened. No, it was the fact that the alien in his body had made an executive decision to use lethal force when a good, solid punch would’ve sufficed.

Might not have, McClane defended himself. It was a combat situation, he tried to gut you. He might’ve come at you again, from behind. It made sense to take him out.

“Take him out,” Riley snapped, head jerking up to glare at the rearview mirror. “Not kill him.” His fingers curled around the steering wheel so hard his knuckles creaked. He forced himself to let go, rubbed a hand over his aching head, and tried to phrase it in a way McClane could understand. “You start killing people, you draw all sorts of attention. The bad sort.”

Not even starting with what it’d do to Riley, who’d never ended a human life and had absolutely no intention to ever do so. It was why he’d

bolted the second he’d realized what it was Misha did for a living.

Oh. McClane thought about it for a moment, the hooks he had in Riley’s collarbones tightening a little. He tended to cling particularly hard when digesting disagreeable information. I’m sorry, he offered finally. I didn’t realize. I was made for war; I’m supposed to kill the enemy. We never covered scenarios like this.