Tanned Hide

t © 2016 by R. A. Meenan

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication maybe reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embedded in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator” at the email address below.

  [email protected]

  www.zyearth.com

  Cover art by K. M. Carroll

  Cover typography, and interior art by Omni Jacala, A.K.A. Artsy Omni.

  Copy Edited by Beth Cantwell

  Discover other titles by R. A. Meenan:

  - The Stolen Guardian

  - White Assassin

  LICENSE NOTES

  This book is licensed for personal use only and may not be re-distributed. If you would like to share this book, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Dedications

  To my awesome writing group for all the great suggestions and the unbridled confidence you displayed when telling me how wrong I was. This story would be a load of nonsense without you!

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Title Page

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  About the Author

  Glossary

  The Zyearth Chronicles

  Tanned Hide

  From the Color Collection

  By R. A. Meenan

  Starcrest Fox Press

  Tanned Hide

  One

  There is nothing noble about being an assassin.

  Entertainment media likes to pretend there is. Video games will put out stories about the “noble assassin” fighting for the greater good. Movies make it look like assassins are necessary to “cull the species” or that somehow assassinating the Enemy-That-Is-Not-You makes your deeds “noble.”

  It’s not. Nothing about assassination is noble. Only fools believe that.

  But some assholes don’t get that. Trecheon Omnir, for example. He entered the profession, shed a couple of fake crocodile tears, all “woe-is-me”, complaining about his second hit like it was worst goddamned thing ever. Then he goes off becoming this White Assassin as if that suddenly makes him noble.

  But that’s not what being an assassin is all about. It’s about pain. And he doesn’t know pain. Not really. Not like I do.

  Let me tell you what pain is really like.

  It had started with a visit to Red’s Garage. I pulled up in my battered old chopper motorcycle and ambled through the open doors of the Trecheon’s barely-afloat business, clutching a manila envelope. The manila envelope. The envelope that would change everything. If I could only get Trecheon’s help on it.

  I walked through the hot, smelly workroom, counting two cars up on lifts and as many mechanics working on them, both humans. A third car was still on the floor, with a third mechanic buried under the hood. It was the busiest I had ever seen the place in all the years I had known Trech, which was both good and bad. Good, since Trecheon was perpetually considering leaving the “business” as an assassin and he could use all the cash he could get. Bad, since good mechanic business meant he’d be less likely to team up with me on a job.

  And I really needed him to team up with me on this job.

  The third mechanic swore as I walked by, giving up his identity; a twenty-seven-year old named Christian, one of Trecheon’s better employees. He stood up fully to set his ratchet down. I grinned at him, twitching my puma tail. He grinned back.

  “How’s it goin’, Neil?” The tanned human asked. He moved with a practiced grace as he grabbed a magnetic pull rod. “I see your tail’s still in one piece.”

  “Not for lack of trying,” I shot back. “Choppers don’t really lend themselves to zyfaunos. Is the boss man in today? I need to talk with him about something.”

  “Yeah, he’s in the office,” Christian replied, looking at the blackened tip of a spark plug before tossing it into a trash can. “Should be finished up with that blonde in a minute, so your timing’s pretty good.”

  I snickered. “His favorite customer is in today, huh?”

  “Yup,” Christian said, grinning. “Watch out, Trecheon might not be in the best of moods because of that.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind. Thanks, Christian.” I bounced two fingers off my black, rounded ears in a mock salute to the young mechanic, who absently waved back, already lowering his head under the hood of the car. He was nothing if not dedicated. Trecheon had a knack for finding good talent in his workers. Only way he was actually able to stay afloat on the outskirts of the grand bayside city of El Dorado.

  I stepped into the small office and leaned against the wall, sizing up Trecheon’s “favorite” customer. The human customer, a woman, apparently refused the chairs, instead more content to lean over the desk. On the other side of the desk sat the proprietor of this establishment, Trecheon Omnir. The red, black-streaked quilar typed in a few last keystrokes before printing out a repair order. His catlike ears were slightly splayed out, though the woman didn’t seem to notice his irritation.

  “So, we went ahead and replaced the fluid for the transmission and the differential, and that’s on top of the spark plugs and the usual oil change.” Trecheon looked up from the computer’s screen and looked directly into the human woman’s eyes, ignoring the obvious sway of her hips as he went through the RO. She appeared satisfied with the work, but to any straight man with a pair of eyes, it looked like she wanted more.

  “Mr. Red, I can’t tell you enough how much I appreciate your help.” She produced a credit card and handed it to Trecheon, who slid the card through a reader and processed the payment. She had her elbows on the desk now, and turned her head slightly to one side. “May I ask when the shop closes?”

  “We close at six, so if you notice anything off with the car before then, bring it back and I’ll take a look at it.” He held out the card with a receipt, not even meeting the woman’s eyes.

  I smirked. Damn, Trech. That’s cold as ice as always.

  The woman gave a slim smile and narrowed her eyes slightly. “Oh, I’ll let you know. Thank you!” She took her keys and turned to leave, walking out into the garage, her hips swaying with every step.

  Trecheon put a hand to his face as he leaned back in his office chair. “Will this chick ever learn? I. Am. Not. Interested. I’ve made that abundantly clear, but the flirting and borderline innuendo comes up every time she visits.”

  “Just tell her to take a hike, Trachea,” I put in with a grin.

  Trecheon shot me a glare for the use of the hated nickname, then shrugged, his metal bionic arms catching a glint of sunlight from the windows. The prosthetic replacements were a constant reminder of the cost of our time in the War of Eons, though these particular arms were also souvenirs from Trecheon’s last assassination hit. Something he wasn’t proud of.

  “She’s a reliable customer, what with that expensive Mobiüs coupe,” Trecheon said. “The last thing I need to do is alienate steadfast paychecks.”

  “Y’know, I don’t get you.” I tracked the woman’s lower half as she crossed the garage to her car still swaying her hips and chancing a few glances back towa
rd the office. “She’s very clearly interested in performing -ahem- acts upon your person, but you’ve turned her down every time I’ve seen her here. You’ve got to admit, she’s pretty cute for a human. She has an ass like an onion.”

  Trecheon turned up a confused eyebrow and splayed an ear. “The hell do you mean by that?”

  “It makes you wanna cry,” I said smirking. Trecheon rolled his eyes at me. “Seriously, I gotta know. What’s the deal?”

  “Eh. Not my type.”

  “Not so hot for blondes?”

  “Not so hot for humans, at least not anymore. Not since high school, really.” Trecheon printed out a second copy of the RO and placed it into a file folder behind him. “Besides which, I’m not really looking.”

  “Well, I’ve got a hot date for us,” I looked to the door. “Mind if we speak behind closed doors?”

  Trecheon pressed his lips together, then waved a hand.

  I shut the door, making a point to lock it. “Got a hit that I need your help with.”

  “Why am I not surprised,” Trecheon said, flattening both ears. But then one perked up. “Wait, hit? You never call them hits. They’re always ‘jobs’ with you. What gives?”

  “This isn’t a paying gig,” I said, trying to keep the tone light.

  Trecheon raised a cautious eyebrow. “I’ve never known you to take a hit for free.”

  “Special circumstances, Trech.”

  Trecheon glared at me. “Don’t call me Trech.”

  Ugh, so sensitive. “Sorry. But trust me, you’ll want in on this.” I leaned over the desk with a mocking hint of the sensual human customer Trecheon had just been dealing with and slid the manila envelope across the battered