He was middle-aged, soft features but hard eyes and a permanent grimace twisting the edges of his lips. He was dressed in the sort of clothes that freighter captains buy at orbital rest stops the night before having to meet with a lawyer. He walked a few steps ahead of them with a casual gait designed to deflect attention.
“Where did father find this guy?”
Her aide stole a glance at the man’s back before answering.
“He’s a vet, retired warship skipper, a pilot before that. A lot of his record is redacted, but he’s got a network - pilots, former spec-ops operators, more than a few criminals. By all accounts they’re more like a secret society than a security company.”
“But why him? Why not our normal contractors?”
“Because despite all of their dark deeds - and there are a *lot *of them - they’ve never broken a promise, and they always seem to do the right thing. Guardian angels.”