That rigid fuck Galar, for example, or Chief Enforcer Dyami. He could just imagine their incredulous rage, their fury that he’d fooled them all so throughly for so long. Just the thought of it put a grin on his face. They’d destroy him if they could, arrest him, charge him. Shame him. He’d be paraded before the public, branded a traitor and a spy. If, that is, he survived to go to trial. The Xer would do their damnedest to see him dead in an effort to protect both themselves and the spy ring they’d so painstakingly created. His life balanced on a knife blade. And he loved it. The hot exhilaration of spying, of knowing that he could be discovered at any time, that his life could be dashed apart if he wasn’t quick enough, clever enough, strong enough. . . . It was all sweeter than any drug. They’d assume it was the money—the truly outrageous sums the Xer funneled into his carefully buried accounts.
