My thoughts came to a grinding halt at a deep rumbling sound from the sky. My hand went to my weapons belt. I looked up. Three ships streaked out of the clouds like dive bombers. An XT-5 warship, then a white-gray service freighter, and then one of those grey Markests I’d seen on Talyon, looking suspiciously like one of Baer’s.
I swore. Guns from the XT-5 trained on us, reminiscent of the ships I’d seen in raids on civilian territories.
Hars’s eyes darted up in sudden terror. “What the hell?—Rusco are you playing us?”
“They’re aiming at me as much as you, Hars! Get down!”
He ducked, but too late. Fareon blasts set fire to the oil drums nearby and hot gases licked out at us like chemical bombs. Flames lit the tarmac and sent us flying. I pulled Wren to my side to shield her.
Two bullets slammed between Hars’ eyes and he sagged like a rag doll. One of his henchmen went to his knees, blood spraying from his chest. The other, I gather, the woman, was running, but she didn’t get far.
A vulpine howl rattled in Wren’s throat. Dolgra had a slug in his leg. All this happened so fast, my reflexes could hardly keep up with the unreality of it all.
Starrunner and Urgon were rising in the air. Pulse blasts slammed from the Warhawk, then flashed down to disable our ships’ electrical circuits for brief instants. The two ships clunked down on the tarmac like dead weights.
I saw the Warkhawk blast the rear thrusters and struts off Urgon. Armed men stormed out of the Warkhawk and blew the hatch and boarded Urgon. I don’t know whether they killed Dolgra’s men that instant or took them prisoners. Warhawk crew members were moving crystal out of the freighter on a big load lifter to their freighter. They weren’t taking any chances of their cash cow flying away.
Wren was firing rounds into the cloud of smoke, but not getting much action. I was reaching for my grenade pin.
The Warhawk wasn’t even on the ground when a dozen men in khaki fatigues jumped out of the hatch, spraying us with fire. We crawled on our bellies like worms, Dolgra moaning in pain. A paralyzer-slug zapped my shoulder. I convulsed, cursing. I looked up to see five grim faces peering down at me with weapons trained on us all. Boots flicked out and kicked the weapons out of our hands. Rough hands seized us and dragged us into the warehouse.
I felt my shell-shocked grip on reality fading. More figures disembarked from the Markest and in my horror, I thought to see big P leisurely making his way down the tarmac with three of his ape-armed escorts.
One of our captors threw a bag over my head while others dragged Wren and Dolgra down the dim-lit hall. I couldn’t figure it out. I easily expected we’d all be taken aboard P’s bandit cruiser and that would be the end of us. Truncheons slapped down on my neck; my shoulder spasmed and I groaned in pain. Thuds, blows, curses. Wren’s wild cries, Dolgra’s murmurs of agony—all came in a wild orgy—the opening and slamming of doors, heated arguing of voices, muttered yells, pitched insults. More blunt objects wracked against my body, and I was forced onto a cold, cement floor. Hands seized me by the hair and arms and thrust me into a hard-backed chair. They bound my forearms with twine to the armrests, roped my calves to the leg-rests. The whimpers of my team faded to a primal keening. Only the harsh mutters of violent men accompanied the scuff of booted feet.
The bag was removed from my head, and I gulped in lungfuls of air. The paralyzer was fading and I reeled to the throes of a splitting headache, my face all puffy and my arms throbbing something awful. I struggled in vain to free myself from that chair in that bare storeroom with no windows.
I recognized the hairy face that leered over me, but it was not who I expected it to be.
“Déjà vu, eh, Rusco?” came Baer’s gruff voice. “Wipe that purple grin off your face. Hope your trip wasn’t too painful?”
The shadowy figure donned a pair of heavy work gloves, blue-grey industrial grade with raspy edges and steel knit weave, and patted my cheek with a rough caress as if those mitts were made for handling asbestos. His arm seemed to be repaired, assuming he had either some wicked miracle glue or hardcore flesh regen. How about a mechno-arm?
He nodded to the three of his goons with AKs at their belt. “I paid Pazarol to pass you off to us. Or we wouldn’t be having this conversation. He wanted to kill you outright. But that would have been a waste of time and useless for our purposes. We still have unfinished business, Rusco, don’t you remember?”
“What do you want?”
His bushy brows shot up in inquiry. “I assumed that’d be obvious. We got the phaso, thank you very much. But where’s my amalgo? Seems as if Lugi couldn’t find it on your ship.”
I wondered how long it would take them to figure out I didn’t have the amalgo and the phaso was a dud. Wren sprawled on the floor, a sorry sight, coming to with a groggy shake of her head. She was stripped near naked. Dolgra was at her side, splayed in shameless abandon, out cold. I took one look at the two of them and I knew that the jig was up. We were dead regardless of what we did or said.
That sneaky bastard Raez must have bugged the Starrunner before he’d died. How else could that maggot-spawn Paz, in cahoots with Baer, have known so much about
