MARSHALS' MOST WANTED
Tasty Treats
Raina James
MENAGE AMOUR
Siren Publishing, Inc.
www.SirenPublishing.com
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A SIREN PUBLISHING BOOK
IMPRINT: Ménage Amour
MARSHALS' MOST WANTED
Copyright © 2010 by Raina James
E-book ISBN: 1-60601-697-0
First E-book Publication: January 2010
Cover design by Jinger Heaston
All cover art and logo copyright © 2010 by Siren Publishing, Inc.
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Siren Publishing, Inc.
www.SirenPublishing.com
Letter to Readers
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DEDICATION
Joss Whedon, for creating such a wonderful space western in Firefly and an equally fab rough-around-the-edges hero in Serenity’s captain, Mal Reynolds.
MARSHALS' MOST WANTED
Tasty Treats
RAINA JAMES
Copyright © 2010
Prologue
Farrah’s Resort, Leisure Station 10, Fourth Quadrant
“Down!”
Stev Lan Garron dived behind a stack of net-wrapped cargo before his bond-brother’s telepathic warning registered. Even so, he felt the sting as the laser shot aimed at his belly skimmed his hip, leaving a blackened streak of burnt fabric on his trousers. Sensing Tarik Lan Garron’s concern, he ’pathed, “I’m fine.”
Crouching behind the crates, Stev fingered his singed hip and winced. Painful, but not serious. His eye caught on the label on one of the crates: Madame Olga’s Parti-Colored Party Favors for Big Girls and Boys. He snorted softly in wry amusement. The sparkling holograph of a gaily festooned erection of slightly scary proportions made it certain the delivery wasn’t destined for one of the more conservative planets.
“Where in the frozen pit is station security?”
“Locked out,” Rik answered, sending him a mental image of the screen of his law enforcement issue wristcomp. “Looks like a pirate override was hacked into security. Pretty sophisticated, too.”
Stev snorted. “Of course it is. The crooks always get the best tech.”
“Ten credits says it’s an inside job.”
“No bet.”
With the ease of long habit and a flurry of mental images, they planned their next moves. Stev popped out from behind the crates long enough to lay down a barrage of fire in the general direction of the crew tube at the far end of the loading bay. Tarik sprinted to a new position behind a stack of crates within sight of the one Stev huddled behind. Unfortunately, they didn’t even have the hope of a ricochet taking out one of the fleeing thieves. Unlike the laser pistol that nearly roasted Stev’s gut, the weapons issued to Galactic Marshals featured governors that precluded anything but stun-capacity electric bolts inside the space station. Collateral damage. Wouldn’t want to scorch any high-priced goods. Or people. Sometimes Stev thought they’d get better results throwing rocks.
The gang that just knocked off the main counting room at Farrah’s most exclusive casino wasn’t restricted by such niceties. Stev heard one of the gang members clip out terse orders in a rumbling, masculine voice but couldn’t make out the words. The response to those orders wasn’t long in coming. An explosion of sound rocked the bay. Stev was shoved violently back as the crates in front of him burst from their netting in a hail of plas-metal splinters. He threw his arms over his face to protect his eyes and grimaced as a number of the splinters punched through the fabric of his shirtsleeves and needled his arms.
“They’ve got a farging disruptor cannon!” Tarik ’pathed. Three more explosions followed in quick succession. Tarik grunted a vocal curse at the same time Stev felt a stab of phantom pain in his left shoulder.
“Rik!” Stev pushed the larger pieces of shattered plas-metal off his chest and thighs and rolled to his side. The stacks of cargo all around them had been transformed into a jumbled mass of unbroken crates, sharp-edged plas-metal pieces, and the rags and remains of their contents. Shakily, Stev pushed himself up on his elbows. His head spun. Streams of smoke rose to join the layer forming near the ceiling. Three people raced down the crew tube to the gang’s ship. A man stood in front of the tube with the cannon cocked and ready on his shoulder to fire off another salvo. A smoke alarm blared to life, and, along with it, the bay’s sprinkler system. Water poured from the ceiling in a forceful deluge reminiscent of the daily rainstorms on Stev and Tarik’s tropical homeworld, Geminus.
Stev ignored the water that slicked his black hair to his head and stared down the wide, empty barrel of the cannon as it came to bear on him. That was when he realized he’d managed to hold on to his gun through the shattering blasts. His arm, seemingly of its own volition, lifted to point it at the other man. They stared at each other, neither flinching. The man’s lips spread in an unpleasant smile. They both knew Stev might as well have threatened him with one of those rocks he thought of earlier. With water pouring over every surface, pooling on the metal floor around him and Tarik, firing an electric energy bolt would be the last thing he would ever do.
A soft groan at his side reminded Stev of the pain he felt scream across the bond he and Tarik shared.
“Tarik?” He tensed when his b
ond-brother didn’t immediately respond. It seemed like eons before Stev sensed Tarik’s increasing alertness. His shoulder throbbed in sympathetic agony, and he knew he had to get Tarik to a medic.
An echoing click-click-click sounded out of place under the steady thunder of water from the sprinklers. Stev was surprised he could hear anything after the cannon roars and resulting explosions. The click-click-click resolved itself into the distinct sound of high heels connecting with metal as a woman stalked down the crew tube to stand beside the man with the cannon. Sheltered in the tube, she eyed the downpour with a moue of distaste. A diaphanous silver skirt swirled around long, shapely legs, and creamy breasts spilled from the top of the fitted metal corset that comprised the standard uniform of one of Farrah’s backroom hostesses. On this woman, the suggestive outfit looked more like a challenge to the male of the species than an invitation. She spoke into the gunman’s ear. He half-heartedly shrugged her away, but nodded. Cannon never wavering from Stev, he tipped him a mocking salute and backed up the tube, woman at his side.
Stev heard the airlock engage and cursed the luck that saw him and Tarik in the vicinity when the casino was hit. Now, Tarik was injured and he sat here with his ass in his hands watching the thieves escape. Even if he could get up and across the bay in time, what would he do? Hammer his useless gun against the airlock porthole as the ship blasted away?
He bit off another expletive. Holstering his weapon, he got painfully to his feet and went to help his bond-brother.
Chapter 1
Terminal City, Jokers Wild, Fourth Quadrant
Stev pushed through the swinging plas-wood doors, Tarik close on his heels. Both men paused to let their eyes adjust to the dimmer indoor lighting after the brilliance of the midday sun—or suns, rather, since Jokers Wild had three of them—on the dusty street outside.
“Any sign of our guide?” Tarik asked.
Scanning the room, Stev shook his head. “Doesn’t look like it. At least, no one’s rushing to greet us with open arms.”
The store, like this section of town, was done up to fit someone’s idea of a general store from the fabled Wild West of Old Earth. It was crammed to the rafters—literally, since the shelves lining the walls reached all the way to what appeared to be genuine wooden rafters—with everything anyone could possibly need, from foodstuffs and clothing to liquor and feminine sundries. There was even a reclining chair positioned in the front window with a chalkboard display advertising a cut and a shave for an antique nickel. If a fella didn’t have that, the postscript jovially added, the proprietor would accept thirty credits.
The swinging doors crashed open, forcing the bond-brothers to quickly step aside to make way for a boisterous group. The newcomers wore flashy fringed shirts, pristine cowboy hats and cowboy boots so new they squeaked as they walked. The women on their arms were just as flashy, although their scanty fashions ran more to the pricey synth-fabs preferred by off-worlders than the greenhorn garb the men wore. Stev and Tarik ignored the women’s coquettish glances. They weren’t here for an easy fuck or three.
The bond-brothers recognized the group from the passenger liner flight to Jokers Wild. The men were here for the annual high-stakes poker game that was the backwater planet’s one claim to fame. The women were along to indulge in some of their own games. Stev and Tarik were on the hunt for another kind of jackpot—the Rogan Gang.
The gang slipped through their fingers on Farrah’s, but that wouldn't happen again. A few reliable sources and months of planning had brought the Galactic Marshals to Jokers Wild, where they planned to foil the gang’s attempt to make off with the winnings of the high-stakes game.
Without speaking, Stev and Tarik moved away from the entrance to wander around the store.
“We’re a bit early,” Tarik said.
Stev nodded. Examining a shelf of small, hand-carved items, he picked up a roughly made tobacco pipe and struck a pose. “Is it me?”
“Sure! And I dare you to light it up around your mother.”
“Only if I wanted it stuck somewhere other than my mouth.”
Tarik grinned appreciatively.
A loud giggle was their only warning. Seemingly in slow motion, the free-standing shelf behind them shuddered, then tipped, then toppled over.
Stev dropped the pipe and staggered as the shelf hit the back of his head. Tarik tried to grab it and hold it up, but it was too heavy for one man to handle. He and Stev went down under a shower of tiny white boxes.
“Ooops.”
The bond-brothers, trapped but unhurt, glared at the woman who spoke. One breast dangled unrestrained over the top of her form-fitting synth-fab dress, the hem of which was caught on one unnaturally round hip. The duded-up gambler beside her stooped to struggle with the toppled shelving unit. Unfortunately, from Stev and Tarik’s position on the floor, surrounded by a mound of white boxes, they had a perfect view of his tenting pants. It didn't take a marshal to deduce what the couple had been doing to rock the shelving unit off-kilter.
Looking harried, the store’s rotund proprietor bustled over. It took the combined efforts of the aproned man, the gambler, and his buddies to lever the unit high enough for Stev and Tarik to wiggle free and wade clear of the mound of white boxes. Looking at her waving breast, the woman giggled again and tucked it back into her dress with a little bounce.
“She could be the best lay in three systems and I’d still pass her by on principle because of that pit-spawned laugh,” Tarik ’pathed.
Stev rolled his eyes in agreement.
The red-faced gambler launched into an explanation about how his companion merely brushed against the shelving unit and it toppled with the barest touch. The shopkeeper nodded, but it was plain he didn’t buy a word of it. With a subtle hand signal, he sent a couple of assistants scurrying to tidy the mess.
Stev sneezed, violently. Tarik made an odd choking sound as he tried to sneeze and cough at the same time. Stev sneezed again, blinking rapidly as his eyes filled with tears.
“I think I’m going to be sick,” Tarik ’pathed.
Stev picked up one of the white boxes. Words written in an unfamiliar Old Earth language decorated the packaging in an elaborate swirling design. The plain type underneath in Galactic Standard was much more informative: Hand-made rose-scented soap.
Tarik snuffled and put his hand to his mouth, his normally golden complexion turning a pasty white. Stev dropped the box and took his bond-brother’s arm to get them as far away from the allergy inducing scent as possible. As they neared the swinging doors, he swallowed down the urge to vomit and concentrated on taking deep breaths.
“I’m guessing you two are the travel writers I’m supposed to meet,” drawled a low, feminine voice.
* * * *
Hope Kennedy squelched a sigh as she took in the two pathetic men propping each other up on the boardwalk outside the general store. After an abrupt greeting, they asked to step outside to finish their introductions. Hope was left to follow as one man helped the other through the swinging doors.
They both stood about a head taller than her. It was a unique experience, since in her stocking feet she could generally meet most any man eye to eye. They had the lean, muscled physiques of men used to a lot of physical activity, but she didn’t put a lot of stock in that. The food most off-worlders ate was so bioengineered it would take a real glutton to pack on the fat. Their wavy black hair curled at their collars and their eyes appeared to be dark brown, although it was hard to tell since they were so bloodshot and watery. Some kind of exotic tattoo, an elaborate creation of lines and circles, marked their temples. It caught the eye, yet made one think of spirituality rather than vanity. Interesting. She wondered what the tattoos meant, if anything.
The men’s chiseled features were so similar they could have been blood-related, although the information they’d sent to the Bar-K indicated Stev Jordan and Tarik Donnelly merely worked together.
Chiseled features! This time the suppressed sigh was one
of self-disgust. Since when had she ever gotten hung up on a man’s looks? Or two men, as the case may be. So what if they were a couple of handsome bucks. She had a job to do.
“Maybe it would be a good idea to check you into a hotel here in town while you recover from your flight or…whatever is ailing you,” she said. “Everything’s pretty full with the poker tournament about to start, but I’m sure I could find you somewhere to stay.”
Instantly, the two men straightened as if they weren’t seconds away from vomiting. To be on the safe side, she stayed where she was—out of the puke zone. Just because her boots were beat up and had stepped in more than one road apple didn’t mean she relished the prospect of wiping vomit off them.
“No, we’re fine,” the one who’d introduced himself as Stev said.
“Just an allergic reaction to something in the store. I’m sure we’ll be okay in a little while,” Tarik said, then ruined it with a lusty sneeze.
“Right.” Hope tried not to sound too skeptical.
She’d promised to treat the off-worlders with every courtesy. Just because her brothers outvoted her in the family’s decision to turn the Bar-K into a tourist spot instead of keeping it going as a working ranch didn’t mean she could ride roughshod over their plans. She was intelligent, dammit. She’d been to college. She knew the Kennedys couldn’t afford to keep losing money as they had been for years. They had gone as far as they could with ranching. If catering to tourists kept the Bar-K in the family, so be it. Giving these two travel writers a personal tour and the run of the spread was the first step in the next incarnation of the Bar-K. Hopefully, the publicity would drum up more tourists who wanted to experience life on an Old Earth-style cattle ranch.
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