Marshals' Most Wanted

by Marshals' Most Wanted (lit)

  Tarik went boneless. His weight crushed her against Stev, who didn’t complain. He stroked her knees with trembling thumbs, obviously too drained to do more. Her ears filled with the sound of sated, gradually steadying breaths.

  After long moments, Tarik roused himself to roll to the side and spoon her against him. Stev positioned himself so he could lazily lick her still stiff nipples.

  Hope held the back of his head tenderly.

  It was hard to believe she hadn't known these men a few days ago. And now they were her mates. Hard to believe. But no less true.

  Hope smiled and let sleep take her.

  * * * *

  Orin Rogan let out a furious roar and picked up the hapless man by a fistful of shirt.

  “What do you mean, you can’t kill the virus?”

  The man paled. Rogan paid him for his programming skills. Specifically, his hacking and cracking skills. And now the useless piece of space trash had the balls to tell him he couldn’t get rid of whatever worm was taking over his ship?

  “Rogan,” the man said, voice constricted by the gang leader’s grip on his shirt. He grabbed the back of his seat with one flailing hand and tried to get his feet under him. Rogan lifted him higher.

  “Rogan,” he tried again. “Of course I can kill it. I can kill any virus going, you know that.” He pried feebly at Rogan’s fingers. “Please.”

  Rogan threw him back in his seat. Even bolted to the floor on the Blackjack’s bridge, the chair shuddered. The hacker began to straighten but slumped at one look from Rogan.

  The gang leader pulled a concealed knife from its sheath inside his boot and pressed the tip against the man’s Adam’s apple. He swallowed, and a bead of blood welled up around the blade tip.

  “Tell me, Jarowski,” Rogan said, “why I shouldn’t gut you like a Fwarkig slug.”

  The hacker spoke quickly. “I can kill the virus, just not fast enough to meet our timeline for the job. I can save the ship, though,” he added hurriedly. “And I can track the nanobots to their source.”

  “Nanobots?” The knife didn’t move so much as a hair.

  “The ’bots that released the virus. They’re short-term deploy, which means they got onto the ship sometime in the past four hours. It’s possible one of the crew released—”

  “No one would be that foolish.”

  “Of course. Then someone else released the ’bots. Once I dig some of them out of the wiring, I should be able to revive them enough to download their source coordinates.”

  “And this will lead us to whoever disabled my ship?”

  Jarowski risked a nod.

  Rogan held his stare for long, tense moments. Straightening, he removed the knife from the other man’s throat. “Do it.”

  Striding off the bridge, Rogan drew the sharp edge of his blade along the pad of his index finger. Light as his touch was, the sharp blade opened a miniscule slice that filled with blood. When he caught whoever’d fucked with his ship, slicing would be the least of their concerns.

  Darkly, he thought of Shirrah’s prediction that the job had gone bad. She’d just love knowing she was right.

  Chapter 10

  Stev’s only warning was the hard boot in his ribs. He arched his back in agony but didn’t get a chance to determine if anything was cracked or broken before being dragged to his feet. Hope’s cry of surprise instantly cleared his head of everything except fear for her. He swung in his captors’ grasp to see Tarik lunge at a grinning man who held their struggling mate. A gang member brutally smashed the butt of his weapon against the back of his bond-brother’s head. Tarik crumpled. The man kicked him, unresisting, over onto his belly and jerked his hands behind his back, securing them with a twist of metal wire.

  Stev fought but couldn’t stop his own wrists from being trapped in another metal binding. The thin wire dug painfully into his flesh. He felt blood trickle into his palms. Someone kicked the back of his legs, and he dropped to the ground, knees smashing onto the sand covered stone. The muzzle of a weapon dug into the nape of his neck. A handful of portable lanterns flashed to life, illuminating everything in a crazy chaos of light and shadows—the soft wreckage that used to be their pallet, clothes twined through the mess; Tarik face down on the ground, hands bound at what must be a painful angle, blood trickling from his ear; Hope, pale skin gleaming in the harsh light, eyes wild as a hulking brute of a man easily trapped her arms at her sides.

  Then a sixth man walked into the chamber and all eyes went to him.

  Rogan surveyed the scene with an expression of supreme satisfaction, but Stev saw the animal rage lurking just beneath the surface. Besides the two men who bracketed Stev, two others stood over Tarik’s unconscious body. The man holding Hope let his weapon dangle from its bandolier style strap and reached out grubby fingers to tweak her nipple. Hope jerked away with a hissed curse and he laughed.

  “I’ve heard about catching someone with their pants down, but this is more than I expected. Hello, Marshals,” Rogan said. He slanted an eye at Tarik and amended, “Well, Marshal. We can repeat the preliminaries when your bond-brother comes around.”

  Stev must have looked surprised, because Rogan chuckled. “Oh, I know all about you, Stev Lan Garron. Did you think I wouldn’t have dug up what I could on you two after our meeting on Farrah’s?” He tapped his temple meaningfully and winked. “A churat, isn’t that what it’s called? Regardless, kind of a giveaway as far as identifying marks, if you know what to look for. Which I now do.”

  Stev kept his face expressionless.

  “You tampered with my ship.”

  When Stev didn’t answer immediately, one thug jabbed him in the back of the head with his gun. Stev leaned away and shot a lethal glare over his shoulder. He didn’t dare try anything, though, not with Tarik out of action and the lustful stares most of the men trained on Hope. “Let us go, Rogan. You know you’re in for a whole lot of hurt if you do anything to a couple of Galactic Marshals. Our team will be here anytime now. Do you really want to add kidnapping and assault of law officers to the charges you’re facing? Or worse?”

  “Yes, about that,” Rogan said. “If your backup was going to come, it would already be here. No, I think the earliest we’ll see anyone fly into these canyons is dawn, and by then we’ll be long gone.”

  “I wouldn’t be too sure about that.”

  “I’m willing to chance it.” Rogan strolled over to look Hope up and down. A flush rose on her face, but she met the gang leader’s stare without flinching. He grabbed her chin in a hard fist and tilted her head to the side. In the harsh lamplight, Stev saw the faint outline of the churat that had begun to take shape just below her hairline. Rogan slanted Stev a purely evil smile. “Nice piece of bondmate you have here. I’m sure I’ll enjoy her immensely.”

  Hope moved away hard and fast enough to surprise the man restraining her. He stumbled and let go of her arms. Abruptly free, she swung a fist at Rogan’s head. He ducked, but she landed a glancing blow on his cheekbone that made him grunt in surprise. Without hesitation, Rogan backhanded her. Hope staggered. Stev roared and struggled to his feet, shrugging off the men holding him. He took just two steps when what felt like a spike hammered into his head. Black crept around the edges of his vision. When it cleared, he was on the ground, the taste of sand and blood in his mouth.

  The brute grabbed hold of Hope again, his hands digging into her upper arms so tightly, his knuckles whitened.

  “Stev! Oh, my God, Stev! Tarik, Tarik, Tarik, wake up, please wake up, please don’t be dead…”

  Stev spat out a mouthful of blood, shoving back a moan when even that small motion added a few hammer blows to the spike in the back of his skull.

  “Kill him! I’ll kill that smug bastard for hurting them. Stev, get up!” A mental moan. “So much blood on them…”

  Hard hands grabbed his elbows and hauled him back up on his knees. The ubiquitous sand ground into his shins, coated his torso and groin.

  “…get my gun and
kill the bastard. Come onto my planet, hide in my canyons, hurt my men…”

  Blearily, Stev focused on Hope. She hung limp from her captor’s hands, head bowed. Blood trickled from the corner of her mouth. Her tangled, tawny hair dangled over her face. A glint of pale green flashed from behind the golden strands, and he saw her eyes fix on Rogan with pure hatred.

  With shock, he realized the voice he heard in his mind was Hope’s. Her thoughts were disjointed, almost incoherent in her rage and upset, but he could hear her. “Hope,” he ’pathed. Her mental rant continued without pause. “Hope!”

  It stopped. Then, a tentative, “Stev?”

  He would have exhaled with relief but didn’t want Rogan to suspect anything. If he knew about the churat, he might know other things about the bond. Unmoving, Stev ’pathed, “I’m all right. I’m fine, shalla. I can sense Rik. He’s not dead.”

  “There’s blood, a lot of it. He’s so pale. He hasn’t moved. Then you went down.” Her mental voice was halting. He was still impressed. That she could ’path anything at all through the new bond, much less form sentences, was nothing less than amazing. He thrilled again that he and Tarik had been fortunate enough to find this woman. Now, they just had to survive long enough to save her.

  “Trust me, shalla, our bondmate’s head is a lot harder than you’d think.” Stev broke off when Rogan strode up to him, blocking his view of Hope. The gang leader took a fistful of Stev’s hair and delivered a couple of sharp slaps to his face. The spike of pain vibrated excruciatingly with each blow. “You awake now, Marshal? I’d hate for you to miss the best part.”

  “I’m awake,” Stev said in a low voice. “Let Hope go. If you do, I’ll make sure you get off-planet without a fight from our team.”

  Hope’s head shot up. “Stev, no!”

  Rogan didn’t even pretend to think about it. He shook his head, and his lips curled in a way that made Stev afraid none of them would get out of this.

  “Then take me and Tarik as hostages. Leave Hope here, tied up if you have to. The team will find her and set her free.”

  “No.” With slow deliberation, Rogan drew a thin bladed knife from a sheath on his hip. With a terse, “Hold him,” to his men, Rogan tightened his fingers in Stev’s hair until his neck tilted painfully back. The knife hovered tauntingly over Stev’s left eye before the gang leader set the blade’s tip to the outer corner. Stev refused to react. If Rogan was going to take his eye, he wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of his fear—or terrify Hope with it.

  The tightening of his lips was the only sign Rogan was annoyed by Stev’s stoicism. Then he traced the blade down a spare inch and began carving. Stev tensed, his muscles bulging as he fought to stay unmoved. Blood coursed down his cheek to drip off his chin onto his chest.

  The sound of a scuffle made Stev aware Hope was fighting her captor again. What would Rogan do if he lost patience with her? “Hope, don’t!” As he spoke, the knife sliced deeper.

  “Stev.” The ’pathed voice was weak, but there. Stev flicked a glance at his bond-brother. Tarik lay motionless on the ground. “Not unconscious,” Tarik informed him. “Just… scrambled.”

  “Six of them, armed, to our three, tied up and slapped down. Not the best odds. Any ideas?”

  “I twisted my wrists when they put the bindings on. I’m pretty sure I can get my hands free.”

  “Pretty sure?”

  “You got a better plan?”

  “No.” Stev held his breath as the knife probed deep enough to touch bone. “I can’t get free. I’ll keep them busy, though.”

  A feminine voice interrupted. “Hey, hello? What about me?”

  “Hope?” Tarik’s mental voice was startled.

  Despite the pain in his face, Stev wanted to smile. “Seems our bondmate can ’path almost as well as we can.”

  “Give me time and I’ll be better than you,” she said. “You want a distraction, I can give you one.”

  “There.” Rogan leaned back. He gave Stev’s cheek an appraising look, like an artist assessing his own work. “Not bad for a first effort. I’m sure your bond-brother’s slave mark will look a lot tidier.”

  He casually slid two fingers along the blade’s edge, squeezing Stev’s blood off it. Flicking crimson drops from his fingertips, he looked at Stev’s sand and sweat covered body. Clapping a hand on the curve of one muscled shoulder, Rogan said, “Couple of strong men like you should sell on the block at McCarthy’s End pretty quick. Not to worry—I’ll make sure you get separate buyers, so you won’t have to compete with each other for attention.”

  Stev suppressed an instinctive shudder. Separating bond-brothers was akin to a death sentence, except it wouldn’t be mercifully quick. With Hope now forming the third of their triad, she faced the same agony if they didn’t escape Rogan’s custody.

  The tiny comp on the gang leader’s wrist beeped. He scowled at the screen, quickly reading the message. “Unfortunately, we’ll have to cut this party short. Your bond-brother can get his mark when we’re on our way to McCarthy’s End.”

  He gestured at his crew, then briskly walked toward the narrow passage leading into the canyon. Stev’s captors hauled him up and dragged him after their leader. He heard the men in charge of Tarik arguing about the best way to get an unconscious man to the Blackjack, and the coarse laughter of the one with Hope. She snarled something unintelligible but unmistakably threatening. The fool laughed again.

  “Stev!” Hope ’pathed. “Don’t let them take you into the tunnel.”

  “Why not?”

  “No time to explain.”

  Rogan took one step into the passage, and Stev feigned a stumble. His captors cursed and tugged on his arms. Stev wobbled and went down. Grappling with his now deadweight, one of the men viciously kicked his already sore ribs. Rogan impatiently looked back to see what kept them.

  A shrill whistle rent the air, crashing against their eardrums as it reverberated around the cavern.

  The horses, ignored until now, whinnied in distress. Sidling in agitation, they easily broke free of the makeshift rope pen. Hope blew out another piercing whistle, simultaneously snatching her captor’s dangling gun before he could stop her and squeezing off a shot. The laser flashed across the cavern in a fraction of a second, hitting the wall beside the temporary pen with the force of a small explosion. Hot shards of rock pelted the horses. Squealing, Hope’s horse spun on his rear hooves and thundered for the passage to escape the source of his terror, his two herd mates close on his heels. Rogan gaped as the huge animals bore down on him.

  Stev, forgotten by his captors, rolled desperately toward the dubious safety of a wall. An instant later, a metal shod hoof smashed down where his head had been. The man who’d kicked him in the ribs wasn’t so lucky. Hope’s horse tossed him into the jagged rock wall like a rag doll.

  The second guard tried to bring his gun around, fumbling in his panic. Still on the ground, Stev lashed his foot into the back of the guard’s knee. He dropped. Before the fallen guard could move, Stev crunched a heel down on his nose, then slammed it against his temple. The guard went still, knocked out cold.

  Stev looked around. The horses’ clattering retreat echoed from the passage. Rogan was gone. One of Tarik’s captors crouched on the ground, retching, as his hands covered his groin. Tarik, freed from his bonds, faced his second captor. They circled each other, obviously looking for an opening. The gang member held a knife but had lost his gun. He lunged at Tarik, who arched away and sucked in his belly. A thin red line appeared along his ribs. But the man reached too far to get the hit. Tarik grabbed the hand holding the knife and whipped him forward. Then he slammed the man’s straightened elbow against his thigh. There was a meaty snap, then a scream. Tarik plucked the knife out of nerveless fingers.

  Hope struggled on their pile of sleeping bags, body almost hidden by the brute who covered her. Bloody scratches crossed his face, and he peered from just one eye, the other noticeably swollen. Pinning her with his weight, he hel
d one of her hands over her head and tried to grab the other one.

  “Hope!” Stev ’pathed, awkwardly pushing to his feet with his wrists still bound behind his back. He began a stumbling jog toward her.

  Hope’s free hand flailed into the pile of clothes and sleeping bags. When it came up, so did her relic of a handgun. Hope cocked it one-handed and shoved the barrel under her attacker’s chin. The man froze. “You want to get off me now,” Hope said. “Nice and slow.”

  Hope held the gun on him while Tarik used a couple of socks to bind him hand and foot. A few more served to silence his protests and offers to cut a deal. Then, Hope pulled on the first shirt she could find—Tarik’s—and they went to free Stev.

  “You both okay?” Stev ’pathed, turning so his bond-brother could reach his wrists.

  Hope answered out loud. “Just bruised. It’s you and Tarik and I’m worried about.”

  “I’m fine,” they said in unison.

  “Rogan?” Tarik asked, his voice dangerous.

  Stev winced as the wire loosened. The metal was sticky with blood, and Tarik had to peel it away from where Stev’s struggles had embedded it in his flesh. A fresh spurt of warm liquid began to flow from the wounds. “Sorry,” Tarik murmured. “Rogan?”

  Stev brought his hands to where he could see them and grimaced. Hope made a small noise and softly touched his fingers. “Don’t know. Last I saw, he was scurrying down the tunnel to the outside. Probably halfway to his ship by now.”

  Hope guided Stev to the wrecked remains of their pallet while Tarik efficiently checked the fallen gang members. He left two where they lay. One carried a pouch full of wire cuffs. Those he appropriated to tie up the two unconscious survivors, dragging their bodies close to where the first man lay.