by Alison Aimes
No response.
“I know you’re out there.”
Silence. The sharp, staccato panting his only answer.
Human. Singular. And afraid.
The bitter scent of fear filled the space.
He softened his tone. “I didn’t mean to scare you before. Just letting off a little steam.” He kept his hands up and ready. Back in the mines, some of the most fearful had also been the most feral. With nothing left to lose, those poor bastards had been willing to do whatever it took to survive.
Until he learned otherwise, he’d assume the same applied here. Whoever this guy was, he’d fuck ’em up the nanosegment he attacked. Or sooner—if he figured out where the sound originated.
“After all, it’s not every rotation one ends up in these kind of luxury accommodations.” He kept his tone conversational, his words relaxed and light. “Wherever the hell here is. You have any idea?”
Voice was easier to get a fix on than muffled breaths.
No answer.
Still in his crouch, he half slid, half waddled backwards, heel-to-toe the way he’d been taught to muffle his movements, counting steps in his mind while the rest of him focused on ragged pants, now up to three for every one of his slow breaths.
At step eight, his back brushed up against something hard.
Palm up and out, he explored. Smooth. Seamless. Exact same feel as the floor.
It seemed like he was in some kind of man-made hold.
“As long as you don’t come after me, I won’t come after you,” he lied, sliding up the wall.
Standing, the unrelenting black made him dizzy. Disoriented. He fought the urge to shrink to a crouch once again and, instead, shut his eyes, steadying his breathing and calling on his other senses.
“You been in here long?” No rocking or rushing beneath his feet. No pull from gravity, either. Made him fairly certain whatever he was in wasn’t moving. So, scratch transport hold from his list of options. Only infinite more possibilities to go.
No wind or air movement against his skin. No rumbling pipes or rushing water, either. No voices outside. So, the space was well contained and not particularly well equipped.
All and all, it had the empty, bare, stale-air feel of a fucking closet—or a cell.
Though there was that faint, tantalizing rhozeberry scent every once in a while, hard to catch over the stale scents of fear and rot. Made him hopeful though that there might be a pile of food somewhere in this black-hole darkness. Not that he could eat it. Stuff was likely drugged. But he’d damn sure love to breathe it in and remember—
Muffling a curse, he cut away from the past and forced himself to focus on the here and now, sliding father along the wall, searching for anything he could use to defend himself—or give him a clue as to where he was.
“You have any idea what this place is? Or how long either of us has been here? And when we’ll be dining? I’ve got a schedule to keep.” At this point, he didn’t really expect an answer, but he wanted to give the guy a sense of predictability. Make his cellmate think he could relax.
“Would definitely be nice if there was a light switch in this place.” Normally, he loved to hear himself talk, but some kind of response—even a grunt—would have been welcome right about now.
The sound of rustling to his right had his ears twitching. His target was on the move. “Or maybe some water.” He was thirsty as hell. “Though then I’d have to piss. And unless you can direct me to the toilet…”
He slid along faster, fists raised, thigh muscles tensed to launch.
He wished he could say this pursuit at least had his heart pumping. But all he felt was the same grim determination he’d been pretending not to feel since they’d stumbled to the surface a few rotations ago.
So many of his teammates had shut down in the mines. Valdus had gone stone cold. Quillion had barely spoken, turning into some kind of walking mute. In between his too-bright grinning bouts, Griffin only seemed to want to fight.
But not him. Not Ryker, the asshole.
Yes, he’d done his best to hide it. But, unlike his teammates, he’d relished every fucking brutal heartbeat. Embraced the grit and dust under his fingertips and found his first real clarity in a long while through the sharp scent of fear, adrenaline, and survival that had lay thick and heavy in his nostrils and lungs. The comradery. The connection. The meaning. All raw, vivid, and in bold technicolor.
Because every moment of every rotation, those men had been what stood between him and death, and vice versa. And every moment down there had been one more heartbeat he hadn’t had to remember all he’d lost back on New Earth.
Until they made it to the surface.
Then, he’d been forced to remember it all. Feel it all.
Nothing was vivid anymore. Nothing was bright or sharp. Nothing was close to the zing he’d felt when he and his boys had been shoulder to shoulder in the mines with only themselves and their bravado to rely on.
All there was back on the surface was blackness and more and more pain. Kind of like wherever he’d ended up now.
“You ever ask yourself what it’s all for anyway?” He slunk farther along the wall. “If we humans shouldn’t have all gone the way of the trees on New Earth and just…vamoosed?”
The air nearby stirred against his bare chest.
Target was again on the move—and close.
He moved faster. “Not much of a talker, are you? Reminds me of a buddy of mine.” The image of Griffin flickered through his mind and he offered up a silent wish that his cellmate wasn’t quite as big. Not that he couldn’t bring his massive crewmate down if he had to—he’d been top of his class in hand-to-hand—but it wouldn’t happen without some serious injury. “You got any buddies here with you right now?”
No answer, but the shuffling was so close now he could hear as it bounced off the wall nearby. And the acrid stench of fear was stronger, too.
Holding his breath, careful not to make a sound, he focused on the last point of sound and launched.
Only to slam into hard floor—empty-handed.
His target was fast.
Jumping to his feet, he swiveled toward the fleeing sound of shuffling feet. Thighs tensed to pounce once more, a roar of battle surging deep in his throat.
This too-quiet bastard was going down.
“Stay back.” The sudden, surprising words from his cellmate echoed through the hold. “Try to grab me again and I’ll stab you through the throat and let you bleed out all over the cell floor.”
Ryker froze. Everything coalescing into crystal-sharp focus. His adrenaline spiking, his heart, sluggish for so long, slamming once more against his ribs, every nerve ending rioting awake as the source of the rhozeberries and the fear became apparent.
His cellmate was bloodthirsty. Confident. And definitely, unquestionably, female.
Want to read more? TORMENTED, Book Three in the Condemned Series, is coming. To sign up to be notified of its release go to https://www.alisonaimes.com/ws
Also By Alison Aimes, TRAPPED EXCERPT
TRAPPED, BOOK ONE IN THE CONDEMNED SERIES EXCERPT
Bella came awake with a gasp.
Dizzy. Disoriented. Pain beat at her chest and shoulder as she forced her eyes open. Blaring alarms only added to her confusion.
One look around and everything crystallized. The crackle of fire. The blur of smoke. The sweet scent of blood and the acrid scent of burning flesh. Oh no, oh no, oh no. The shuttle had crashed. Fracture lines snaked through her helmet, obscuring visibility.
Frantic, she yanked off her helmet and squinted through the smoke. Fumbling with her straps, her siblings’ gaunt, hopeful faces slammed through her mind. They were depending on her.
A scream strangled in her throat. To her left, Steve Meyers’s sightless eyes stared back at her through his visor, a trickle of dried blood tracking from his nose.
She scrambled free of her restraints, tripped over a mangled piece of steel two inches from her boots, and
lurched across the aisle, her hands landing on warm thighs.
A palm closed around her wrist.
“Cadet Davies?” she screamed over the shrill alarms. “Ava Davies? Can you hear me?”
“West?” The single word was a moan, but it sent Bella’s heart soaring.
“The ship crashed. We need to get out.” She was already feeling her way along her colleague’s straps for the release. “Are you hurt?”
“I…I don’t know… My head hurts. My leg, too.”
“We’ll take a look once we’re out.” Bella’s hand slipped from the restraint. To Davies’s right, Terrence stared back without blinking, his neck twisted at an impossible angle. The poor man. He’d never moon over Davies again.
“They were right. I…I shouldn’t have come.” The woman’s voice was oddly monotone, her arms hanging limply by her sides as if she didn’t care if Bella found the release or not. “I…I was wishing for death, and now look what I’ve done.”
Bella’s head snapped up. “This isn’t your fault. There was an accident.”
Knocked off-kilter, Bella forced herself to concentrate on finding her colleague’s release latch. Under normal circumstances, she’d have pushed the woman to explain. Davies was a part of the privileged Council elite, after all. Death should have been the furthest thing from the woman’s mind.
But now wasn’t the time to probe.
The rough nylon sliced the pads of Bella’s fingertips as she worked to find that damn release.
Finally, a click. Davies was free.
“I’m going to put my arm around you,” Bella instructed. “Lean on me—and try and stay low.”
She gave a small silent thank-you when the woman’s arm circled her waist and they were able to stagger together into something between a squat and a stand. Bella’s shoulder screamed as Davies’s weight pressed against her, but she pushed the pain aside.
“Bella?” A hand shot from the smoke to grab her arm.
She jerked to a halt. “Dr. Winthrop?” She didn’t use his first name despite the fact that he’d used hers. Command Council protocol was very clear on that point.
“I’m…I’m hurt.” Winthrop’s voice shook. Not a good sign.
“We’ll help.” She tried to keep the alarm from her voice. “We need to get outside. Fast.”
“You should go.” Shock left Winthrop’s voice oddly matter-of-fact. He jerked off his helmet with trembling hands. “The fire’s getting worse.”
“You’re coming, too.” She swiveled toward Davies. Her colleague had removed her helmet to reveal a nasty bump on her forehead and one of her legs was definitely not working right, but her eyes looked infinitely clearer than they had a second ago. “Davies, can you make it to the back exit without me?”
“Let me help.” The woman’s sincerity was easy to hear. As was her pain.
“Get to the exit,” insisted Bella. “That’s the help I need. We’ll be right behind.”
The woman grabbed her shoulder, her voice low. “Let me try. It shouldn’t be you who dies in here.”
“No one else is dying.” Bella gave the woman a soft push, surprised and touched that someone like her would even make such an offer. “Go.” When Davies still refused to move, Bella grew less gentle. “You’re only slowing us down. Go!”
She’d deal with whatever repercussions came from addressing a Council member in such a fashion later…if they all survived.
Davies’s lips flat-lined, but she didn’t argue. Or grow all haughty. Mouthing one more don’t die warning, she simply hobbled away, her awkward hopping gait instantly swallowed by the thickening smoke.
Bella swiveled back to Winthrop. “Can you get up?” Her fingers flew over Winthrop’s restraint straps, tugging, wrestling, searching for that damn opener. It gave way with a beautiful click.
Her arms came around Winthrop’s waist, her left side instantly wet. Blood. Enough to soak her clothes. She forced a smile and heaved. “You need to help me.”
His head lolled, his chin cracking into her temple. He was nearly deadweight in her arms. They’d never make it.
“Dr. Winthrop? Please?” Her voice splintered. There’d been too much death already. “You need to focus. You need to stand up. Now.”
No response.
“Help.” Faint at first, the plea from a few paces ahead grew louder and louder with each panicked bark.
Propping Winthrop back into his seat, she scrambled forward, waving away the thick smoke, deliberately avoiding looking at the two dead soldiers on either side.
“My belt’s jammed.” The minute he saw her, Officer Pogue threw himself forward, trying to tear out of the restraints. “I can’t get out.” He kicked his boot toward something on the ground in front of him. “There’s my knife. Cut me out.”
Seizing the knife with two hands, she hacked at the restraint. “Stop struggling. I’ll get you out.”
“Faster,” he urged.
Then with a final slice, the fraying restraint gave way. Pogue popped up on a roar. “Let’s go. The fire’s burning fast.”
“Wait. You have to help me with Dr. Winthrop. He can’t walk on his own.”
“No time. He’ll never make it anyway.” Pogue turned away.
“No.” She sprung at him, sinking her nails into his shoulder. She’d put up with his constant harassment because non-Council descendants stuck together and because he was a decorated soldier with useful survival training. She needed that expertise now. They all did. “I didn’t leave you. Take Winthrop’s arm. Put him between us. We can make it.”
When he still didn’t move, she grew desperate. “Do it. Or I’ll tell the Council you refused to help one of their own. Think your life will be worth anything after that?”
Pogue’s jaw tightened and, for a terrible second, she thought he might strike her, but then he was striding past her, knocking her thigh into the bench, plowing his shoulder into Winthrop’s stomach, and hoisting him upward into a fireman’s carry.
“Go,” he shouted.
Knowing he was right behind, she scrambled forward.
A moan came from the right.
She swiveled toward the sound, but Pogue’s big body rammed into her, making her stumble. “No more. You’ll get us killed. Keep moving.”
“But—”
“Go. Or I’ll leave you and your precious Council admirer.” Pogue barreled into her, shoving her hard.
“We can’t just leave the others here to die!”
Without another word, he slammed into her again, sending Winthrop’s boots into her hip and her sprawling forward on a pained gasp.
“Move or I’ll run right over you.”
That cowardly bastard. He’d begged her to save him, but refused to do the same for anyone else.
“Bella? Is that you? Bella, you’re almost there.” Davies’s terrified coaxing echoed from up ahead. “Come on.”
Hating herself, hating Pogue, Bella stumbled down the aisle. The burn in her throat had become agony, breathing difficult. Pogue was hard on her heels, ready to stampede over her in an instant. On either side, dark smudges taunted her with the possibility of other sightless eyes.
“You made it.” Soft hands grabbed hold of her arm, guiding her through a twisted hole in the wreckage she hadn’t even seen.
Bella’s knees hit the ground. Her head snapped up and she sucked in dry, hot air. Two orange suns blazed high in the sky. All around her, desolate rock and dust swirled in a tapestry of bleak browns and rust as far as the eye could see. Even the sky was the color of dried blood. No hoped-for vegetation in sight.
The trip had been for naught.
Pogue jogged by her, an unconscious Winthrop still in his hold. “Move away from the shuttle,” he roared. “It’s going to blow.”
Several soldiers followed. Apparently, Steve Meyers had been wrong. This time the back of the shuttle had been the place to be. At least ten of the military team still lived while everyone from the scientific team besides her, Davies, and Dr. Wi
nthrop had perished.
Her gaze locked with Davies’s. They shuffled away from the burning shuttle. “All those deaths for nothing.”
A lone tear tracked down her colleague’s soot-covered face. “But we survived.”
An inhuman shriek rent the air.
Everyone froze. Eyes wide, the soldiers’ guns shot up, pointing wildly at the rocky outcroppings where anything could be hiding.
The hair at Bella’s nape prickled.
Yes, they’d survived. But for how long?
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Also By Alison Aimes, BILLIONAIRE EXCERPT
BESTING THE BILLIONAIRE EXCERPT
Memorial services. When the divide between life and death is stark. When emotions run high. When seizing whatever joy is available seems especially poignant and right...
Easiest time in the world to get laid.
If he was interested. Which he wasn’t. Movements brisk, Russian-born Alexander Kazankov—Alexi to his friends, which was why most people called him Kazankov or, if he was honest, asshole—removed the blonde’s hand from his suit lapel. “I appreciate the offer, but I’m here on business.”
And business always came first.
Her lips turned down in a pretty pout—the same one that had made her famous in several movies—and behind him the cameras clicked away with greater urgency.
The late Russell Winslow might have been a bastard, but he’d been a flashy, well-connected one, running an investment firm that specialized in high-end resorts before finally dying at the ripe old age of seventy-six.
As a result, his passing was a big deal, and his memorial service a year later, even bigger. The well-manicured, New York Hampton lawn packed with senators, models, actresses, and moguls. All here to see and be seen. And, of course, photographed. Talking, posing, their voices appropriately pitched for such an allegedly somber event. But the fact was few of them had given a single thought to the man who’d died a year ago.
