“Ah, good. You’re the guy I’m looking for then.” Adrian continued through the desks, eyes staying fixed on Jimmy.
Something felt off. Something about Adrian seemed strange. Too fake. Not like anybody in the aerospace biz he’d ever met. Or scrap, considering Davin’s line of work.
“Hey, wasn’t the door locked when you—?”
The smile disappeared from Adrian’s face as a thin gleam of metal caught Jimmy’s eye from the stranger’s coat sleeve. In an instant, a needle and syringe flicked out and into Adrian’s hand. Jimmy recoiled, but Adrian was quick, lunging forward and swinging the syringe straight into Jimmy’s neck. A sharp, nasty sting bit through his skin, slicing deep. Adrian retreated back a long step, and Jimmy reflexively pressed a hand against the wound, suddenly furious.
“What the hell, man?” Jimmy exclaimed. “You some kind of thief?”
A much thinner smile flashed across Adrian’s lips this time as he slipped the syringe into his coat pocket. From his other pocket, he produced a pair of gauzy, stretchy gloves and pulled them on, curling his fingers to draw them snugly inside.
Jimmy thought as he watched the coldblooded stranger. His anger shifted into fear. “You’re a Carinian, aren’t you?” He started to feel a bizarre tingle in his arms and legs. “Look, if you’re here for the girl, I don’t know where she is. Davin took off with her. I haven’t heard from him since.”
“Relax,” he said, studying Jimmy, much more concentrated and joyless now. “I’m not here for Sierra.” He reached into his coat and removed a black pocket knife a little longer than the length of his palm. “We’re just going to have a little chat.”
Jimmy pushed himself to his feet and lurched toward Adrian, but his feet refused to lift from the ground. They just dragged across the floor when he tried to take a step. And his arms flopped forward clumsily. He could hardly control himself and ended up falling into his attacker rather than tackling him as he’d planned. Adriann held out his arms and caught Jimmy, who squirmed but couldn’t manage to right himself or get away.
“Alright, let’s just sit back down,” Adrian said.
Once Jimmy had slumped back into the chair, he turned over his deadened arm and looked at it. His knees spread widely apart and his feet rested sideways on the ground. He couldn’t move anything, could barely keep his head upright. Panic shot through his veins as his breaths picked up.
“Whadda hell?” he slurred.
Adrian flicked out the blade of the pocket knife and set it on Jimmy’s desk, then reached into his coat for something else. It was a small, white, unmarked pill bottle, the contents clattering as Adrian placed it on the desk and unscrewed the cap. He dumped a handful pills onto the glassy surface, then paused and closed his eyes a moment.
“God, forgive me.” He opened his eyes and trained them on Jimmy, taking long, slow breaths. “There’s a strong muscle relaxant flowing through your veins right now. It impairs motor function in the skeletal muscles, leaves you limp as a doll. But you’ll still be able to talk—for a few minutes. And you’ll still feel pain.”
His gloved fingers touched the desk by the pocket knife. The blade looked sharp.
“What you need to decide now,” Adrian said, letting out a breath, “is whether you want to feel an enormous amount of pain—” He picked up the knife, turned it over in the lamplight, then set it back down. “Or take some pills and go to sleep.” His fingers came to rest on the bottle. “Those are your only two choices right now. Understand?”
Jimmy strained, trying to move but hardly pushing his limbs a millimeter. It felt as if they weighed a thousand pounds each . . . or maybe that the signals from his brain weren’t even arriving at their intended destinations. His breathing went irregular, lungs still working but taxed inside his slouching chest. “Wha . . .” A whimper escaped him. “Whadda you want from me?”
Adrian crouched down in front of Jimmy’s rolling chair. Their eyes locked. Adrian bore a hard, stern look that told Jimmy he wasn’t messing around. As if everything preceding this hadn’t indicated that already.
“I want you to tell me who else knows about Sierra Falco.”
Chapter Nine
Orion Arm, on Chandra, third moon of the planet Daksha . . .
Jabron erupted in celebratory laughter from across a clearing in the casino.
Davin swiveled around, keeping a hand planted on the escort service desk for stability, and scanned through the flashing lights and felt tabletops and those pretty drink girls with long legs and silver trays balanced on their hands. Sparkles shimmered around their eyes, reminding the gentlemen where to look. Bron wasn’t hard to find. His bulk rested on a stool in front of a craps table, wearing his tight, black V-neck shirt and a pair of gold-trimmed sunglasses that made him look far wealthier than he was. A pair of dolled-up Asian girls flanked him on both sides, touching his arms and giggling at his every attempt at cleverness.
Jabron had a thing for Asian girls.
The polished, poised gent in the pinstriped vest used his stick to push the dice back to Bron. Davin’s main man picked them up then held them in front of his groupies one at a time.
“Sprinkle the magic pixie dust, ladies!”
One girl rubbed her fingers together over the dice, pretending to apply her “pixie dust,” then the next girl. Bron tossed the dice across the table, lifted his shades and leaned in to watch their roll, then thrust up to his feet with fists in the air. Display screens above the table showed an animation of little sharebuck signs falling from a happy-looking cloud. As the gathered crowd cheered, Bron just lowered back his sun-gees, bit his lower lip, and channeled his best “badass” face. Davin had seen it before. Many times.
“Sosorry for the wait, big boy,” said a voice from behind—sultry as syrup. Davin turned back to find a puffy-lipped lass, glowing with makeup, wearing a ruffled, red and black corset that made her look like a saloon girl from the Old American West. He couldn’t decide if she was purposely making the duck lips or if they really werethatinflated. He settled for a little of both. “You look like you got abig problem. Maybe one of my girls can help.” She faced him, but her eyes stayed down on a small screen behind the counter as her fingers tapped it.
“Ah, ha, nah, nah, that’s not what I’m after,” Davin said. Mind and speech a little slurred. Too many shots of Unicorn Tears. What’d they put in there, anyway? Whatever it was, Davin hadn’t felt a thing until five shots in. Sometime after the fifth, all of life began to feel like flying through the clouds on the back of Pegasus.
The saloon girl’s eyes flicked up, highlighting her eyelashes as long and black as a crow’s wings. And behind those lashes were a pair of surprisingly bored eyes. “Don’t swing that way? I got a few boys available, looking for a good time. I could put you with Lance.”
“Oh, God,” Davin said, closing his eyes and waving his hand to stop her. “No. I meant I’m looking for somebody to show a good time to—agirl, I’m looking for a girl that’ll show a good time to my man—” Davin lifted his hand and dropped it where he thought Jai’s shoulder was. It passed through nothing but air. “The hell?”
Strange wandered up holding a red cocktail in a long, tube-like glass. Her eyes looked glazed and faraway even as she wore a vague smile. The Unicorn Tears had delivered her into some serene state of enlightenment. A strand of her bangs fell through the hole in her backwards baseball cap down to her jawline. Some annoying force in him—the lizard brain, maybe—wished once again that she batted for the other team. The hetero team. Just a momentary thought. She’d make a better pilot than lover to him anyway.
“Where’s Jai?” Davin asked.
Strange shrugged softly. “I dunno.” The light smile never left her face, as if Jai’s disappearance didn’t matter in the slightest. As if nothing mattered in the slightest. Her eyes drifted to something over Davin’s shoulder. “Oh. There.” She pointed.
Jai stood in front of a slot machine, flashing his chip card and pulling the lever again and
again, cackling to himself every time. The jolly tune played while the colored wheels turned, and when it ended, Jai covered his mouth to conceal a hysterical laugh. Every time. It didn’t matter whether he won anything or not, Jai found it genuinely hilarious. Like a kid with a new toy on his birthday. Alcohol rendered theFossa’sdesignated geek a simpleton. It amused Davin.
“Go get him,” Davin said to Strange.
She looked at him without any change of expression and asked, “Why?”
“I’m trying to get him laid!”
“Oh!” Her face lit up the tiniest bit, and she made off toward Jai in an unhurried pace.
Davin turned back to the saloon girl. “He’s never been bedded by a proper lady of the night, see. He needs the right treatment, you know? Someone with a delicate touch. Tender. A classy lady. Like . . . like . . . a geisha! Do you have any geishas?”
“GeishasJapanese, asshole!” Jai doddered up, unable to wipe that absurd, beaming smile off his face, even with the faked offense. “I from China.Chi-na!”
“Alright, alright,” Davin said, motioning at Jai to calm down. Then, to the saloon girl: “Do you have anyChinese geishas?”
Jai burst out in another round of laughter, tilting sideways. Strange had to catch him, her reflexes sloth-like but miraculously quick enough to save him from toppling to the ground.
“She probably needs to have a sense of humor, too,” Davin said to the escort matron.
The saloon wench sliced her eyes up at him, frozen, staring at him with quickly dwindling patience.
A sudden, violent, wood-splitting explosion behind almost made Davin jump out of his skin. He instinctively ducked and pressed himself against the escort service desk. People screamed as debris scattered across the casino, littering tables, plastering to ladies’ dresses, splitting the glass of slot machines. Davin’s heart hammered in his ribcage, having been jolted out of its stupor.
Jabron ran between craps tables toward Davin, only to be halted by two gunshots to the back. Davin flinched with each echoing shot. Crowds screamed and scattered like ants from a kicked anthill. Jabron went down to a knee, one hand balled into a fist and pressed to the ground to stabilize himself, the other pressed over exit wounds in his stomach. His face contorted in pain, anger giving way to fear. His eyes lifted to meet Davin’s.
“Boss . . .”
A figure in dark clothes emerged from the billowing dust. Raised a handgun. Fired three more shots. Jabron shuddered with every hit, trying to remain upright, ready to keep fighting. It was a losing struggle, losing blood like a leaky bucket, having been punched with a half-dozen holes. He finally gave in and slumped to the plush, red carpet, his blood soaking in and forming darkened circles.
His killer stopped over his body and made eye contact with Davin, striking horror in the scavenger’s heart. Davin’s skin prickled as he recognized the man—the Abramist. The modest, salt and pepper facial hair gave him away. Time froze in that surreal moment. The Abramist leader gave Davin that same, smug grin that he gave at Rothbard Heights Mall. The smile that told Davin he never worried about losing theFossa crew, only wanted to save himself time.
Jai screamed a ran out from cover. “No!”
Davin watched helplessly as Jai sprinted toward the familiar figure with the gun.
The Abramist lifted the weapon and fired. Jai grunted and jerked with the hit, falling only a few meters in front of Davin. Jai heaved breaths as he struggled to crawl back toward his captain, pathetically lifting a hand to Davin as he did to the stairs of that apartment in Jerusalem. The cool, emotionless Abramist fired another two shots into Jai’s back, putting down the little man for good.
It was only then that Davin noticed the small frame of a girl crouched between a craps table and pair of stools, hands trembling around the handle of a stun gun. Delicate strands of hair dropped down past a scattering of light freckles.Sierra! The prima filia directed a frightened gaze at Davin and tried to take shallow, quiet breaths. The Abramist hovered just beside the table where she hid.
Sierra pushed away the stools and twisted up to her feet, wheeling the stun gun around but not quick enough. The Abramist slapped her gun away and grabbed her. He pulled her into a strangle hold, holding her close to him. She grasped at his forearm in a vain attempt to free herself. He didn’t budge.
Davin pressed his shoulder blades against the slick, hard tile of the escort service desk. Horrified at the sight, but unable to move. His hands stayed pinned down on the floor as if held there by some invisible weights. His heart ached worse with each thumping beat.
The Abramist stepped around Jabron’s body, keeping his arm wrapped tight around Sierra’s neck, and paused before Jai, who now lay startlingly still. He looked down on theFossa’s captain with the same pitiless eyes that didn’t hesitate to kill two of his crew—two of his best friends.
“You failed them, Davin,” the Abramist said. Not laced with hatred or scorn. Just a simple statement of fact.
Davin felt his chest splitting inside.
The Abramist raised the gun again, this time aimed at Davin’s head.
Davin stared into the impenetrable blackness inside the barrel’s opening, waiting for its power to deliver the punishment he deserved.
Waiting to die.
Waiting . . .
Chapter Ten
Orion Arm, on the planet Earth . . .
The moment Davin jerked awake, his chest and shoulder screamed in pain. Clenching, fiery pain. He held his breath a moment before exhaling, slow and easy.
Filling his lungs, not to mention the sudden movement, aggravated wounds at a handful of points over his body. Deeper than skin, too. It felt like a giant hornet had sunk its stinger deep enough to puncture several organs. He wasn’t sure which, but things didn’t feel right in the ribcage.
Not lease of which the lungs. Something wheezed from deep in his throat when he breathed. The burning sensation in his head didn’t help anything. Some heat under his skin made sweat prickle on his hairs and bead across his forehead. He blinked away a drowsy blur coating his eyeballs. It didn’t go easy. His vision remained a thinly defined haze of color and light.
His skin felt tight a few places around his chest and stomach, like being pinched—hard—by six pairs of fingers. An itch slowly built in a space between two tight spots, getting more and more irritating. Davin lifted his hands to scratch but was halted by cold metal around his wrists. He tried again to the sound of clinking and the jiggle of his rickety bed frame. Handcuffs—connected to a bar that ran the length of the bed and held the mattress in place.
Davin started to panic, but the increased heart rate and breathing made the pain spike in his wounds. Had to stay calm. Had to think. Where was he, anyway?
He blinked away a little more of the haze and examined the relatively plain and tidy bedroom in which he found himself. A small space, only big enough to hold three single-sized beds, like the one he lay on, squeezed together side-by-side, plus another longways in front. The long, verdant green fronds of a potted fern drooped down at the foot of Davin’s bed, almost touching his exposed toes.
The sight of his toes struck a terrifying thought into Davin’s head. They hadn’t moved since he woke up. He concentrated, neck straining to keep his head upright enough to look across his horizontal body, wrapped tight like a burrito in patches and bandages. One big toe flinched and curled, then the other. Next he swirled his feet around in circles, gently stretching his ankles and calf muscles.Whew. Not paralyzed.
Davin eased his head back onto the pillow and watched the breeze play with the gauzy gray drapes that hardly blocked any sunlight from the open window. Voices trickled in from outside, somewhere below and a ways away. Speaking in another language. Three or four women, bickering about something. But it was a playful bicker, broken up by light laughter every so often.
Davin’s mind gradually powered back up, getting a grip of the situation. Memories surfaced. They were in Jerusalem. With Sierra. Taking her to the Carinian
embassy. They’d stopped to read an e-poster in the alley. The Abramists. Gunshots. Trapped in the apartment.
Bron . . .
Jai . . .
He remembered Sierra looking at him with those big, intense eyes. But also the determination on her face, the bravery. Her clenched jaw and those scrunched eyebrows that said she wasn’t going down without a fight. Davin had unlocked something in her. He’d bridged the divide between her fighting spirit and her gentle heart, the two sides of her that Davin could never quite figure out how to piece together. An impenetrable expanse now separated them from each other. The last thing he remembered was her pointing the stun gun at his leg—and, of course, vibrating from the bolts of electricity wrenching through his muscles.
The shootout had taken its toll on him. The wounds in his torso nagged for relief—painkillers, vodka, something.Anything.
He shifted his head, nice and easy, to look at the rest of the room: a few cardboard boxes labeled in black marker with Arabic words; a long, flat crate that looked perfect for rifle smuggling; and a framed saying on the wall, stitched into dense cloth. The words were blurry in Davin’s vision, but when he squinted, he realized they were Anglo-Universal. He kept squinting until he picked up each word.
“Glory altogether belongs to God!” —Sura 4:139
Suddenly, it registered in his waking brain that he must not have been captured by the Confed. He was in a bedroom, handcuffed to a cheap, metallic bed frame, a few stories above ground. Not in a prison cell or a public hospital.
The words rolled around in his brain.Glory altogether belongs to God . . . The e-poster. Sierra had said something about the Glorious Defenders, or Defenders of Glory—something along those lines. It was a group that wanted independence from the Confed. That much he remembered. They most certainly didn’t look like the sort he wanted to get involved with.
Horns of the Ram (Dominion Book 2) Page 6
