Assassination Protocol: An Intergalactic Space Opera Adventure (Cerberus Book 1)

by Andy Peloquin

  “…and, if you want it back to full function, I’d recommend overhauling the boot thrusters, too.” A screen on one wall of the workshop flickered to life and the image of some intricate compact ion engine popped up. “IAF records indicate that this latest model has 4% more reliability and 13.55% longer energy burn.”

  “Do it,” Nolan told her. “All of it. And find some way to buffer against EMP. I can’t lose power like that again.”

  “Ordering the components now.” Taia was nothing if not efficient. Images flashed across the screen too fast for Nolan to follow. Within two seconds, an itemized work order was drafted, complete with a number at the bottom of the screen for the total cost.

  “What the hell?” Nolan’s eyes flew wide. “Two hundred thousand credits? Are you kidding me?”

  “You want the best of the best, right?” Taia’s voice sounded almost too innocent. “Quality costs.”

  Nolan growled but, after a long moment, threw up his hands. “Fine, do it.” The Protection Bureau paid well enough that spending this much on the combat suit would only hurt, not leave him skint. “Damn, Taia, you’re a girl of expensive tastes.”

  “Neurochemical readings indicate annoyance, but by your tone, am I right in guessing you are using sarcasm?”

  Nolan grunted. “Yep.”

  A flood of pleasure washed through Nolan’s brain—the physical manifestation of Taia’s happiness.

  “Order placed,” Taia chirped. “Components to be shipped to our usual locations in twelve to fifteen days.”

  “Two weeks?!”

  “Twelve to fifteen days,” Taia corrected.

  Nolan ground his teeth. Two weeks without his primary combat suit and the Balefire meant going back to old, outdated armaments. He’d just have to hope Agent Styver’s next job was an easy one. The last thing he needed was to go up against more heavily armored goons without proper equipment.

  “Would you like a cup of chamomile and spikeflower tea to help slow your heart rate and lower cortisol levels?” Electronics in the kitchen hummed to life before he answered. “Recent research shows that—“

  “No,” Nolan growled, “I don’t want any tea. What I need is some good news for once.” The image of Jared floating in that damned Reformation tank had left him angry. “Tell me you got something from Agent Styver’s office!”

  Taia seemed to hesitate. “Attempts to penetrate the Protection Bureau firewalls proved impossible once again.” Was it his imagination, or did the AI sound embarrassed? “I will continue to upgrade my algorithms in anticipation of our next visit to Agent Styver’s office.”

  A throbbing settled in behind Nolan’s eyes. “Did you at least get the footage of Jared?” The last thing he wanted was to watch his little brother floating in that tank, bombarded by drugs and the Vault’s horrific psychological treatments, but Taia could always implant a worm or virus into the file and use it to crack the Protection Bureau’s firewalls. At least, he thought that could work. He’d never been a hacker—that was Jared’s specialty, not his—but he’d picked up a few tricks over the last few years working as the Empire’s hired killer.

  “Negative,” Taia replied. “It, too, was securely locked and out of my reach.”

  Damn! Nolan’s headache grew, and he could feel the pounding in his lower back increasing the way it always did when he grew stressed. Much more of this and the pain would kick in—phantom pain or twinges from nerves not yet fully dead, he wasn’t certain. If that happened, the temptation to drink or shoot up could get bad.

  Reaching into his pocket, he closed his hand around the bronze medallion he always carried around. An old Silverguard habit for good luck, and a reminder of the promise he’d made himself. “How about some Beethoven, Taia?”

  Strains of soothing, beautiful music wafted through the speakers, and Nolan closed his eyes, allowing his mind to be carried along on the currents of trilling notes, fluttering tones, and brilliant crescendos. The Old Terran had crafted some truly beautiful songs; the soft, gentle movements of the Moonlight Sonata always filled him with calm. It was a sad song, mournful in its rise and fall, almost wistful, nostalgic. That was one emotion Nolan knew all too well.

  Opening his eyes, he wheeled himself out of the machine-cluttered workshop and into the single room that served as kitchen and dining room. As always, Taia kept the place spotless, smelling of some strange floral disinfectant that reminded him of Jadis’ perfume. There was none of the stink that had hung thick in the filthy, rat-infested haunts where he’d spent his first days out of the Silverguard. Once, Nolan’s wheelchair would have rolled over empty bottles or vials that once held Blitz or Gunk. Now, only the whisper of pneumatic tires on clean carpet broke the perfection of Beethoven’s masterpiece.

  Navigating around the room’s one couch toward the dining room table, Nolan reached for the whetstone he always kept handy. Two things helped to keep the stress at bay: Beethoven, and sharpening his Echosteel blade.

  Yet another old Silverguard trick, one that gave him something to focus on to the exclusion of all else. The metallic scraping of the blade on the whetstone and the repetition of stroke after even stroke had gotten him through far too many hard days.

  He’d just reached for the Echosteel blade when all of the lights in the room flickered to a deep, angry red. One of the walls flickered to life, and upon the screen, bold letters formed the words “Warning, proximity alarm triggered!”

  Taia’s voice crackled to life in his ear. “Intruder alert!”

  Chapter Five

  Nolan’s every sense went instantly on full alert. His right hand darted to the holster hanging off the side of his wheelchair, drawing the NC7 blaster in a heartbeat. Smooth, cold steel felt right in his hands, filling him with the unwavering calm that came from being on the right end of a gun. The pistol’s magazine held only eight shots, but for a Silverguard-trained marksman, eight was more than enough.

  “Intruder alert!” Taia repeated in his ear. “Hallway alarm triggered.”

  “Display Camera One view, now!” Nolan ordered. One hand held his blaster pistol rock-steady, the other gripped one of his chair’s wheels. If it came to a fight, he’d get to the workshop in seconds. It would take serious hardware to get through that durasteel door.

  The screen built into one of the walls flickered to life, displaying live footage captured by the camera he’d set to monitor the hallway. His door, the only one on this level, overlooked a staircase that descended toward the Spacer’s Paradise and ascended toward the run-down tenements of the four floors above him. The staircase to the rooftop was empty, but the figure lying on the staircase leading down to the peeler bar below caught his attention.

  Visitors to the Spacer’s Paradise below often took advantage of the staircase to indulge in the sort of things people did at a peeler bar where drugs and liquor were sold freely. However, few ever got farther than the shadows of the stairwell. Only the residents of the floors above ever came up this high, and Taia already had their faces locked in her recognition database.

  Nothing about the figure screamed danger, but Nolan didn’t lower the pistol. Not until he was certain there was no threat.

  “Zoom in,” he told Taia.

  The camera adjusted its zoom, narrowing in on the face and head. A woman’s. At least, he thought it was. He could see nothing discernibly feminine about her hairstyle—the faded sides had long ago grown out, leaving the longer top appearing even shabbier and rougher than was popular—and the gauntness of her face, complete with dark circles around her sunken eyes, gave her a skeletal look.

  He’d know that look anywhere. A Blitz junkie.

  The sight twisted a knife in his gut. That had been him a few years ago. In his desperate attempts to dull the pain, he’d gotten his hands on whatever he could. He’d taken everything, and everything had taken a toll on his body in return.

  Grimacing, he holstered his blaster. The last thing he needed was a reminder of who he’d been. He’d spent the last four y
ears, ten months, three weeks, and two days—three days, now—trying to get past it.

  Even as he opened his mouth to tell Taia to shut off the camera, the woman stirred, shifted, and gave a quiet moan. She reached out her arms and clawed weakly at the stairs, as if trying to crawl up. Or slide down. Either way, Nolan knew, her muscles would be too weak to move. Blitz had that effect on its users.

  Loud, coarse laughter echoed up the stairwell. A moment later, three shouting, laughing men marched up the stairs.

  “There she is!” exclaimed one. “Where you going, baby? The party’s just getting started downstairs!” Though the shortest of the trio, he was clearly the leader—everything about him, from his perfectly manicured eyebrows and moustache to his twin gold earrings to his neat, tailored clothing, spoke of money. That, and the fact that the two men behind him were clearly packing blasters in barely concealed armpit holsters and hovered in a stance that marked them as either his bodyguards or his crew. Judging by the myriad tattoos inked into his forearms and down one side of his neck, almost certainly a member of some street gang.

  “Come on, baby!” crooned the hoodlum. “Don’t tell me you’re already running out of steam.” He reached the girl and lifted her head. “We’ve got so much more fun in store! Look what I’ve got for you.”

  A glass vial of shimmering pink liquid gleamed in the light of the dingy staircase. Despite himself, Nolan couldn’t help the sudden shiver of anticipation as he caught sight of it.

  Again, he opened his mouth to tell Taia to turn off the cameras. Shimmertown had more than its fair share of hoodlums and junkies. He wanted nothing to do with either.

  Yet he couldn’t. Turning off the camera—and, in doing so, turning a blind eye to what could soon be a terrible situation for the drugged-out woman—went against everything he’d believed during his days in the IAF. He wasn’t a Silverguard anymore, but the lifelong mission to “serve and defend” didn’t die that easily.

  “You want this?” The gangbanger shook the vial in front of her face. “All you’ve got to do is say, ‘Please, Wolfe,’ and you’ll get the whole thing.”

  Nolan felt disgusted—at himself, at who he’d been. On the days, not too long ago, that he’d found himself in that same strung-out condition, there were few things he wouldn’t have done to get that whole dose. It was a day and night of absolute bliss in a bottle.

  The woman gave a little moan, her head lolling in Wolfe’s arms.

  “What’s that, baby?” The man leaned his ear close to her lips, his hands roaming freely around the ragged T-shirt and faux fur vest covering her chest and torso.

  The woman moaned something again—the audio quality was too poor for Nolan to hear.

  “She wants more, eh?” Wolfe said, grinning broadly to his thug-goon-bodyguards. “Greedy little thing, isn’t she?”

  The two brutes’ rumbling laughter echoed through the stairwell.

  With an almost casual cruelty, Wolfe let go of the woman. Her head dropped onto the stairs with a loud thump, eliciting another moan. The thugs and their leader laughed again.

  “Keep an eye on her, Jaek,” Wolfe addressed one of the two goons as he marched down the stairs. “Once Hector and I are done with business, bring her downstairs and we’ll get her back to our place. Then we’ll really see what she’d do for another taste of Blitz.” Though Nolan couldn’t see the man’s face, the vicious tone of his voice left no doubt as to his intentions.

  Anger surged within Nolan, and his hand tightened around the grip of his pistol. Such cruelty always disgusted him, and the fact that men like Wolfe got away with doing exactly what they wanted most of the time left him furious. That, and the sight of the Blitz junkie too weak and strung-out to defend herself from what lay in store for her.

  Every fiber of his being screamed at him to leap into action. He could open the door and put a blaster round in Jaek’s head before the brute even had time to turn. The same with Wolfe and Hector.

  Yet what happened if he did that? When Wolfe’s gang discovered his fate, they’d come to the Spacer’s Paradise to exact vengeance. Many of New Avalon’s gangs were more than willing to execute first and not bother with questions. Jadis, Mimi, and everyone else downstairs would suffer their wrath.

  Then there was the matter of drawing attention to himself. It would raise all kinds of questions if three thugs wound up dead on the steps outside the home of a former Silverguard. If the IDF really got curious—or the gangs threw the more bribe-accepting Doofs enough credits to investigate him—there was always a chance they’d find out who he really was. And what he did, who he worked for. Agent Styver had made it clear that their arrangement only functioned as long as nothing could connect Nolan Garrett to Cerberus, the Protection Bureau’s hired hitman.

  No, leaping into action was the stupid choice. It wouldn’t help him get Jared out of the Vault—if anything, he’d likely end up joining his brother. Agent Styver would somehow make sure of it.

  Nolan felt a stab of pity for the Blitz junkie. Even the knowledge that she’d be too high on Blitz to know what was coming didn’t alleviate the guilt he felt. Yet he couldn’t do anything for her, much as he wanted to.

  Then she moved. Barely more than a stir, a twitch of her arms. Yet as she did, Nolan caught sight of something on her right arm. A flash of something metallic etched into the underside of her forearm.

  Nolan froze, and ice slithered down his spine. It can’t be!

  But when she moved again, another twitch, he caught a proper glimpse of it: the silver blade of a dagger tattooed onto her skin.

  Everything changed in that moment. Instantly, Nolan’s mind set to work, scrambling to come up with a way out of this. He couldn’t leap into action himself, but he wasn’t in this alone.

  “Taia, scan the external cameras and see if this Wolfe guy came in a vehicle.” The words poured from his mouth in a rush.

  The image of a beautiful, sleek silver pleasure craft flashed onto the wall screen. It was a low-flier, the sort used to cruise around at street level, lacking the capability of larger craft to take to the skies. As gaudy as it was expensive, exactly the sort of thing a man like Wolfe would drive.

  “Time to give him a little scare.” A savage grin twisted his lips. “He carrying a comm device?”

  “Already way ahead of you,” Taia chirped in his ear.

  The beep of Jaek’s comm device echoed through the speakers picking up sound in the staircase. On camera, the big goon plucked the device from his belt and pressed it to his ear. Instantly, he thundered off down the staircase, leaving the woman alone.

  Nolan got moving before the camera lost Jaek. One hard push sent his wheelchair sliding toward the door. “Taia, open up and cover my back!”

  The automated door opened before he reached it and he wheeled through into the hallway beyond. Ten feet away, the woman lay on the staircase, just two steps from the landing of Nolan’s floor. Nolan brought his wheelchair to a skidding halt, wheeled around, and seized the woman’s wrist. Not bothering to be gentle, he hauled her up. The shrapnel might have stolen his legs, but he’d spent the last five and a half years strengthening his upper body. Emaciated as she was—Blitz had a tendency to kill the appetite for anything more than another hit—he had no trouble lifting her onto his lap.

  In a flash, he was wheeling back the way he’d come, into his place. He didn’t need to give Taia orders; the AI slid the door shut and bolted it securely behind him.

  Nolan didn’t stop wheeling until he reached his couch. This time, he had no need to hurry and lifted the woman gently from his lap to set her down on the plush sofa. “No more,” she moaned, her voice barely audible. She shifted once but didn’t stir. Her breath came in weak, shallow gasps. Blood trickled from a small cut on her forehead, courtesy of the brutish Wolfe.

  But in that moment, Nolan had eyes for only one thing. Not for her gaunt, pallid face, or the strong, shapely figure barely concealed beneath the faux fur vest, low-cut T-shirt, or mid-thigh-leng
th skirt.

  His eyes locked on the tattoo etched into the underside of her forearm: a silver sword with long, draconian wings protruding from the pommel. And, inscribed in sharp, jagged letters, the words “Nullus Hostis Invictus.”

  Nullus Hostis Invictus. The words echoed through Nolan’s mind. “No Enemy Unconquerable,” a motto conceived in mockery of the Terran League’s maxim of “In Unitatis Invictus,” or “In Unity Invincible.”

  He didn’t need to roll up his own sleeve to see the identical sword and words inked onto his forearm. He’d recognize that image anywhere. The sight of that tattoo had decided it for him. No matter who she was or how she’d ended up Blitzed-out and lying on the stairs of the Spacer’s Paradise, there was no way he could turn his back on her.

  Silverguards never abandoned their own.

  Chapter Six

  Bloody hell! Nolan’s gut tightened as he studied the woman lying on his couch. What’s a Silverguard doing with a guy like whoever that Wolfe was? And in that condition?

  He might not be able to find out the former, but he had a pretty good idea as to the latter. He’d been in a similar state not too many years earlier. And they wouldn’t be the only Silverguards—or even IAF troopers—to wind up Blitzed out of their minds. Civilian life could be damned hard, and good days few and far between. Whatever her story was, it wasn’t hard to imagine the steps that had led this woman down the same drug rabbit hole he’d crawled into.

  The real question is what to do with her.

  The wound on her head still bled, but it was far from her worst problem. The Blitz running through her veins was likely to kill her. Even worse, coming off the Blitz could kill her just as much.

  “Taia, get me a full scan of her vitals,” Nolan instructed the AI as he bent over the woman. A camera on a serpentine steel neck dropped down from a slot in the roof, and the camera whirred and clicked as it gave the woman a once-over. While Nolan waited, he took stock of her condition. Her pulse was thready and faint, her skin—perhaps a rich caramel color typically, though right now it was a sickly pale yellow with hints of blue discoloration—cold and clammy to the touch. She didn’t so much as stir as he lifted her eyelids to check her pupils. Constricted to tiny pinpoints, as he’d suspected.