Sabercat (Tommy Reilly Chronicles Book 1)

by T. L. Knighton

  "You guys have something in mind?" Max asked.

  Tommy turned back to the quancom and nodded. "Maybe. I'll have to make another call though."

  Wyatt's face flooded with relief, which Tommy found himself understanding completely.

  "Alright. Good luck then," Max finally said.

  Good luck to us both, Tommy thought.

  Another ten minutes, another call, and a severe and familiar looking Russian now looked back at him. "This is what you ask?" Igor asked.

  Tommy simply nodded.

  "This…this we can do," the other man replied.

  "How long?"

  The other man shrugged. "It depends on many things," his thick accent coloring his words. "It may be very soon, or may take a while. I will let you know when I have an idea though. Not sooner than several Earth weeks, though."

  Tommy nodded again. "I appreciate it, Igor. This will make us square."

  The Russian smiled menacingly and said, "Not even close, my friend. My Katya is almost fully recovered. I owe you much more than this small thing."

  Tommy fought the smile he felt dancing on the corners of his lips. "I'm glad to hear it. Maybe we can arrange a load headed to Jericho in time to catch her next dance recital."

  Igor's smile relaxed as he replied, "I can make this happen."

  "Good, please do. And give me a holler when you and yours have things figured."

  The other man nodded and the screen went black.

  "Well," Tommy said as he turned to face the rest of his crew. "We don't know our window, so we'd better be ready to roll as soon as possible. Let's get to work."

  "How are we going to get anything done without this Hatcher jerk figuring out what we've got brewing?" Cody asked.

  "Oh, that?" Tommy said with a smirk. "That's where we get to have a little fun."

  ** ** **

  Hatcher stormed into the room the surveillance team was using as their control room. "What's going on" he demanded.

  A half dozen heads swung toward Roscoe, where he sat monitoring the town's security cameras. He sighed and stood, then calmly said, "The same thing they've done for the last twenty-four hours, sir."

  "Just that? Just deliveries?"

  Roscoe nodded slowly. "Yes sir."

  "Who the hell needs so many parts? You're actually buying this crap?"

  Another nod, then Roscoe replied, "Only because we've checked into it. Minor parts in the past, with the exception of an internal dampener their last stop on Jericho. The chafing thing is a wreck. Plus, it's the first time Port Security hasn't fined them for something when they hit dirt, so it's very likely the first time they actually could do any repair work."

  That seemed to settle his boss a bit, but not a lot. "And what about the food deliveries?"

  "They got to eat, and eating off ship is expensive. Most crews will do it for a while, mostly because they're sick of what comes out of their galley, so they start cooking again when cash starts running low."

  Hatcher turned and seemed to study the room for a long, drawn out moment before finally asking, "Anything coming out?"

  "Just the food delivery crates."

  "What?" Hatcher barked, his early rage returning suddenly and with interest accrued.

  Roscoe looked back, confused. "It's standard procedure. The ships don't need them cluttering up their holds."

  "You idiot!" Hatcher yelled. "They're in and out of there without you morons having a chafing clue where they are."

  He took a deep breath before responding, "They might, but we've had thermals on them the whole time. We can't see into the ship, but the crates are clear."

  Hatcher's eyes swung around, looking at each person for just a moment. "Alright then," he said, calmer but still obviously annoyed. "Carry on."

  With those final words, Hatcher spun around and walked out the room.

  Roscoe looked at his men and cocked a half-smile. "Well, anyone think Max Wyatt is hiring?"

  The men laughed with the uneasy sound of people wondering whether it was a joke…or maybe a really good suggestion.

  ** ** **

  Three men manhandled the crate out of the cargo-lift with unusual care. Nothing marked "fragile" on it, yet they acted like the contents were either breakable or explosive, which made no sense considering the crate came out of the Wyattsville Produce vehicle.

  Gingerly, the men placed it on the ground and lifted the polymer lid from it.

  "Comfy?" the biggest of the three men asked with a smirk.

  "Bite me," Cody replied from his hiding place. "You couldn't make it any tighter in here?"

  The big man shrugged. "Insulation takes space. You're an engineer, right? You should understand these things."

  "Shut up and help get me out of here. I've seen coffins with more elbow room."

  The other man held a hand out, which Cody grasped. Both men grunted as slowly until Cody was finally free of his insulated prison.

  "Oh, that sucked," the engineer complained.

  "That's alright, at least you're out now," the other man replied.

  "Thank God. Now, Tony my man, let's get me where I need to be. I've got chaos to create," Cody said with a wolfish grin.

  Tony mirrored his glee and gestured toward the cargo-lift.

  ** ** **

  The weeks flew by in a hectic blur. Michelle created three dimensional models, now set up in the cargo hold where they could talk in private, along with their accomplices. They went over the plan night and day until Tommy finally got the call.

  "Hello, my friend," Igor said, his accent sounding even thicker than usual for some reason.

  "Hey, what do you have for me?" Tommy asked.

  Igor sighed with a smile and said, "Always so impatient."

  Looking properly abashed, Tommy replied, "Sorry. It's been a long couple of weeks is all."

  "Is understood. Nikita is in place. He'll have someone meet you tomorrow at this Ringo's. Does this work for you?"

  Tommy smiled. "Beautifully. Thanks, Igor. I appreciate it."

  The screen blinked to black and Tommy left the bridge and made his way through the belly of the ship, basking in the smells of Sabercat, watching every pipe. It truly was his Nirvana.

  As he made his way down the stairs into the cargo hold, the rest of the crew waited for him. "Igor's got his guy in place."

  Harley smiled. "Good. It looks like Cody made it out just fine."

  Tommy nodded.

  "Can I ask you something?" Dianne asked.

  Again, he nodded.

  "How do you know they would try to scan whatever was in the crates?"

  Harley shrugged and said, "We don't."

  "Then why go through all that?" she asked.

  "It's simple. We look at what we're going to do, then figure out every possibly way it can be caught, then we hope," Tommy replied.

  "Hope?"

  "Yeah, we hope we're smarter than the people they have watching us."

  Dianne considered for a moment, then nodded slowly. "So it might have been a waste of time?"

  "Possible," Harley said. "But we can't afford for them to know we're doing anything. So we make it as hard as possible for them to see anything. It keeps us and ours safe and sound."

  "Pretty much," Tommy agreed.

  Dianne smiled softly and said, "Okay, I can see that. So, what now?"

  "More of the same."

  ** ** **

  Tommy took his seat at Ringo's and watched as the goons scattered all over the place. He made a mental note of where each was. Five total.

  A large man with a thick beard entered and made a bee line for Tommy. "Mr. Reilly?" the man asked, only the slightest trace of an accent.

  Tommy nodded.

  "Nikita sent me," the man replied.

  Good, Tommy thought. He left Igor's name out of it. I can work with this.

  Out loud, Tommy said, "Want to step upstairs?"

  The other man nodded.

  As Tommy got up, the goons stood as well, each
turning toward them.

  "Oh goody," Tommy said, still feeling sore from some unarmed training with Harley the day before. "I'm so looking forward to this."

  "Mr. Reilly, I'm afraid I can't let you do that," the first goon said. He was a man of average height, his clothes hiding a fair bit of muscle, though a bit of fat did a better job of that. With black hair and a goatee, he looked fairly average.

  That made Tommy feel a little better about his current predicament.

  "It's still a free planet, isn't it?" Tommy asked, shooting a quick look to Walker.

  The bartender gave him the barest hint of a nod, but it was enough. Tommy saw it, and he knew that was all that mattered.

  "You're in?" Tommy asked.

  Nikita's man nodded, with a malevolent smile crossing his lips and a mischievous glint in his eye. This was someone who liked to throw down.

  "There's five of us," the goon said.

  "Oh, good point," Tommy said, looking at the men. Then he smiled malevolently. "Do you need to get some more guys?"

  The goon glared at Tommy for a long moment. "You and your friend are free to stay down here, but you're not going upstairs."

  "I'm going anywhere I chafing well want to," Tommy said, making a bit of a gamble.

  "No, you're not," he said, grabbing Tommy's left arm.

  He'd been trying to get the guy to grab him. The gamble worked.

  Tommy reached over with his right arm and snatched the goon's hand, twisting it in an awkward and painful direction, bending the other man over.

  From the corner of his eye, he saw another goon charging forward.

  Hours upon hours of practice with Harley paid off as Tommy leveled a vicious side kick into the charging man's stomach, never releasing his grip on the first goon.

  Tommy used his leverage on the first goon to swing the other man around…and right into a third goon, finally letting go of the man's wrist.

  Staring down the three men, Tommy finally raised his hands and settled into a fighting stance. Even before Harley worked with him, Tommy had been good with his fists. Yeah, he'd been a rich-boy thug, but you can't play that game long if you can't back it up.

  Tommy definitely could.

  The three men approached, this time more cautiously. The first goon threw a sloppy jab. Tommy simply shifted to the side and let it go by him.

  Another jab. Tommy shifted the other direction.

  Then all three men came at him. They were slow and untrained, but they made up for that with the simple fact there were three of them. Blows rained on Tommy from almost every direction.

  Some, Tommy blocked. Others, he dodged. Some, he just plain stopped. With his body.

  Despite that, however, Tommy still slugged it out with the three men. Each of his punches and kicks ripping through the air with speed and proficiency – things his attackers lacked.

  One punch to the jaw of a goon dropped him down.

  A kick to the knee of another, and he was down too.

  Now, it was just the first goon and Tommy.

  Fear screamed from the other man's eyes.

  "You know," Tommy said, trying desperately to not sound half out of breath, "this isn't going to end well for you, right?"

  "Bite me," the goon said as he huffed and puffed, clearly a scholar with a classical education.

  Tommy smiled. It always helped when your target gave you a reason to enjoy the beating you were about to deliver, and it was even better when they actually deserved it.

  The goon came in to throw a punch, his fatigue making him sloppier than usual. Tommy grabbed the arm, stepped in and threw a backhanded blow straight into the other man's face, followed with a vicious elbow into the stomach.

  Now doubled over, Tommy grabbed the back of the goon's head and threw his right knee up, sending the goon sprawling backward onto the tavern's floor.

  For the first time since things started, Tommy looked around the bar. Nikita's man had his two down as well, thankfully.

  The other patrons looked at the two victors, then immediately turned back to their conversations and dinner. The regulars didn't think much of Hatcher's goons either, apparently.

  "We'll clean this up," Walker said. "You two go do what you got to do."

  "This going to make things difficult for you?" Tommy asked.

  The barman smiled and said, "We've done this before. These boys are going to wake up on a farmstead about a thousand kilometers up north. We'll get them home a little after you folks hit atmo with a firm understanding that they're better off saying they got jumped in an alley."

  Tommy returned the grin. Turning to Nikita's man – he really needed to get a name for this guy soon – he gestured toward the stairs.

  The other man nodded as they went up.

  As the two of them made it to the top, they entered the tiny room. Tommy closed the door behind him.

  "You got a name?" he asked.

  The other man said, "Mischa."

  "Thanks for the help down there," Tommy said.

  Mischa shrugged with a grin and said, "It helped knock the rust off."

  "Fair enough," Tommy said, immediately liking the Russian. "Nikita ready?"

  "One week," Mischa said. "Exactly seven local days, he'll have everything in place for you."

  Tommy nodded his understanding. "Does he need a ride off this dirtball?"

  Mischa shook his head. "We have that handled already, but I know Igor appreciates it."

  "Any time."

  "Alright," Tommy said as he pulled out a chair and sat. He then pointed to a chair on the other side of the roughly hewn table. Mischa nodded pulled out his own chair and Tommy continued, "Now, let me tell you want we need."

  Chapter 10

  Hatcher sat in his office surrounded by opulence when the communicator chirped. He reached over without looking and slapped the correct button, his eyes locked on the screen with the daily output of his mines.

  "What?" he barked.

  "Good afternoon, sir," Roscoe responded calmly. "You wanted us to let you know if there was anything unusual happening."

  Hatcher turned to look at Roscoe's image. "What is it?"

  "Reilly is on the move."

  "Where's he heading?" Hatcher asked.

  Roscoe's image stared back, suddenly looking more than a little uncomfortable. "We're not sure, sir, but it kind of looks like he's heading to you."

  "Are you sure?" Hatcher said, immediately regretting the words. He knew Roscoe wasn't sure, which was why he said it looked like he was heading toward him.

  Roscoe simply replied, "That's the best guess at this point. We can't figure out anything else of interest to him given his current path."

  "Alright. Let me know if there are any changes."

  Roscoe nodded and the screen winked to black.

  Hatcher leaned back in his chair and considered. Why would Tommy Reilly be heading this way? He didn't ask whether he was using ground transport or whether Reilly was walking, but figured it had to be using some kind of transportation. Hatcher's home was too far away to make walking reasonable, which may have factored into Roscoe's deducing the other man's probable destination.

  Hatcher knew he wasn't a stupid man, but he also knew he wasn't overly quick on his feet. He could fake it well enough, and he had. That's how he had managed to get command of the Pathfinders – the men and women who took the risks on colonization missions – for Ararat. However, he knew what his real limits were.

  That's why he hired street smart people like Roscoe. Sure, the man might not ever be able to rise in station to become one of the nearly mythical Clans, but not everyone could. Hatcher knew he could, but only with a good bit of luck and a good bit of money. Of course, taking it from Max Wyatt helped with that. The fact it jagged off that pretentious nothing was just a bonus to him.

  Hatcher stood up and tugged his shirt flat. Since he was apparently going to have a guest, it was wise to look as in control as possible. A cluttered desk and hard work might send the wr
ong message to the young Reilly – a man Hatcher was sure knew all about how the Clans actually did things.

  He walked around the desk and out of his office. The hall was decorated with murals of the good life on Earth, where Hatcher hoped to retire soon enough as one of the Families. Sure, he might not be a spring chicken and was still unmarried, but once he was in with the ruling class, that wouldn't mean anything. The longevity treatments alone would give him long enough to make his Clan an actual family. From what he understood, the families even had arranged marriages, so he wouldn't even need to look for a wife.

  A gong echoed through the hall as he walked.

  One of his servants opened the door, still too far away for Hatcher to hear what was being said. The servant closed the door and turned to him. "Sir," he began, elevating his voice to be heard over the distance, "there is a Captain Reilly here to see you?"

  Hatcher nodded and continued his approach. "Let him in."

  Curiosity had gotten the best of Hatcher. He desperately wanted to know what Reilly wanted, after all.

  Tommy stepped into the mansion – it was really the only way to describe the house, which was large enough only the warehouses he'd seen on Ararat rivaled it for size – and looked around. Everything screamed money and opulence. Every metal surface was gold plated, every wood he saw was expensive and imported, and no surface was allowed to go undecorated.

  It was enough to make him nauseous.

  He forced himself to smile as Hatcher approached. The man looked as greasy and smarmy as ever, with a plastered on smile and a feigned expression of delight to see Tommy.

  Not that Tommy blamed him. It seemed clear that their feelings for one another were probably mutual. Still, appearances and all that, so Tommy returned the smile.

  "Mr. Reilly! To what do I owe this pleasant surprise?" Hatcher asked with a hand extended.

  Tommy took it and shook, and replied, "Well, we're going to be leaving soon and certain parties asked me to have a little chat with you."

  "Certain parties?" Hatcher asked.