The old man gave Simon an odd look. “You either like her or hate her, young Daamen."
It had been a long time since anyone had referred to Simon as young. Though just turned thirty, most people not Daamens looked at his height and build—at all their heights and builds—and ‘young’ didn't seem to cross their minds.
But more importantly, it was what the old man said that caught Simon's attention. “Like or hate?"
"Demon has her friends and enemies."
"She has many enemies?"
"She's a Head Peacekeeper on the outskirts of the Outlaw Sector, what do you think?"
The old man was as cantankerous as his boss, and Simon wondered briefly if Des and he were related.
"How did a wench end up Head Peacekeeper?"
"She's no ordinary woman, Daamen.” The old man turned around and started walking back up the corridor.
"You've known her long?"
The old man glanced over his shoulder at Simon, winked and continued out the door. It clicked shut behind him.
"See, ‘tis more than obvious that our friend is quite taken with the shrewish little wench,” Shamon drawled from behind Simon.
"Even after she zapped him,” Heddam added. “'Tis so romantic!"
"Very romantic."
Here we go again ... Resignedly, Simon turned to face his laughing friends. “That's the problem with being locked up. I'm stuck with you mob."
"You're tonight's entertainment,” Shamon informed him cheerfully. “So, tell us, Simon, what attracts you to the wench? Her eyes?"
"Her shapely backside?” Heddam added.
A crash sounded from the main office, followed by a curse and Des's voice yelling out an obscenity.
"Her good humor?” Kel's eyes twinkled.
Simon couldn't help but laugh and shake his head. But as he settled back down onto the bunk a part of him was wondering about Des's injuries, and he found himself hoping there was no serious damage done.
* * * *
Tired and even grumpier than normal, Des groaned when the alarm sounded from the communicator on the headboard. Lifting her hand, she fumbled around until she found the switch on the communicator and activated it. “What now?"
Marcel answered. “Sorry, Boss. The west end building has collapsed."
"Collapsed?” Pushing the hair out of her eyes, she rolled over and sat up, dislodging Fuzz from where she had sprawled heavily across her hip.
Fuzz growled and moved to the foot of the big bed.
"It's a warehouse. We're trying to clear the rubble."
"And you called me, why? Can't you handle this?” Squinting at the timer on the wall, Des groaned again. She'd only been in bed for an hour. It was turning into another long night.
"We don't know if anyone is trapped inside."
"And like I said, you called me, why?"
"Because one of those unknown ships was spotted flying over the building just before it collapsed."
Des kicked the covers off. “I'll be right there. Get a pursuit craft after that ship."
"We tried. It's already gone."
"Shit. Scan for it!"
"It's off radar."
"Damn!” Flicking off the communicator, Des hurriedly dressed in yet another pair of clean clothes, but without bothering to tuck anything in.
After strapping the laser around her thigh, she pushed a dagger into the sheath at the top of her boot and ran into the garage. Jumping into the single-seater pilot vehicle, she engaged the door, and as soon as it opened far enough, she soared out of the garage and spun the vehicle around. Passing the warehouses and the collapsed one without stopping, she parked her vehicle behind the Enforcement Building less than thirty seconds after she'd left her home.
Entering the office, she went straight to the scanners which Huxley was manning. There was nothing showing on the scanner except for the usual traffic, and she swore.
"All right, has Marcel found out if anyone was in the warehouse?” Des slipped the communicator into her ear.
"Not yet.” Huxley shook his head.
"Keep trying to pick up that bloody ship on the scanner. One hint of it, even, and I want a pursuit craft after it. Understand?"
He nodded.
Leaving the building, Des walked calmly but quickly towards the west end of the settlement. There were a few warehouses at that end, mainly because that was where trade ships and merchants landed in the docking bays nearby.
Rolling her shoulders, Des studied the warehouse as she neared. Several men were trying to shift some of the beams, while Emory, one of the pursuit officers, was trying to establish some kind of communication with anyone down below.
Refusing to rush, Des carefully studied the surroundings, but apart from some nosy bystanders, there was no one and nothing in sight that she'd consider a threat. Finding the area safe, she stepped out of the shadows and into the light.
"Des!” Marcel said with obvious relief.
"Found someone under there?” she queried.
"One, we think."
"You think?’ Hands on her hips, she studied the pile of rubble.
Smoke smoldered, but apart from that, there seemed to be no evidence of a blast.
"We heard what appeared to be a faint voice calling out.” Marcel gestured towards Emory beside his pursuit craft. “He's trying to establish a communication."
"Which is all very well if the poor bugger under this mess can communicate back."
"Thought of that already, Boss. Emory is going to let a two-way communicator down through any gaps to enable us to at least communicate with the person—or persons—under here."
Des looked at him thoughtfully for a minute, and Marcel raised his brows in return. Finally she nodded. “Good thinking."
"Thanks."
"Now, how stable is this?"
"This?"
"This.” She nodded to the heap of heavy timbers.
Marcel shook his had. “Not very stable at all, if you're thinking of using a lifter to get the beams up. It needs to be handled with more care."
"So we're going to have to do it by hand?"
"Looks like it."
"Fine. Round up some blokes and let's do it."
That, however, was easier said than done, as Des soon found out. The main building beams were incredibly heavy, and the amount of men needed to lift it at each end made the rubble groan and shift. Even though she was able to lift one end with some help, it required far more men on the other end. Not to mention that some were downright clumsy.
"Damn it!” She gestured to the men. “Put it down slowly and back away. We're causing more damage!"
They did as bidden, and then all stood and stared at the rubble.
Emory had managed to thread a thin communication line from his pursuit vehicle down amongst the gaps, and it had disappeared into the depths. They were now able to hear the faint noise of something or someone.
Frowning, Des looked around. She was in need of far stronger men than the settlers her peacekeepers had managed to round up. Her gaze drifted over towards the Daamen trading ship. There were two giant traders in that ship. Big. Strong.
"Raf!” She yelled.
"Yeah?” His voice came from right behind her, making her jump.
"I thought you were over there. Never mind. Go and get those two traders and bring them here. We need their assistance."
He rolled his eyes. “You really think they're going to help?"
"Just do it. Tell them it's an order."
"That'll go down well, I'm sure.” But he nevertheless ran off to the trade ship.
Watching him, Des wasn't surprised when she saw him stopped by the force shield that surrounded the ship. However, her frown grew as the minutes ticked past and no one appeared at the open ramp. The force shield would have registered a presence to the inhabitants of the ship. The Daamens not coming down the ramp could only mean one thing, they weren't there.
"Probably rooting the eyes out of some tavern wench,” she mutter
ed.
"Pardon?” Emory looked at her.
"Nothing.” Des rubbed her chin, turned, and looked back towards the Enforcement Building.
The two remaining traders might not be aboard ship, but she knew where a whole pile of the big buggers were sleeping.
In her jail cells.
"Be right back.” She strode back to the Enforcement Building.
"What about the trapped person?” one of the settlers called after her.
"He's not going anywhere,” she replied.
There was a muttering behind her, but no one argued. She grinned to herself. When one spoke the truth, as ugly as it was, there wasn't much anyone could say.
Entering the Enforcement Building, she strode past Huxley and through the door leading to the corridor of cells. All was quiet in the dimly lit jail, the only sounds that of the snores and grunts as the full cells of occupants slept peacefully.
That'd be bloody right. Scowling, her brief flash of humor vanishing, she stopped near the cell containing the traders. The bloody criminals slept peacefully while the peacekeepers were running around trying to keep the law.
Folding her arms, she glared at the giants sprawled on the floor and bunks, looking so damn comfortable it was a wonder they weren't cooing in their damned sleep.
"Something wrong, lass?” The low, deep voice rumbled from the dimness.
The rumbling tones went right through her, and she instinctively found the source. Simon was lying on the bunk, his hands linked behind his head, his muscular chest rising and falling with each deep, even breath. In the dim light, his pale eyes glinted as he watched her.
For a second Des caught her breath. His height and build meant that lying on the bunk was not easy. He had his legs bent at the knee, one foot propped on the bunk, the other long leg down with his boot braced on the floor. The massive biceps in his arms bulged and flexed as he moved his hands and pushed upward.
Dropping his other booted foot to the floor, he swung up into a sitting position, his hands loosely clasped between his thighs as he watched her steadily. His long, fair hair rippled down over his shoulders.
The man really was too damned, dangerously good-looking for a woman's peace of mind.
Luckily, she wasn't the kind of woman to swoon over a man such as this dangerous-looking giant. And he wasn't such a giant to one of her stature, anyway.
Impatient at her wayward thoughts, Des's scowl grew.
Lass,” Simon drawled in that deep rumble. “If you're spoiling for a fight, by all means open the door and I'll see what I can do to accommodate you."
"You wish,” she retorted.
Pushing up easily, Simon strode lazily across the floor, stepping over his sleeping friends in the process. Coming to a stop directly before her, he rested his shoulder against the bars and gazed at her with an unreadable expression. His gaze slid slowly across her face, as though memorizing every plane and curve.
When his eyes lingered on her lips, Des tightened them.
"Shame,” he murmured, his eyes gleaming when he looked her directly in the eyes.
Ignoring the comment, Des said bluntly, “I need your help."
Interest flickered across his face. “Really?"
"I need you and your friends to do some heavy lifting.” Laying her hand on the print panel, she watched his face as the barred door slid open.
"Really?"
Stepping back, she frowned impatiently as he continued to stand there, his shoulder against the bars, watching her out of those fathomless pale eyes. “Come on."
"'Tis a little problem, lass."
"Don't call me lass, and what is it?"
"Des.” The name rolled off his tongue like thick syrup. “We're your prisoners, remember?"
"So?"
"Prisoners belong behind bars."
Moving forward so that she stood in the doorway of the cell, Des gripped the edge of the door in one hand, placed her other hand on her hip, and narrowed her eyes. “You want to bargain, is that it?"
His smile was slow, and she could see now how devastating it could be.
"Don't waste my time by trying to be charming, Daamen."
"I wouldn't try to charm you, Des. I'd do ... other things."
A muffled snort of laughter came from the dim cell behind him, making Des scowl even fiercer. “Get your arses up and out,” she snapped. “You've work to do!"
Some of the traders started, obviously from asleep, but three of them got up immediately, wide grins on their roguishly handsome faces.
"Wait a minute.” Simon didn't take his gaze off her, even as he raised his hand towards his men. “What do we get in exchange, Des?"
"Des.” Marcel's voice came through the communication receiver in her ear. “The sound is getting fainter under this trashed warehouse."
Damn. There was no time to waste. “Come and help me shift the heavy timbers from this warehouse collapse,” she growled. “And then you're all free to leave."
Straightening up, Simon's expression changed from lazy to alert. “There's been a collapse?"
"Come with me and I'll tell you about it.” Swinging around on her heel, she pressed her hand to the main panel as she passed it, and the other two cells containing the rest of the traders opened. Striding out of corridor of cells, she heard the heavy tramp of boots behind her but didn't look around.
Huxley's eyes widened as the giant traders entered the main office behind her, but she ignored him and strode outside.
Simon fell into step beside her. “Tell us about the cave-in."
"We don't know what caused it. It's collapsed, and we think there might be someone trapped under it."
"Why not get a lifter?"
"Too unstable. Hands are better, but there's no one strong enough to lift the heavier timber. Too many helpers each end makes it more unstable."
"Ah."
Yeah.
"I hope Jude is okay,” one of the traders behind them said, worry in his voice. “Which warehouse was it?"
"Not Jude's,” she retorted.
They continued in silence, and the conversation amongst the few settlers rounded up to help died down as the big traders came into sight.
Instructing the traders in what she wanted them to do, Des bent down and grabbed the end of one of the heavy beams.
"We can do it.” Simon looked at her from where he was crouched down at the other end of the heavy beam.
Without replying, Des started to lift, and with a tightening of his own lips, Simon did the same.
With the assistance of the muscular giants, the heavier beams were lifted out of the way with minimal disturbance of the remaining rubble, and Marcel instructed the settlers to take the smaller beams. Within twenty minutes, most of it had been cleared away.
Des swore to herself as she picked her way through the remainder of the rubble. There was no one trapped in the warehouse, but the sound was clearer now. It seemed to be a voice that was speaking in a foreign language.
Wondering what they were facing, Des warned everyone back. “Emory, run a scan. Is there anything explosive here?"
"No,” he replied after several minutes.
Following the lead from Emory's pursuit vehicle, she traced it to the very middle of where the warehouse once stood. The communicator was resting against a small box.
Crouching down beside it, Des studied it without touching the box. “You're sure there's no explosive?"
"There's nothing showing, Boss."
Reaching out, she took a deep breath and picked it up gingerly. When there was no click, she stood up slowly, inspecting the box. The voice still came from inside it, but there was no indication who or what was speaking. Or even what language, if it was a language.
"Do you think it's a communication device?” Marcel queried.
"Buggered if I know.” Hefting the box thoughtfully in her hand, she moved back out of the debris.
The settlers moved nervously out of her way, but the traders watched her closely.
Simon took her elbow as she stepped over one of the big beams, supporting her as she steadied herself.
She felt his touch almost burn right through her sleeve. It was amazing what lack of sleep could do to a person. Which reminded her...
Deliberately moving her elbow from the cup of his hand, she looked up at him. “Thanks for your help. You're free to go."
"Why, thank you.” His face had no expression, but amusement rippled throughout his words.
Taking a deep breath, she said. “Really. Thank you."
His eyes softened, a fact that almost alarmed her. No one's eyes softened when they looked at her. “My pleasure, lass."
Not liking the strange sensations that were starting to prick deep inside her, she jerked her head abruptly at the watching settlers. “Everyone go home. Thanks for your help.” Dismissing all, she turned her attention back to her job. “Emory, I want you to do fly overs for the rest of the night. Get Chas to cross your track over. Marcel, I want Huxley on that scanner for the rest of the night. If any other unknown ships even get within sniffing distance of this settlement, I want to know."
"Got it.” Emory nodded.
Carrying the box in both hands, Des walked back to the Enforcement Building, her thoughts already on the puzzle of the box.
Once inside the building, she crossed to the other door that led into an adjacent room. This one held a table and various communications devices.
Placing the box in a small holder, Des ran the language scanner and watched the screen as it flicked through every known language. When it came up with no match, she tried again, but with the same dismal result. Maybe it wasn't a language at all.
Then the voice—if it was a voice—stopped. I didn't start again, even when she turned the box around and shook it slightly. Giving up, she placed it back on the table.
Going back into the main office, she glanced at the scanner over Huxley's shoulder. “Anything?"
"No."
"Okay."
"Did you figure out the language from the box?’ he queried.
"No.” Glancing down at him, she noted the edge of the self-adhesive patch showing from under the rolled up sleeves of his shirt. “How's your arm?"
"Fine. Moresby gave me some good painkillers."
"Right. You're going home."
"Huh?"
Heart of a Peacekeeper Page 5
