I'm Your Hoochie Coochie Man

by C. J. Clemens

  Too bad we’re all gonna die.

  “Sheriff, we can probably hold them off for a little while, don’t you think?” Skully asked from beneath the steering console.

  A flicker of hope shone in his tired, blue eyes. This was the man who’d surmounted every engineering problem she’d ever thrown at him. There was nothing he couldn’t fix. How ironic that his demise would be facilitated by one of the crazy machines he so loved to design.

  She offered him an affirmative nod, not wanting to vocalize the lie. Yes, they could deter Gono’s men for a little while—that was, until the relentless thugs grew tired of shooting at them and simply tossed a couple of explosives onto the bridge. Still, she didn’t want to discourage the scrapyard owner. What would be the point?

  And Nate. Hunkered down in a corner, his weapons at the ready, his furrowed brow the only indication that every fresh screech of metal against metal had him concerned. She loved her little brother, even though he often caused her a lot of trouble and, at times, she suspected, even took pleasure in doing so. Still, whenever she really needed him, as when Tim had been killed, he was there for her.

  These people were all going to die… and for what?

  A particularly loud crunch echoed throughout the ship.

  Then, an angry voice shouted, “Son of a bitch!”

  She nodded at her crew, then straightened herself into blasting position, facing the bridge entrance. Her heart pounded and her vision narrowed to whatever was coming through that doorway. No thoughts anymore, just pure action.

  For whatever that’s worth.

  She opened fire. Judging by the cacophony of noise, everyone else did the same. She risked a quick glance at the mayor. He’d managed to keep his gun steady and pointed in the right direction.

  “Hold your damn fire,” came a hoarse cry from the entrance. “Goddammit, hold your fire!”

  Lilly knew that voice. She raised her finger from the trigger, then held up her hand to signal that everyone on the bridge stop firing. The shots trailed off to silence.

  “Don’t shoot! We’re here to get you all out of here,” came the familiar voice again.

  And now she was sure. She narrowed her eyes at the man stepping into the entryway to the bridge.

  It was Captain Remy Bechet, looking bigger, meaner, and way filthier than she’d remembered him. Of course, he was still armed and resembling some kind of smug vigilante hero.

  A lone blast rang out. She spun around. The mayor had fired off his gun, hitting the wall next to Bechet’s head.

  “Holy shit!” Bechet bellowed at the hapless mayor. “You dumbass, you almost shot me in the head!”

  Cansen stared at his gun as if discovering it for the first time. “S-sorry.”

  “Everyone needs to move,” a female voice cried, stepping onto the bridge. It was the captain’s girl, Dreyla, looking as filthy as her father. “Now! Those guys are seconds from ripping the door off!”

  Lilly dove into crisis decision-making mode. Bechet wasn’t guilty of killing those medics, fine, but he was guilty of something. He might as well have “criminal” tattooed on his face. But he was here now, and he and the girl were apparently trying to help them out of an inevitable shitstorm.

  She didn’t have a whole lot of choices.

  “Alright, everybody, move!” she yelled. “Follow Captain Bechet.”

  There wasn’t enough immediacy of action for her liking. She stomped around the bridge and tugged at the people who seemed struck by paralysis of doubt. Those already moving, she goaded to move faster. Her two remaining deputies worked in frenzied cooperation to assist her, until the last stragglers departed the bridge, presumably following Dreyla to safety.

  Lilly and Bechet were the last two people remaining. As she headed toward the exit, the ship jerked again, flinging her to one side. She braced herself for impact against the hard edge of the nearest console. But instead, she fell into something else, something that engulfed her arms and shoulders, completely supporting her, making her feel weightless for just a second.

  She gasped. Slowly, she twisted around and found herself staring into the eyes that should have been Tim’s but weren’t. They were hazel and fringed with dark eyelashes, staring back intently at her. Her savior’s chest rose and fell rapidly, and she was dismayed to find her hand splayed up against his hard pectoral muscles, which were partially covered by a greasy, smelly black-and-brown shirt. She whipped her hand away.

  Of course, Bechet had caught her. Honestly, she’d have preferred landing on her ass.

  “You coming or not?” he asked through gritted teeth.

  “When you let me go,” she said, wriggling from his grasp and straightening up, “I might actually be able to.”

  “We have to get the hell outta here,” he said, taking a step back.

  His assuredness was so absolute that she merely nodded and sprinted off the bridge, toward the cargo bay. She ran as fast as she could down the corridor, feeling Bechet’s presence behind her every step of the way.

  Chapter 6

  REMY

  If Remy was honest with himself, he wouldn’t trust him either. Clearly, the sheriff still had serious doubts about this rescue.

  But crawling behind her in the duct leading to his escape hatch did have its advantages. The woman was shapely in the way he liked, and it was certainly fun to watch her wiggle.

  Not paying attention or, at least, not paying attention to the right thing, he rammed his face into the bottom of her left boot.

  “What the shit?” he said, rubbing his forehead. As if he weren’t filthy enough.

  Dreyla’s muffled voice wafted through the duct. “Captain, the dwarf—”

  “Dworg,” the aflin corrected in his high-pitched voice.

  “The dworg appears to be stuck.”

  The ship shuddered again, and another heart-wrenching metallic crunch echoed through the Jay. Sounded like Darkbur’s men had finally breached the airlock.

  “Suck it in, Milo,” Sheriff Greyson called out.

  Yep, couldn’t have said it better myself.

  A series of indignant yelps burst from the dworg as someone likely pushed on his feet while someone else pulled him from the front. But the queue didn’t advance.

  “They’re aboard,” Remy hissed, “so unless we want our asses literally hanging out, we need to move it.”

  More to the point, it would be his ass hanging out as he was the last in line.

  With a painful grunt, Milo must’ve crammed himself through the tight passage because the sheriff started moving again.

  Not a moment too soon, Remy dropped through the opening underneath the Jay. Glorious, relatively fresh air filled his lungs as he rolled to a crouch and glanced back at the ship. The outer airlock door lay on the dusty ground, gleaming in the sun like another piece of scrap.

  You sons of bitches.

  Dreyla guided the sheriff’s group toward the large crack in the rear wall of the salvage yard. A jolt of pride shot through him. Until now, he had only suspected her leadership qualities. Now, he knew for sure.

  Remy and the sheriff guarded the rear as the rest continued fleeing the scrapyard, headed toward the med ship that he hoped to God was still running. Weird how he and Sheriff Greyson could work in unspoken, seamless cooperation, despite the friction between them.

  Good thing, too, because out of nowhere a blaster shot tore through his shirt, leaving his armpit hair singed.

  “Goddammit!”

  Not the first time he’d escaped death by a mere fraction of an inch. Surely, he was running out of lives by now? But at the moment, his body was filled with nothing but rage.

  The sheriff had swung her rifle in the direction of the blast but then dove to the ground as another plasma round hit where her head had just been.

  Remy stared in horror, then catapulted himself toward her and hauled her to her feet.

  “Follow me,” he said to her startled face.

  He released her and led the way arou
nd the rear landing supports. They weren’t large enough to shield them from view, but they made them less of a target. Sheriff Greyson squeezed close beside him, shoulder to shoulder.

  Two of the darkly-clad assassins shifted their weapons toward the fleeing group.

  “No!” Remy aimed his pistol around the landing support and fired.

  An impossible shot, but he was skilled at making the improbable happen, and he’d be damned if he wasn’t gonna try.

  The assassin he’d targeted stood forty feet away, a huge hole through the side of his head. Finally, his body caught up with the situation and collapsed against a pile of junk.

  Remy was just about to congratulate himself for being truly awesome when the sheriff shoved him aside.

  “Hey!” he protested.

  She lifted her rifle and let off three quick shots.

  Remy turned in time to see another assassin drop.

  “Ah. Thank—”

  She yanked him away from the support, and they sprinted toward the opening in the rear wall. Blasts bounced off the thick, reinforced concrete as they dashed toward the med ship.

  Dreyla was waiting on the short ramp leading into the starboard side of the craft, her young face pinched with worry.

  “Come on, come on,” she cried, raising her weapon.

  She took a couple of shots over Remy’s and the sheriff’s heads, and then, a few seconds later, the trio ascended the ramp and slipped aboard the ship.

  Remy hit the button to retract the door as a volley of shots riddled the hull. Unlike the Jay, the med ship wasn’t equipped with armor meant to sustain this kind of damage. The entire vessel rocked violently from the barrage.

  “Get us the hell out of here!” Remy yelled to whoever sat at the steering console.

  The ship lifted off and rose away from the assault, but then shuddered in a bone-crunching way. It had just taken one hell of a hit. Remy pushed his way through the wobbling bystanders, stepped onto the bridge, and tugged the old scrapyard guy from the pilot’s seat.

  “Just one second,” Skully protested.

  “No, now,” Remy growled.

  As soon as Remy was back in control, he flew the ship over the cliff’s edge and dove toward the rubble at the bottom. In a flash, they were out of range of the assassins’ weapons, but the ground was approaching fast.

  “Pull up,” the sheriff screeched, standing behind him.

  “No worries, I got this.”

  He brought the med ship out of the dramatic dive, scraping the bottom of the hull. The craft hadn’t sustained any major damage, so he continued at a low altitude within the canyon.

  Remy turned to the sheriff and offered her a roguish grin.

  She shook her head. “Take this ship back to the sheriff’s station.” Her voice had lost all its previous warmth.

  He rolled his eyes and punched the stupid little buttons harder than necessary. The sheriff’s hot-and-cold routine had grown weary, but the canyon had come to an end, and he had to go somewhere. Plus, he was carrying her people.

  “OK, you got it.” He pulled the ship up and swung it around toward the center of town, gaining altitude just in case any more gunmen waited to take shots at them.

  Maybe she’d give him some kind of reward for saving everyone. Yeah, right.

  Chapter 7

  SHAW

  How in the universe had that just happened?

  The medical cargo ship had blasted off into the sky, leaving behind a tapering trail of black smoke—and taking with it any half-baked hopes Shaw had had of using the vessel to escape this dump of a planet.

  Who was flying it? The sheriff didn’t seem the type to renege on her duties and jump planet on a whim. So that left Bechet. Of course, it left Bechet. The man who wormed his way out of every situation. Had the whacko pirate actually just rescued the sheriff and her people?

  “You certainly are a mystery, Captain Bechet,” she said to nobody in particular.

  Well, at least he hadn’t reclaimed his ship. Nope, there stood the R.L. Johnson, pitifully destroyed. Through the gaping, ragged hole in its hull, Shaw had a clear view of several crates inside. So that had been his cargo bay, where he’d stored all his loot. Including the priceless load of Teez he’d regrettably blown up in outer space. Without the Johnson, Bechet’s malignant tin can of iniquity, the meddlesome pirate would be far less cocky.

  She rubbed her face with her flesh-and-blood hand. This whole debacle had given her a mighty headache. She’d clearly backed the wrong side this time. She should be up there right now, contriving to be friends with Bechet—compatriots from the same part of the universe and all that—until she had the chance to double-cross him. But no, instead, he was flying away, while she was stuck here with these idiots. She’d really played her hand poorly.

  Unforgivable.

  And where the hell was Darius? He’d entered Bechet’s craft a few minutes ago, through the massive hole that had resulted from ripping the airlock door away from the hull—a job he’d enjoyed just a tad too much. Was the big man being held at gunpoint by someone Bechet had left behind? Well, she’d take the side of whoever emerged the victor in this ridiculous fiasco, even if it turned out to be that sanctimonious sheriff.

  As Shaw contemplated her next move, several armed men arrived in the scrapyard, weaving their way noisily around the vehicles and junk behind her. She tugged the hood of her cape farther down her face and crouched behind a stack of rusted wheels. Of course, Darkbur wouldn’t stand for radio silence. He’d obviously sent out backup troops right after their last aborted conversation.

  But she wouldn’t head over to say hello. Most of his men were dull and brutish, all too likely to shoot first and ask questions later. And now they were especially skittish, stomping around and searching for Darius, incessantly cocking their guns and clicking their comms units, giving useless feedback to their boss.

  “No sign yet, sir,” one said.

  “Think he’s still in the craft,” said another.

  A figure appeared in the airlock hole. Shaw shielded her eyes from the sunlight to better see. The man jumped down onto the ground. Darius. Alone.

  She released a sigh and stepped out of her hiding spot. Darius sprinted towards the rest of Darkbur’s men, his powerful frame traversing the distance in no time. Once he reached his fellow assassins, a muffled conversation ensued. She strained to hear their words but couldn’t make any out.

  A moment later, he approached her.

  “What did you find?” she asked, trying to dampen her enthusiasm.

  Darius regarded her with his solemn, hardened face. “Nothing. It was empty. And if you ask me, freaking weird.”

  Shaw laughed. “Yeah. So, they’re in it together, Bechet and the sheriff’s people?”

  He gave a curt nod. “Otherwise, there’d be a few bodies left behind.”

  “Then they must be coming back. The mayor and the sheriff wouldn’t abandon their town, would they?”

  Darius considered it for a moment. “Not the sheriff anyway,” he said.

  He might be right about Sheriff Greyson, but Bechet was probably hellbent on getting back to the portal. And if Shaw had to lay bets on who controlled that med ship right now, her money was on the pirate.

  “So, what now?” she asked.

  He shrugged. “Whatever Gono says. Davlin, Meeser, and Fozad have been instructed to take over the yard, to make it an enclave of his. A scrapyard like this could be useful to him in gaining control of this part of town.”

  Darius’s voice was devoid of emotion, making it impossible to discern his allegiance. But the fact that he was still talking to her was a positive sign—and something of a miracle, frankly. It meant he must see her as some kind of ally. Perhaps even against Darkbur. But she couldn’t be sure. And she’d be a fool to act on that hope.

  A glint in the distance caught her attention. Darius hadn’t spotted it yet; he was focused on the men gathering behind him.

  She tugged on his arm. “You hav
e to withdraw your men, Darius!”

  “What?” He shook her off brusquely, his eyes scanning the horizon in quick darts.

  He grunted as he saw what she’d seen: a convoy of patrol vehicles creeping along the now-deserted road, their vibrant sheriff’s station logos stark against the muted colors of the buildings lining the street.

  She counted five. They were outnumbered. Especially since they were taking fire again. As the armed patrol vehicles approached the scrapyard, several plasma blasts landed near the huddled group of assassins. The shots had come from amid various piles of junk. Perhaps the scrapyard workers had tired of the battle taking place—and decided to enter the fray.

  “We’ve got company,” Darius said, ducking down to avoid incoming fire. He sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth. “He is not going to be happy.”

  “Give me that.” Shaw snatched the comms unit from his hand and pressed the direct link to the boss. “Darkbur, listen up, you’re outnumbered here by the sheriff’s people. You’ve already lost a few men. You gotta withdraw now, or all of them will be dead. They’ve got a full platoon out, including some badass weaponry I’m not familiar with. And I’m guessing your men don’t want to experience it at close range.”

  “Get off the comms, woman,” Darkbur roared. “And give me Darius, or I swear I’ll kill you myself!”

  As Darkbur’s men crouched nearby, reloading their weapons and scanning the junk for the inconvenient assailants, Darius made a grab for the comms unit, but Shaw managed to twist her body away and clutch the device tighter.

  “You didn’t send enough reinforcements,” she yelled. “It’s a no-go here. Don’t turn Darius into some kind of martyr. Let’s face it, Darkbur, you don’t have many guys with brains. You might want to hold on to this—”

  With incredible force, Darius yanked the comms unit from her. “Shaw’s right, sir. We need to get the hell outta here.”

  “Deal with this, Darius,” Darkbur ordered. “That’s what I pay you for.”