Captive Embers (The Wardens' Game Book 1)

by Brian Mansur

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 30 (continued)

  Chapter 31

  Epilogue

  Thank You!

  About the author

  Acknowledgments

  CAPTIVE EMBERS

  This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. Any reproduction or unauthorized use of the material or artwork contained herein is prohibited without the express written permission of the Aethon Books, LLC.

  Published by Aethon Books LLC.

  Cover Art by Tom Edwards Design. Print and eBook formatting, and cover design by Beaulistic Book Services (Steve Beaulieu)

  All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. All characters, character names, and the distinctive likenesses thereof are property Aethon Books.

  All rights reserved.

  Dedication

  For all those who helped make this labor of love possible.

  1

  Location: Lakshmi Colony, orbiting the gas giant Belia, Cervantes star system, fifty light-years from Earth. 4380 A.D._

  Standing outside of the Coriolis Café, Commander Rafe Hastings drew his leather jacket tight and willed his shoulders to unknot. He pictured the beaming faces of his raven-haired wife and daughters. He considered that perhaps his wife, Gita, was right and he needed to quit playing spy. He made a thoughtful noise as he opened the restaurant’s door.

  Like most places in the one-hundred-kilometer-long cylindrical colony, the café exuded the stench of decay. Worn tables wobbled on legs missing half of their rubbery pads. The seats’ blue cushions bore questionable brownish stains. A formidable mix of spices and fetid scents wafted from the kitchen. Or maybe that was still the air in the dank place.

  Rafe found his informant in a back-corner booth. Every aspect of the corpulent ex-mafioso evidenced a life of self-indulgence—from his puffy eyes and greasy hawk nose to the scruffy jowls dragging down his sallow face.

  In contrast, Rafe possessed dark skin and a tall, fitness trainer's physique. Despite a pre-mission, surgical makeover, he retained a lantern jaw, mocha hair, and dark Punjabi features that blended with the local populace.

  Over the room's percussive music, Baylor said, “You took long enough to get here.”

  Rafe suppressed a frown. Two months prior, Baylor had grovelled after seeing Rafe’s footage of the dockworker stealing goods from Lilith’s Cartel. That was only a fraction of the dirt Rafe had on the man.

  Rafe slid into the bench across the table. “Your safety is a priority. I had to wait until I was sure you weren’t followed.” He plucked a menu. “What's edible here?”

  Baylor sneered. “That raid your people made on Sundar Colony has them searching for the leak.”

  Rafe raised his eyebrows. He leaned in. "Do they suspect you?"

  "Of course, they suspect me. They suspect everyone now."

  “That’s a good sign,” Rafe said.

  “Yeah, sure,” Baylor said. “They don’t know it was me yet.”

  “You did well with that info drop. Earned that bonus. I take it you brought something?”

  Baylor folded his arms and said, “I want more money.”

  “Oh?” Rafe’s brow furrowed.

  “What I found out this week is worth a hundred times what you're giving me. Once you’ve met my price, I want out.”

  Rafe strangled an urge to laugh. “Baylor, you're already making a killing. Play the game, and Lilith need never know about this.”

  Baylor's face darkened. “Why won’t you Mykonians leave us alone, huh? Belia isn’t your part of the system.”

  Rafe shrugged in sympathy. “You know what they say. Blame the Wardens.”

  Baylor sniffed.

  One could always blame them.

  “I get the frustration,” Rafe told Baylor. “I don’t want to be here either, but I can’t let you go yet.”

  Baylor opened his mouth to retort when a smiling waitress arrived with a glass of water and placed it in front of Rafe.

  “Get you anything?” she asked.

  “I’ll need a few minutes,” Rafe said.

  “Take your time.”

  Once the server left, Rafe said, “The deal stands. Keep feeding me cargo box numbers for my associates to chase. Give me something to explain how Lilith’s Cartel is taking over everything, and we'll see about cutting you loose."

  Baylor grinned as he slid an envelope across the table under his hand. “Here's the report of what I found.”

  Rafe lifted the flap and drew a piece of folded paper. Scratchy penmanship littered the manila surface.

  He held it up to ensure that the camera in his shirt button relayed the contents to his A.I. assistant, James. Before Rafe could finish reading the first word of the top sentence, the computer had analyzed the letter.

  “You’re not going to like this, sir,” James said into Rafe’s earpiece.

  Rafe’s shoulders bunched up as he read.

  Rafe groaned. Somehow, Lilith had gotten her hands on Arbiters—a special type of A.I. that cost more than the annual industrial allotment for a dozen colonies and allowed humans to mount heavy weapons on and against habitats. Without them, space combat was restricted to exchanges between warships. Even ground troops couldn’t lob anything more powerful than an 80mm mortar.

  Feeling Baylor’s intense gaze, Rafe calmly laid the page down. “Interesting, if true. Do you have proof?”

  Baylor slid across a black device. Rafe recognized it as one of the micro-cameras he'd given Baylor at their first meeting. Its sapphire lens housing trailed a gossamer filament to a mini-computer wafer.

  "That’s your free sample," Baylor said. The man relaxed into his chair, a finger tapping his left breast pocket. Rafe saw the tip of another envelope poking out. “What you’ll need to track some of the rest is in here. I’ve hidden the other recorders away, so behave yourself.”

  Rafe connected the miniature camera to his wrist pad. Data poured through the link to James. After a few seconds, the memory wafer erased itself.

  Rafe fixed Baylor with a stony glare. “My associates will be checking this. If you’re lying to me—”

  James said in his ear, “Sir, I think he’s telling the truth.”

  Rafe’s skin crawled. “How long have you known about this, Baylor?”

  “Almost a week.”

  “Why didn’t you call me sooner?” If Baylor’s report could be believed, some of the items had already left the colony.

  Baylor flash
ed his teeth. “So you wouldn’t have time to haggle, of course.”

  “What have you done?”

  “My price is ten million,” he said, folding his arms and leaning back against his chair.

  Rafe willed the corners of his mouth to inch upward. “Be reasonable, Baylor. I’m sure you wouldn’t want me to give the police footage of you screwing those thirteen-year-olds at the pleasure houses.”

  Before Baylor could lift his jaw, Rafe heard James’ rising voice. "Sir, there's—” The line burst into static. A second later, it cut out. Rafe glanced at his wristband. Its “no signal” icon pulsed.

  He shot to his feet, adrenaline pouring into his system. He snatched the paper with its secrets and hauled Baylor up by the collar. Rafe drew his face close and whispered, “We’ve been followed!”

  Baylor ceased struggling. His eyes bulged. “What? How do you—”

  “Look around,” Rafe growled. Several diners wore irritated expressions. They tapped at their earphones, wrist pads, and hand-held devices in vain hopes of reconnecting to the net. Someone jammed the cellular frequencies at the exact point when an eavesdropper might have decided everything of interest had been heard.

  Rafe snarled at the quivering fat man. “Where’s the bug? They must have planted one on you!”

  “I changed before coming,” Baylor said. “I’m clean.” His voice didn't sound so sure.

  Rafe had done the same. He prayed that something hadn’t latched onto one of them in the meantime. Perhaps a listening device lay somewhere in the room.

  “Come on,” Rafe said, pulling Baylor toward the kitchen. He’d already scouted the place and knew the building’s rear opened onto an alley.

  Throwing open the kitchen door, he said, “My friend’s going to be sick. Where’s the back door?” Half a dozen fingers directed the pair toward an exit.

  Turning the knob, Rafe pulled a pistol from his jacket, then poked his head outside. He checked both ends of the shrouded alley and scanned above. A motionless Warden blimp hung in place. Beyond it, pinprick lights from hovercars, dwellings, and street lamps twinkled in the concave sky.

  Satisfied he couldn’t detect anything threatening, Rafe led Baylor out and shut the restaurant’s door with a muted thud. He turned to Baylor who palmed a handgun of his own.

  Rafe patted him on his chest with one hand and on the cheek with his sidearm. Baylor flinched. Fortunately for Rafe, the anxious man did nothing more.

  "Congratulations on your acceptance into our witness protection program,” Rafe said.

  Baylor stared back, unaware that Rafe had lifted the other envelope from his pocket. “What?”

  Rafe hid the packet while turning to hustle down the alleyway, tugging at the various locked doors as he went.

  “Wait a minute,” Baylor called, waddling along. “Why should I believe you’d help me?”

  “Because if Lilith catches you, she’ll torture you for everything you know. That’s bad for my business.”

  Baylor called Rafe something obscene.

  “Quit whining, and be glad I’m not cold-blooded enough to kill you myself,” Rafe said.

  They drew near the alley’s end. Rafe began to think they would have to risk the open avenue when a knob finally turned. He nodded to Baylor, then gave the door a firm push. It popped open a crack before coming to a rib-jarring halt.

  Rafe balled his fist. He peered into the gap and saw a security chain glinting from the interior lights. He barely had long enough to mutter a curse before a bullet clanged off a nearby garbage bin.

  Rafe dove behind the rusting metal box before being caught in a hail of gunfire. Bangs echoed in the alleyway. Baylor howled, “My arm!” as he careened into the waste container’s side. The portly man screamed as another round struck close by. Rafe reached around the corner and dragged him behind cover.

  “They got my arm!” Baylor said, panting.

  “Keep quiet,” Rafe said with a snarl. “They don’t need to know that.” He pulled Baylor upright and checked that the oaf still had his weapon.

  “Cover our backs.” Rafe stuck his pistol over the top of their improvised barricade and fired three rounds. He chanced a peek into the dim alley. “I see two men with handguns.” One fired while the other advanced to the next scrap of cover. They’d be on him and Baylor quickly if he didn’t act.

  Rafe scanned the alley. Across the way stood the door he’d tried to open. The thin privacy chain gleamed. “Don’t worry,” he said. “We aren’t dying here.” A smattering of return fire punctuated his declaration.

  “Oh really?”

  Rafe responded by taking careful aim at the door chain. Even at such a close range, his first shot missed the sliver of a target. He held his breath and tried again. The next round snapped the chain with a brilliant yellow spark. The sight launched Rafe's heart into his throat.

  He coiled like an animal, waited for the next shot, then sprang. His shoulder plowed into the metal door as another bullet whizzed by, a centimeter from his neck. He landed on his feet inside a storage closet and twirled.

  Rafe allowed himself two frantic breaths to marvel that he’d crossed uninjured. Then he moved back to the entrance, crouched at the door and unleashed half of his magazine upon the assailants.

  “Get in here Baylor!” he shouted.

  Baylor lurched to one knee, wide-eyed. Rafe grimaced on realizing it might have been better for Baylor to try for the doorway first. To make space, Rafe stood.

  “Come on!” Rafe called, then emptied his last rounds at a shock of hair poking around a trashcan. The next moment, Baylor knocked Rafe to the floor.

  “That’s it,” Rafe wheezed as he pushed Baylor off. “I’m putting you on a diet.”

  Rafe heard footfalls rising in volume. He sensed death lurking a few heartbeats away. Lifting his weapon, he pressed the magazine's release button while reaching for a replacement.

  He had almost aligned the fresh magazine to the ammunition tube when ricochets filled the small room. Rafe jerked into a ball and swore. Unless the thugs needed to reload, Rafe knew they would have him and Baylor.

  Then he remembered Baylor’s weapon. “Shoot!" Rafe barked. "What the hell are you waiting for!”

  Baylor discharged his little pistol blindly into the street, screaming the entire time.

  Rafe couldn’t imagine Baylor would hit anything, but the gunfire and battle cry made the men outside pause. It gave Rafe time to reload and recover. He stepped into the doorway, turned his weapon around the corner, and fired.

  A terrified screech issued from nearby. Rafe leaned forward to see more of the street and sighted someone resetting a weapon. Rafe sent a slug into the assassin’s chest.

  As the gunman fell, Rafe turned on the yelper, who’d discarded his weapon and dropped, palms-flat, to the pavement.

  The stricken youth stared into Rafe’s muzzle. His eyes glistened in the alley’s meager light. Rafe’s sense of relief quickly evaporated. He’d almost killed a kid. A stupid, scared kid.

  Instincts warred within him. He’d slain a man. He should dispose of this witness and vacate the area. Frightened or not, the young gangster would doubtless murder Rafe if given another chance. At the very least, Rafe knew he ought to put a bullet through the kid’s thigh to prevent him from giving chase.

  A questioning noise from Baylor drew Rafe from his indecision.

  “You owe me,” Rafe said to the assailant. “Find a way out of what you’re into here or so help me, I’ll put a new hole in your face the next time we meet.” He jerked his chin toward the alley’s far end. “Go.”

  It took the frightened kid a full second to absorb that he’d been spared. Without a word, he scrambled to his feet and dashed away. Rafe waited until the kid had retreated several meters before stooping to pick up the discarded weapon.

  He turned back to Baylor. Blood matted the large man’s left forearm, but he otherwise seemed fine.

  “Come on,” Rafe said as he opened the door to the building’s int
erior.

  They left the maintenance closet and cut through a colorful boutique festooned with ethnic Belian attire: lehenga choli, salwar kameez, and sari wraps. Judging by the absence of customers and clerks, Rafe guessed everyone had fled soon after the gunfight erupted. Hitting the street, Rafe saw a small drove of figures fleeing from the shop in either direction.

  “Okay,” he said, pointing left. “Let’s go that way.”

  “With my arm bleeding?” Baylor laughed without mirth. “That isn’t going to work, hero.”

  Rafe snapped back, saying, “We can’t stay here. Now, put your weapon away.” As soon as Baylor pocketed his gun, Rafe grabbed his good limb and marched them toward a receding pack of pedestrians. As they walked, Rafe stole a moment to check his wrist-pad.

  “Still no net,” he said.

  “Crap. So, we can’t call for a ride?” Baylor replied, voice cracking.

  “My associates will have a taxi out looking for us." Rafe projected more confidence in his contingency plans than he felt. The vehicle under James' control was set to come searching for Rafe if it lost comms. "We'll probably find the cab faster if we move out of the scrambler’s range.”

  “And how far might that be?”

  “Maybe a few hundred meters. Maybe a few klicks. Just move faster.”

  “A few kilometers? This arm hurts like hell. It’s bleeding like a—”

  Rafe cut Baylor off by yanking him ahead. “Stop moaning and focus on breathing. We’ll stop someplace after a few blocks to dress that wound.” Rafe said. "Then we can call my partners for a pickup."