He looked out of place drinking coffee, but he was minding his own business. Angel could respect that.
She gave a mental shrug and continued into the room. She had her own problems to worry about. The door to Dugan’s office was closed and she knew better than to knock. Martin had no doubt pressed the button under the counter alerting Dugan to her arrival, so she headed over to the bar to wait.
“How ya doin,’ Angel?” Martin’s smile was warm and friendly while her own no doubt came across looking more like a grimace. Tucking the toe of her boot under the bottom rung of a stool to pull it out, she hiked one hip onto the seat, leaving her other foot on the floor for balance. With effort, she lifted the satchel off her shoulder and onto the countertop.
“Jeez girl, what happened to you?”
Angel looked up and saw Martin staring at where her jacket gaped open revealing a shirt stained with more blood than the last time she'd checked. She quickly pulled it closed. “Nothing.”
“Don’t give me that. You run into trouble on Felinea?”
“Nothing I couldn’t handle. You should see the other guy.” She smiled at the lame joke while Martin continued to frown.
“Yeah?” He sounded skeptical. “Maybe I should take a look at it. Clean it up. Do a little sewing?”
“No thanks.”
Martin didn’t press her further, but instead reached under the bar to pull out a double-shot glass, which he filled with an iridescent sky-blue liquid.
He pushed the glass toward her. She downed the icy cool liquid in a single swallow. Martian Ale went down cold, but arrived hot. As the warmth spread throughout her body, the pain in her side eased.
Angel pushed the empty shot glass across the counter, indicating with her hand that Martin should fill it again.
He gave her a questioning look. “You never drink more than one. That side of yours must be hurting.”
“I’m celebrating,” she said, watching him fill the glass again.
“Really? Care to share the good news?”
“As of tonight, I am the proud owner of one Falcon XLT space craft.”
Tonight, for the first time in my life, I’m free.
“And at such a young age, too.” Martin smiled. “Well, I guess congratulations are in order.” He pushed the refilled shot glass toward her, then poured a smaller one for himself. They raised their glasses in a silent toast and downed the contents. This time the icy burn wasn’t as startling to her system.
“Tell me about the stiff in the corner?”
“Don’t know," Martin said. "He doesn’t talk much, just sits and drinks coffee. Every now and then, he’ll look at his watch and go outside. I followed him once, just to see where he went.”
“And?” Angel prompted when he paused.
“And nothing. He walks over to that sleek little number on the field, you know the one I mean, and just stands there for a minute like he’s waiting for someone. Then he comes back here and orders more coffee.”
Angel lazily pondered what the man was up to. Thanks to the Martian Ale, she felt almost as good as new. Her hands absently played with the empty shot glass as her attention wandered down the bar.
“I miss something?” She nodded toward the images flitting across the vid-screen.
“Harvester attack, not far from here. West Beach.”
“You're kidding? How'd I miss that?” Angel absorbed the news in shock. She’d just flown over that area not an hour ago.
“Yeah.” Martin nodded. “It’s getting so decent folk aren’t safe going out at night.”
Angel shot him a look, eyebrows raised. How long had it been since either of them had been considered “decent folk”?
“Point is, no one is safe anymore.” He focused his look at her injured side.
“I can take care of myself.”
“Torrence!” A male voiced bellowed. “Get your ass in here.”
“Then again...” She pushed the empty glass toward Martin and slid from the stool. “Been nice knowing you.” Hardly wincing this time when she hefted the satchel onto her shoulder, she headed for the back room.
Alistar “Skeeter” Dugan, Underground Boss of the West Side, was in his mid-fifties and sported an athletic build just starting to go soft. His commanding presence gave him the stature his average height could not. He was overbearing, unforgiving, and his sense of humor had died along with his wife and daughter ten years ago. He was not a man to be messed with and Angel had no doubt that if she irritated him enough, he would forget how much she reminded him of his daughter.
“I know what you're going to say and I'm telling you, it wasn’t my fault.” She slid the satchel off her shoulder and let it fall to the desktop. “By the way, here’s your money.”
“Not your fault?” Dugan shouted, slamming the door behind her. “You shot the son of Felinea’s leading crime boss!”
“Give me a break, it’s not like I killed him. It was just a scratch.”
“You shot off his –.”
“I know what I shot off,” Angel interrupted. “Look, the guy was all over me. I told him I wasn’t interested, but the more I said ‘no,’ the more he heard ‘yes.’ I didn’t have any other choice. Besides, what’s the big fuss? He’s Felinean. It’ll grow back.”
Dugan stormed up to her, causing her to step back. She wanted some distance between them, just in case. His hand shot out and grabbed her arm, wrenching her around. Pain shot through her side with the sudden movement and she couldn’t hide her reaction fast enough. Distracted from what he was about to say, Dugan pulled back her jacket flap.
“Explain this,” he said when he spotted the blood.
“Like I said, Tony didn’t like hearing ‘no.’ Things got a little rough before I got my point across.”
Dugan studied her for a moment. Then, some of the anger drained from his face to be replaced by another emotion. Resignation, maybe. “If you were anyone else, I’d have your head on a platter, literally, and see that it got delivered to Felinea with my deepest apologies.”
Angel swallowed hard because she knew Dugan meant what he said. “I’m sorry, but the guy had it coming and it’s not like I did any permanent damage.”
“Yes, you did.”
“No way. I purposely used a narrow beam so I could isolate the damage to that single area. Now granted, there was some confusion and it was a small target, but -.”
“Oh, you hit what you aimed for. But you don’t get credit for originality. You do, however, get credit for being number nine and as they say, ninth time’s the charm with Felineans. No more regenerations for that particular organ and folks over there are upset. Tony in particular.”
The news hit her like a slap in the face, but she tried to cover it with flippancy. “He’s a slow learner. They should thank me for taking him out of the gene pool.”
“Yeah? Well, his father, who runs the entire east-side, isn’t laughing. He wanted grandkids. Now he wants revenge.”
Going to stand behind his desk, he pulled the satchel closer and opened it. From inside, he pulled out the bundles of currency and counted them. After counting them a second time, he looked at her. “It’s not all here.”
“No, it’s not. I took out what you owed me, less the final payment for the ship, as per our agreement.” She refused to look away, waiting for his reaction. Then, to her relief, he nodded. Picking up one of the bundles, he stared at it for a moment, as if trying to decide what to do, then tossed it out to her.
"What's this for?" she asked.
“You’ll need it where you’re going.”
“Which is where?”
“I don’t know and I don’t care, but don’t take your time getting there.”
She was tempted to keep the money but pride made her toss the bundle back to him. “I don’t need it. I’ll be fine.”
Dugan walked around the desk and shoved the stack of bills into her jacket pocket, being careful not to touch her injured side. “Don’t be so damn stubborn. The Felineans wil
l be here soon. For political reasons, I won’t stop them, but I sure hate the thought of you dying, so I think it’d be better if you weren’t here when they arrived. I’ll ship the stuff from your room to you later.”
“That won’t be necessary.” Angel learned long ago not to accumulate more than she could carry. So her “stuff” included the clothes on her ship, the locket hanging around her neck (a gift from her mother) and the Nguyen V-500 resting in her holster (a gift from Dugan). Everything else could be replaced.
“How bad is your side? Do you need Martin to look at it?”
“No, I’ll be all right.”
“Then you’d better go.”
And just like that, the moment of her departure from Skeeter's and the life she'd been living for two years had arrived. It didn't matter that less than an hour ago she'd decided to leave, it still hurt to be told to go. Sometime over the past two years, despite her best efforts to remain distant, she’d developed a fondness for Dugan, Martin and the others who worked and lived at Skeeter's. They’d become her family.
It shouldn’t be this hard to leave family. After all, it wasn't like she hadn't left family before. As she looked at Dugan, a feeling of such loneliness stole over her, the weight of it was nearly suffocating. Emotion rose unbidden to choke any words she might have muttered into silence.
As she struggled to compose herself, a commotion in the outer room distracted her.
Curious, Angel joined Dugan behind the desk. The feed from the various security cameras showed six men, weapons in hand, standing in the front room, looking serious and extremely dangerous. Everyone else in the room had moved to crowd the outer walls, no doubt hoping to stay clear of the line of fire.
“Terrorists?” Angel asked hopefully.
“Felinean Avengers,” Dugan corrected.
“Damn.” This just wasn’t her day. She could see Martin with one hand under the counter, no doubt with his mini-Mag trained on the group. He’d only be able to take out two, three at best. The rest of the patrons wouldn’t interfere and, as Dugan had warned her, neither would he. That left three of them to one of her. She didn’t like the odds.
“Take my private exit,” Dugan said, pressing a button under the desk. To her surprise, the wall beside her seemed to evaporate and an opening appeared. “This comes out two doors down.”
Angel stepped into the opening, but couldn’t bring herself to just walk off. She had brought trouble to Skeeter’s and her friends. She couldn’t just leave them to fend for themselves.
“Dugan…”
He nodded as if he understood, then reached into his own jacket and pulled out an impressive Smith and Wesson Destroyer. He gave her a slow grin. “Better hurry.”
She knew then that despite what he’d said, Dugan wouldn’t make the Avengers’ job any easier. No one came into Skeeter’s to start trouble without getting a little in return.
She went swiftly through the tunnel and once outside, skirted the side of the building so she could get a look across the open stretch of tarmac separating her from her ship.
There were no Avengers outside waiting for her, but it was a long way to her ship. The hairs on the back of her neck started to prickle as she made her decision to run for it.
She hadn’t taken three steps when the explosion came.
The shock wave caused her to stumble and nearly fall. Gravel rained down on her, peppering her head and back. A few short meters away, the tarmac had been turned into one big scorch mark. If someone had been aiming for her, they'd missed. That seemed unlikely for Avengers, so then - who was responsible?
Into the quiet came another explosion, this time on the opposite end of the field. The explosion was followed by the high-pitched wail of alarms.
Terrorists.
From around the field’s perimeter, patrons flooded out of pubs and restaurants. Some scattered aimlessly to get away from unseen attackers. Others raced across the tarmac, desperate to get to their ships. Spotting the Avengers leaving Skeeter’s, she let the moving crowd carry her in the direction of her ship.
She was nearly to it when the next explosion knocked her to the ground. Momentarily stunned, she struggled to get up but couldn't move. Fear spiked through her at the thought that she might have been hit.
No.
She fought to stay calm and think. Her side was burning and she knew the wound there had reopened. A quick mental check said her whole body ached, but nothing hurt bad enough to explain why she couldn't get up. Twisting around as best she could, she recognized the stranger from Skeeter’s lying on top of her, pinning her down.
“Get up.” She shoved at him, but he wouldn’t move. People moved past her without sparing her a glance. They were too concerned with saving themselves to offer assistance. Then she noticed the blood. A lot of blood.
She didn't think it was hers, though. She looked up at the stranger and this time registered his blank, lifeless eyes. The blood had to be his. It was the only answer she'd allow herself to believe.
Overhead, a distinct whistling sound distracted her and she looked up. Coming in hot was a blazing ball of light. A long distance photon trebuchet.
Covering her head with her arms as it shot over her, she prayed she'd misjudged its trajectory.
Please God, let it be TJ’s junker.
Chapter 2
When the explosion came, she was too close. Intense, blistering heat rode the shockwave and blasted her full force. Ironically, the dead man’s body protected her from plummeting pieces of debris and certain death. When she finally lifted her head, she saw what was left of her ship - her only hope of escape - going up in flames. It was more than she could bear.
Her vision blurred and she angrily swiped away the unwanted tears from her eyes. Vowing to not let “them” win, she worked her arms beneath the body and shoved it off to the side enough that she could pull herself free. With bone weary fatigue, she stood and looked around for another means of escape.
Involuntarily, her gaze returned to the lifeless stranger at her feet. With his death, there now stood a ship without a pilot. Why shouldn't she have it?
A part of her felt guilty for the thought, like she was being insensitive. She shoved the feeling aside as she bent and felt the soft underside of the man's wrist, searching for the distinctive hard outline of an embedded chip. There was no way the Icarus used the old scan-card technology.
The cacophony of sounds - people yelling or crying, the rumble of ships taking off, the sound of running footsteps - reminded her that time was running out. If she didn't find the chip soon --
The small raised edge was nearly undetectable - unless one was specifically looking for it. Marking the spot with her finger, she pulled a small laser knife from an inner jacket pocket. Activating the narrow beam, she cut along the outer edge of the chip, opening the skin just enough to extract the chip.
It came out surprisingly easy, making Angel think the man hadn't had it long. The chip itself didn't look like much. A flat square piece of metal that was so small and light, she had to make a conscious effort to pinch it between her fingers in order not to lose it.
She searched the tarmac for the Icarus. It was still standing where she'd first noticed it, apparently untouched by the violence around it.
Angel took off running.
It wasn't until she'd reached the aircraft that she noticed the older man hiding beneath the ship's wing, his eyes staring wildly at the chaos all around while his hand kept a death grip on something hanging from the chain around his neck. He was obviously in the wrong place, at the wrong time. And he wasn’t her problem.
She waved the security chip across the hatch door sensor.
"Come on. Work, damn it."
Nothing happened. Her fingers were blocking the signal. Carefully, for fear she would drop the chip and never find it again, she adjusted her hold until the chip was gripped upright between her thumb and forefinger. This time when she waved it before the sensor, she was rewarded with the satisfying grate of t
he hatch opening.
She was moments from freedom.
About to disappear into the ship, she noticed the old man hadn't moved. If she left him here, he’d be killed, either by the terrorists or by the thruster-fire of the ship as she took off. With a silent curse, she grabbed his sleeve and pulled him forward.
“Come on. We have to go.”
“But...” Several distant explosions muddled the man’s objection.
“It’s okay,” she tried to reassure him when he remained hesitant. Angel didn't want to leave him behind, but they were out of time.
"Either get on board or move clear. Personally, I think you’d be safer with me than out here. Your choice, of course, but make it quick. In thirty seconds, this ship is taking off."
Releasing him, she bolted for the bridge. Climbing into the pilot’s chair, she strapped herself in.
"Are you the pilot?” The man's shaky voice came from behind her.
“Yeah." Her voice sounded scratchy and rough. A result of breathing in all that smoke, she guessed – and she sounded more confident than she felt. She'd never flown a craft like this before and the control panel was like nothing she'd ever seen, but Angel had done a lot of flying in her twenty-six years and every ship she'd flown shared the same basic flight functionality. It was just a matter of figuring out the right buttons.
The buttons were badly worn, distorting any label or marking that might have told her what each one did. Sending up a silent prayer, she hit a button that she thought would start the thrusters. Immediately, the ship began to rock violently accompanied by the horrific sound of metal grating.
Wrong button.
She quickly pressed it again and both the vibrations and noise stopped. There wasn't time for any more mistakes. She had to figure out these controls now.
Studying the panel carefully, she noticed a familiar button off to the side. She pressed it and the panel lit up. Now Angel could see that the scratches on each button were actually markings that identified each one’s function. Most of them were familiar to her and the rest - well, she'd figure those out later.
Too Close to the Sun (The Sun 1) Page 2