by Tripp Ellis
Max Mars
Blade of Vengeance
Tripp Ellis
Tripp Ellis
Copyright © 2017 by Tripp Ellis
All rights reserved. Worldwide.
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents, except for incidental references to public figures, products, or services, are fictitious. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales, or organizations is entirely coincidental, and not intended to refer to any living person or to disparage any company’s products or services.
No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, uploaded, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter devised, without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Thank You!
Max Mars
The Galactic Wars Series
The Tarvaax War Series
Author’s Note
Connect With Me
1
“Run, Riley! Run!" Jake shouted, his eyes wide with terror. He had been in countless life-and-death situations across the galaxy, but none had ever instilled panic quite like this one. The thought of anything happening to his daughter filled him with dread.
Jake struggled with a gunman while Riley raced away. She ran as fast as she could—her legs pumping, her chest heaving for breath, tears streaming down her cheek. The wind flowed through her wavy brown hair as she sprinted through the corridor. Her blue eyes filled with fear. She was fast and nimble—the virtues of youth. But the man chasing her was closing ground.
Riley was a beautiful girl, about to turn 14. Over the past year, smiles hadn’t come easy. Today was supposed to be different. She had spent most of the year feeling like she'd been punched in the gut. Hollowed out and gutted emotionally. She'd frequently wake up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat—heart racing, screaming in terror, the elephant standing on her chest, making every breath impossible. She tried to make sense of what had happened, but there was no making sense of it. It was just life, and she was going to have to learn to deal with it.
Everyone always told her it was going to be fine. It would just take time. They were mostly right. It had taken a year, and she was getting closer to the light at the end of the tunnel. There was always going to be a gaping hole in her heart—the place that only her mother could fill. But she was learning to accept what had happened. She was learning to make the best of the situation life had presented her. She tried not to dwell on all the moments she'd never be able to share with her mother.
Today was supposed to bring some much-needed smiles and fun for both her and Jake. Things had been equally difficult for him, but he was never one to show it. They had spent the day at Pinnacle Park—the last real amusement park in the galaxy. Everything was virtual these days. If you wanted to ride a roller coaster, you could put on a neural ring and log onto the network. The experience would be practically identical. You'd feel every sensory detail—the wind rushing through your hair, your stomach in your throat as you plunged down the undulating slopes, the screams of passengers filling your ears. For most people, it was enough. But there was still something missing about it. It was never going to be quite like the real thing. The element of real danger was missing.
Jake had thought a day at Pinnacle Park would be just the thing he and his daughter needed. And it was, up until the point they got jumped by two goons in a back corridor on Cygnus 7 Station.
With lightning speed, Jake grabbed the barrel of his attacker’s plasma pistol. He put a swift kick into the thug’s groin. The attacker hunched over and Jake launched an uppercut into his chin. The goon's jaw clamped shut, and Jake could hear teeth crack. He stripped the weapon as the thug tumbled back. Jake moved with tactical precision. It was clear he had years of extensive military training.
The creep grabbed for his backup strapped around his ankle. Jake swung the pistol around and took aim, firing a shot. A blistering bolt of plasma spewed from the barrel, drilling through the goon’s shoulder. But the cretin managed to return fire.
The sharp smell of plasma ions filled the air.
The devastating beam punctured Jake's chest, vaporizing his heart. The plasma pistol fell from his hand, clattering against the deck. Jake's eyes filled with disbelief and horror. Then the color drained from his face and lips, and his body flopped to the deck.
The goon staggered to his feet, clutching his wounded shoulder. The heat had cauterized the wound, and there was little bleeding—just the charred spattering of flesh that remained on the bulkhead behind him. It bubbled and oozed, sending gentle wisps of smoke into the air. He staggered down the hallway, looking for his comrade.
Riley sprinted through the passageways, managing to stay ahead of her pursuer. She had reached the crowded food court and was trying to disappear within the sea of people. It was going to be much harder to abduct her in such a public part of the space station.
Riley dashed into a women’s clothing boutique, and ran to the change room. There were rows and rows of dressing stalls. Plenty of places to hide.
The goon chasing her stormed into the boutique. His diabolical brown eyes scanned the area, then he made a beeline for the change room. He was about 6’2”, square jaw, and a flat top haircut. He had a permanent scowl on his face. A healthy scar from an old war wound had carved a canyon across his cheek. He was the kind of guy that dogs bark at, and makes cats hunch their backs.
A sales associate took notice of him, and scurried from behind the register. “Excuse me, sir. You can't go in there.”
He ignored her and pushed by.
“Sir, this dressing area is for women only,” she said, frazzled.
The goon barged into the change room. A woman with brown tortoiseshell glasses exiting one of the stalls screeched in horror at the sight of the guy.
“Sir, I’m calling station security!” the sales attendant shouted.
The goon aimed his plasma pistol at her without looking and fired a shot. The deadly bolt sizzled into her chest. Her body dropped to the deck.
The woman in glasses screeched again and dropped her garments as she clutched her face in shock. Her shrill voice was irritating the goon, but a well-placed plasma bolt remedied the situation.
The thug surveyed the row of stalls. He kicked the first one open—empty. He spun around and kicked open the
opposite stall. Again, it was empty—except for a few garments hanging on the rack. He was going to work his way down the rows, one by one, until he found Riley. He had her cornered. There was no escape.
2
Thick smoke wafted across the table as Chesney chewed on a cigar. The cherry glowed orange as he puffed on the stogie dangling from his slimy lips. He stared down his crooked nose at his cards, then his beady eyes flicked across the table to Max. Her expression betrayed nothing.
Chesney hunched over the table, pondering his next move. His thick head disappeared into his wide shoulders. He didn't have much of a neck. You could tell at one point in time he had been a musclebound bruiser. But now the tone was gone, yet the size remained. Still, he wasn’t a man to be trifled with. Two bodyguards stood behind him, strapped with plasma pistols. They took care of most of his dirty work, but Chesney wasn't afraid to get his hands bloody from time to time.
Playing poker with Chesney was taking your life in your own hands. Beating Chesney, though technically not against the rules, was frowned upon.
Max had been beating him all night.
Saying that Max was gorgeous would be like saying that the universe is big. While technically accurate, both phrases would be woefully inadequate. She belonged on the cover of a fashion magazine, not in some sleazy backroom card game with a bunch of thugs. She had high cheekbones, perfect skin, plush lips, and brunette hair. She was the kind of woman that made your pulse quicken and your stomach flutter. Her velvety voice, whispered in your ear, could make you do just about anything she wanted. And with her military training, she was deadly. A real heartbreaker and life-taker.
Part of the disbanded project SW Ultra, Max was a genetically engineered super soldier. She drifted the galaxy, searching for Silas Rage—the man who killed her creator, and spiritual father, Doctor Tor. It was going to be a joyous day indeed when she got her hands on him. But in the meantime, she picked up odd jobs here and there and collected a small military pension, deposited into a numbered account.
There was a large pile of credits in the center of the table. Max had started the game with her meager monthly pension and amassed more credits than she would make in an entire year. It was all on the table.
Chesney had only a stack of credits left. He called the bet and pushed his remaining credits into the pot. Then he displayed his cards on the table. They projected animated holographic symbols above them—a straight flush.
A slight grin curled up on Chesney's craggy lips. He was one of the best Arcturus Hold’em players in the galaxy. He had been featured on the Galactic Series of Poker a few years ago, taking home the top prize. For a gangster, he sure did crave the spotlight.
Max's blue eyes sparkled as she lay down her cards—a royal flush.
Chesney's grin sank to a frown. His jaw clamped down on the cigar, and his face turned red. He looked like he was going to pop.
“Tough break," Max said, leaning over the table, scooping up her credits.
"Not so fast," Chesney grumbled. His low, gravelly voice rumbled through the dim compartment. His bodyguards palmed their weapons—shit just got serious.
"What can I say? It just wasn't in the cards for you tonight."
Chesney didn't like the lame pun one bit.
“If I lose a hand or two… fair enough. But you've been beating me all night. Nobody gets that lucky.”
Max shrugged. “Luck’s got nothing to do with it. It's pure skill."
That didn't sit well with Chesney. “If you want any chance of walking out of here alive, you’ll leave the credits on the table."
Max arched an eyebrow at him. “Are you accusing me of cheating?” she asked in a playfully innocent voice.
“You’re goddamn right, I am!” His face twisted up, and he snarled like some kind of oversized varmint.
Max's eyes narrowed at him. "Now, we both know I'm not the one who’s cheating."
There was a small mosquito drone that clung to the wall behind Max. It had a perfect view over Max’s shoulder of her cards. It was wirelessly transmitting the images to a receiver, but Max jammed the signal before the card game began. Chesney hadn't been able to win without the assistance. His Galactic Series of Poker trophy was most likely undeserved.
Chesney let out a guilty chuckle. "You got a lot of guts to accuse me of cheating."
"If the shoe fits."
Chesney's face tightened.
"Don't think I haven't noticed your little spies,” Max said, motioning to the drone over her shoulder.
Chesney grew indignant. “How about you push those credits back to my side of the table? I might be inclined to forget about this incident. I'm sure we can come to some kind of arrangement.” His lecherous eyes surveyed Max’s sumptuous form.
She knew exactly what kind of arrangement he had in mind, and she wanted no part of it.
"Sorry. I won this money fair and square, and I intend to keep it."
“Pretty. But not a lot of brains,” Chesney mumbled.
Max's face tightened at the insult.
Chesney made a subtle gesture to his bodyguards to take action. They reached for their plasma pistols.
Max sprang from her seat, flicking the table on its side. Credits scattered everywhere. In the same fluid motion, she drew her .45 caliber pistol from its holster.
Chesney's guards drew their weapons, taking aim. But before either of them could get off a shot, Max had unloaded several copper slugs at both of them. The thunderous boom echoed off the bulkheads in the small compartment. The volume was ear splitting. Smoke wafted from the barrel of the .45, and the smell of gunpowder filled Max’s nostrils.
She liked the smell. There was something about the old-fashioned weapon that just felt comfortable. Everyone else was using plasma pistols, or some type of directed energy weapon. But Max had grown to prefer the bang of a .45. It was powerful and intimidating. Sure, it had its drawbacks. Limited ammunition, more potential mechanical failure. But you couldn't argue with the results.
Blood splattered from the chest wounds of each of the guards. They flopped to the deck, their gaping wounds gurgling as their lungs filled with fluid.
Chesney's jaw dropped, and the cigar tumbled from his lips, leaving a trail of ash down his shirt.
Max took aim at his ugly head. "What was it you were saying about cheating?"
"You just made a big mistake. Do you have any idea who I am?"
"Yeah. You’re the man who accused the wrong woman of cheating."
He gnashed his teeth and scowled at her. "You're going to regret this, lady." The gangster reached for his plasma pistol. Doing so was the epitome of poor judgment.
3
One by one, the flattop goon kicked down the stall doors in the change room. Every time, he came up empty-handed. Riley was nowhere to be found. He had upset a few customers in the process. By the time he reached the last stall, he was furious. Rage boiled on his face, and he slammed a fist into the bulkhead. It was impossible, he thought. He saw the kid run in here. There was no other way out. It was like she had magically vanished.
The goon scanned the compartment, desperately seeking an answer. His eyes fixed on the ventilation shaft above one of the stalls. He pushed into the small change room and stepped up on the bench to reach the vent. He pulled the grate off the passageway and stared into the narrow air shaft. There was no sign of Riley. Years of dust had collected on the walls of the shaft, and it looked undisturbed. No one could have crawled through the vent without leaving some trace of their presence.
The thug tossed the vent cover to the deck, holstered his weapon, and stormed out of the change room. He marched past a laundry cart piled full of clothes that needed to be re-folded and placed back out on the shelves.
It wouldn't be long before the station police arrived. He figured it was best to leave the scene of the crime—he’d already spent too much time there. His face twisted up perplexed. He knew he saw the little girl go in there. It didn't make any sense.
S
everal minutes after the goon left, Riley emerged from underneath the pile of unfolded clothes. She glanced around at the carnage. She wanted to scream at the sight of the dead sales associate and the various patrons. Her heart pounded in her throat, worrying about her father.
The back of Chesney's head exploded, splattering blood and spongy chunks of brain across the bulkhead and deck. Max's bullet had entered through his left eye, blending the contents of his brain into a nice, soupy purée. The creep flopped to the deck, and crimson sludge oozed from the gaping wound in his head. It was probably an improvement upon his looks.
Max knelt down and scooped her credits from the deck. She left the bloody ones behind—a tip for the crew that was going to have to clean up this mess.
Max moved out of the compartment and strolled away down the corridor like nothing had happened. Nobody was going to miss Chesney. She envisioned the headline, if there was going to be one, would read Mafia Boss Found Slain In Card Game Gone Wrong. But knowing the way things worked on Orion Station, there would probably be little, if any, mention of it at all. No one was going to dig too deep into the death of a man who was responsible for narcotics and human trafficking. Criminal overlords were like cockroaches—you’d kill one, and another one would spring up overnight to fill the vacuum. It was a constant turf war between them.