Escape Velocity (Off-World Series, Book 7): Sexy Science-Fiction Romance Novel

by Rebecca York

  “Got him, Tip crowed. He and Henri started forward. They didn’t get far before another energy bolt hit Tip in the shoulder. He gasped and went down.

  “Merde.” Keeping low, Allan crawled forward. He and Henri pulled the wounded man back and propped him against a slender tree.

  “What did you think you were doing?” Dubois demanded, looking from Tip to Henri and back again. “You have no more sense than the hound.”

  Tip’s face was flushed. “I got excited,” he wheezed.

  Dubois ripped the man’s sleeve open and examined the wound. “You’re lucky it’s not worse.”

  “Oui.”

  “And now you are out of the action.” He looked around the group. “No more stupid chances.”

  The men answered with nods of agreement.

  Through the thick foliage of the Patamas, Max tried to get a look at the fugitive. It was impossible to see all of him at once, but from the glimpses Max got, he seemed to be standing on a platform that had been built high up in the tree where Bernard was still acting out his excitement.

  “He’s set up a defensive position,” the security chief muttered. “Giving himself the advantage of the high ground.”

  There was a stirring in the foliage. Then before anyone could react, a rope swung out, and a figure flashed through the air, disappearing into the foliage of another tree.

  “Merde,” Dubois muttered. “He must have spent a lot of time working this out.”

  “And he could have more of those escape ropes—to take himself closer to the river,” another man said. “Maybe he can land right in the water.”

  “Can we burn him out?” Max asked. “I mean start a fire in the tree?”

  The security chief gave him a horrified look. “Never. If you start a fire in the swamp, you have no control over where it goes. It might destroy acres of vegetation. It might travel back to the camp.”

  Max nodded in acknowledgment, already scrambling for another idea.

  “How do you keep your beamers charged at the camp?” he asked.

  “We try not to use the tools from the city. But we must employ some. We have several small charging units.”

  “Can we make him draw down the power pack in his weapon?”

  “Not without drawing down ours.”

  “Yes, but there are more of you. You can fire in turn. He only has one sidearm.”

  “We hope,” Dubois said.

  “We have to take the chance,” Max said. “I’m going to circle behind him.” He looked at the rest of the men. “One of you will come with me and make sure I don’t crawl into a sucking sandpit or something worse.”

  “I’ll do it,” the man named Paul volunteered.

  “Okay, good.”

  Max turned to Allan. “Call the dog back so he won’t get hurt.”

  Allan whistled for Bernard, but the hound stayed put, unwilling to abandon the man he had come to find.

  “Slat.” Max muttered, hoping the dog wasn’t going to get caught in the crossfire. He turned back to Dubois. “Keep LaTour busy with periodic bursts. Move around so he won’t know where they are coming from next. When the dog starts barking again, lay down a stream of fire. But don’t aim to hit LaTour.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’m going to climb a nearby tree.”

  “A suicide mission if he sees you,” the security chief said.

  “He won’t, because you’ll keep him busy.”

  Dubois looked like he was about to object. Then he took in the determination on Max’s face and shrugged. “It’s your funeral.”

  “I hope not.” He held out his hand to Allan. “Give me the dog’s lead.”

  Allan handed it over, and Max stuffed it into his pocket. Turning to Paul, he said, “Let’s go.”

  The young man started off through the underbrush, moving stealthily and staying low. Max followed closely behind, slithering along, feeling mud and brambles tug at his clothing.

  As directed, the rest of the team sporadically shot at the fugitive’s high refuge—and he returned the fire.

  Max and Paul wormed their way along the boggy ground, sometimes having to backtrack to avoid a deep pool of water. Max wondered if they would ever get to the right tree. But finally, Paul pointed. “He’s in there.”

  Max studied the tight-limbed broad-leafed specimen and the one next to it—the one LaTour had initially climbed. Both were sturdy, with many limbs that would provide hand- and footholds. If Max could keep the trunk between him and LaTour, he’d be protected. And hopefully, the other men would keep the bastard too busy to realize anyone was sneaking up on him.

  “I’ll wait for you to move to the other side,” Max told Paul. “When you get there, start shooting. You and the others have to keep him occupied while I climb.”

  As the young man slithered off, Max made sure his weapon would not discharge until he was ready. Then he took the rope from his pocket, tied the beamer up with several knots, and then hung the weapon around his neck like a huge obscene bauble.

  With his preparations completed, all he could do was wait until the right time to make his move.

  As the rest of the men continued to fire from time to time, he saw Paul belly crawling in a circle to the other side of the tree, his progress agonizingly slow.

  Max lost sight of him in a clump of tall grass. Then the man began firing, signaling that he was in position.

  As the beamer buzzed, Max dashed for the adjacent tree. The dog began to bark, and the other men started shooting, laying down more fire.

  Bernard trotted over to Max. “Good boy,” he said, scratching the hound’s head as he looked up into the foliage. “Do me a big favor and don’t bark now.”

  Hoping the dog would not alert LaTour, Max stretched up to reach for the lowest branch on the tree opposite the fugitive’s perch and swung himself up, half expecting an energy bolt to hit him while he dangled in the air. He scrambled onto the horizontal surface, using the trunk for as much of a shield as he could while he reached for the next handhold. Once again, he made it to the next level.

  Looking up, he tried to calculate how long it would take. But that depended on too many variables. And as he repeated the process, he couldn’t help thinking that when he got to the top, he might find LaTour staring at him, weapon in hand.

  Maybe Dubois was right. Maybe this was a suicide mission. But if he couldn’t take the spy down, then he could never go back to Amber.

  That thought slammed into his chest like a piece of space junk whizzing through the void. He hadn’t put this mission in terms so stark before, but he knew the notion had been in the back of his mind all along. How could he face her when he’d let her down so badly?

  She might not see it that way, but he did.

  As he climbed, he played through his memories of her—starting with the first time he’d laid eyes on her with her face deliberately hidden by a rough hood. Then he saw himself discovering her beauty as they sat in the ship’s control room. Their first meal together. Making love for the first time. Her beguiling him and then the swamp rats with her singing. But the image that stabbed into him was himself chained to the wall—helpless—while Tudor held her in an obscene embrace, enjoying his power over his captives as his hands caressed Amber’s body.

  Max was unable to banish that sick image. Gritting his teeth, he kept hoisting himself upward. One way or the other, he was going to wipe that terrible defeat from his mind.

  He looked across at the next tree and finally saw LaTour. The traitor was busy shooting back at the men on the ground—men who had been his friends until today. No longer. All of them knew he had been a poison snake in their midst. And if he escaped, he might be the death of every man, woman and child in their kin group.

  The Inheritors were putting on a coordinated attack, continually moving, making the bastard twist this way and that to get a shot at any of them. The man’s energy bursts were definitely getting weaker now. Obviously, he didn’t have a full charge. Or was tha
t Max’s wishful thinking?

  Finally, he reached the platform where LaTour had originally been standing. It was a nice steady perch, well-constructed from rough logs lashed together with vines.

  As Max stood up, he noted that he was almost as close to LaTour as they had been the other morning—when the bastard had burst into the house in the swamp with a bunch of men who surrounded him and Rafe.

  He grimaced. Another painful memory he wanted to forget.

  Then the traitor had been confident that he could make his friends think Max, Amber, and Rafe had come to the camp as spies. Now Max could see the sweat beading the back of the man’s neck as he twisted to peer through the leaves, trying to get a clear shot at the attackers on the ground.

  With one hand Max clicked his beamer to full power. His quarry was facing away from him. He could shoot the bastard in the back, but he had no intention of taking the coward’s way out.

  Steadying himself against the tree trunk, he shouted, “Stop worrying about your former comrades on the ground.”

  The man whirled, his eyes widening as he spotted Max at his level in the neighboring tree. He raised his beamer, pointing it at Max.

  “You.” He got off a shot, but the blast barely registered in the foliage next to Max’s arm.

  “Merde.”

  “Out of juice?”

  When LaTour didn’t answer, Max said, “Tell me why you did it.”

  “Why should I?”

  “Dubois will want to know.”

  The fugitive swallowed hard, then shrugged. “All right. My sister disappeared. I went charging over to Tudor’s place to look for her. He caught me and took me to his secret room. She was still alive when he let me see her.”

  Max’s stomach knotted as he thought of what the man must have seen. Worse, he couldn’t stop imagining Amber in that room playing through his mind.

  “He made it clear that the same thing would happen to me if I didn’t start working for him.”

  “You could have told Dubois.”

  “That faint-livered woman in man’s clothing? What could he have done?”

  “More than you think. He’s down there now.”

  All at once, with his other hand, LaTour pulled out a second beamer that must have been in the pocket of his pants—held in reserve until he needed it.

  He fired with a full charge, but jerking out the gun had thrown him off balance and the shot went past Max’s head and into the tree trunk.

  Max hadn’t moved from his position with his back braced against the tree trunk. Willing himself to steadiness, he aimed and fired, his shot striking the man in the chest. He fell backwards, crashing through the leaves and hitting branch after branch as he plummeted to the ground—strange fruit falling from the Patamas tree.

  Max heard an exclamation from the ground. Then Dubois called out, “Are you okay?”

  “Yes.”

  “Come down.”

  “As soon as I have a look around.”

  Max climbed out on a limb and used it to scramble into the boughs of the tree where LaTour had been standing. On the platform he found a cache of food, knives, and another rope that could have taken the fugitive to still another tree if he hadn’t been surrounded.

  “There’s food and knives up here,” he called down. “Do you want them?”

  “Someone will come back later,” Dubois answered.

  Max climbed slowly down. He’d expected to feel exalted after accomplishing his mission, but instead he felt a kind of numbness as he joined the group of men gathered around the body. Bernard the dog hung back, and Max could only imagine what he was thinking. He had led the way to his friend, and he had come plummeting out of a tree. Did Bernard blame himself? Or could a dog make that connection?

  “Are we taking him back to camp?” Max asked.

  Dubois made a rough sound. “Waste of energy. We’ll dump him in the first bog we find.”

  “That suits me.”

  “But first we should find his boat.”

  Max silently agreed. The dog followed as the party headed for the river that flowed toward Port City, with the wounded Tip doing his best to keep up.

  “Stay back,” Dubois ordered, “The banks can be treacherous.”

  Max watched as some of the men began prowling along the river’s edge, investigating the thick foliage that hung over the slow-moving water.

  As the search party worked, Dubois turned to Max. “You achieved your goal. Why are you not happy?”

  “I brought evil down on your kin,” he said.

  “No, the evil was here long before you arrived,” the security chief countered. “You did us a service by unmasking it—and making sure LaTour did not get to the city where he could do great damage to us.”

  A shout from the riverbank brought them both over. Henri had pulled away some brush and revealed a small, flat-bottomed craft stocked with provisions.

  Dubois gestured toward Allan. “Paddle this pirogue back to the camp, and take Tip with you.”

  “Oui, captain.”

  “I can walk,” Tip said stiffly.

  “You are wounded—because you were eager to deal with the traitor. Go in the boat now.”

  The younger man nodded.

  When the boat had departed, the rest of the men returned to the body. As Henri and Max each took one of LaTour’s booted feet and began to pull him along the ground, Bernard growled.

  Max gently lowered the boot he was holding and approached the dog. Getting down on his haunches, he said, “I know you don’t understand. LaTour was nice to you. He probably needed to tell someone what he was doing, and he could talk to you.”

  The dog seemed to be taking in the words.

  Max continued, “But he was only pretending to be your friend. You’ll find another man to play with.”

  The dog gave him a solemn look and a little woof.

  “I’m going to take him away now,” Max said. “But it’s the right thing to do.”

  The dog followed as they dragged the traitor along the ground—back the way they’d come.

  Paul scouted the swamp on either side of their route, and it didn’t take long before he was back and shouting that he had found a tarn.

  Max and Henri dropped the boots, and they all stopped at one of the brown expanses that looked like a lake of mud.

  The security chief gestured to Max. “You switch to his arms.”

  Max complied. He and Henri began to swing the body. They threw it into the muck—a fitting grave for the traitor.

  Bernard howled once as the body sank and then was silent.

  Seeing LaTour sink out of sight took a weight off Max’s chest, but now he had to return to camp and face Amber.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  The closer Max got to the Inheritors’ village, the more leaden his legs felt. But he kept pace with the other men because he knew they were anxious to get back and tell everyone about the victory over the spy.

  They arrived at the camp, and he watched those who had stayed behind greet the returning victors with relief and thanks.

  He saw men embracing their wives and children. And he saw Dubois reporting to Gatroux.

  He remembered that when he’d thought of Amber as a responsibility he didn’t want, he had considered leaving her with these people, but after living with them for a few days, he knew that wasn’t a solution.

  He still wasn’t sure what to do, and he was glad to get a little reprieve when he saw Rafe.

  He and his friend had parted back at Tudor’s house and now they each needed to find out what had happened with the other.

  “I take it the emergency’s over, and you got LaTour,” Rafe said.

  “Yeah,” he clipped out. “What about Tudor’s house?”

  “The swamp swallowed it up.”

  “Good.”

  “Now we just have to wait and see what happens when he doesn’t report back for work.”

  Max nodded.

  “Amber’s in one of the houses. She’
s worried about you. You should go tell her you made it back in one piece.”

  Max didn’t move for several seconds. “Which house?” he finally asked.

  Rafe pointed toward a hut that was set apart from the others and a little larger than the rest.

  Still unsure of what he was going to say, he crossed the central area, conscious that some of the women were watching him with interest.

  Trying not to feel like he was on display, he began climbing the ladder that led to the entrance. He went very still when he heard Amber’s voice coming from inside.

  She was singing, but not one of the songs he’d heard before. And as he listened, he decided that no one had heard it before because Amber was writing it as she sang.

  It was a sad song about a woman who loved a man. But he went away and left her, and there was no way to find him again.

  The sun sets on this planet

  And he is on another world.

  When does the sun set in that faraway place?

  And does he think of me?

  She stopped for perhaps twenty seconds before starting again.

  And does he think of us, of what we had together.

  Does he cling to the memories as I do?

  Should I follow him? Does he still want me? Or has he found another love?

  Max quietly climbed into the hut, taking in the sight of her. Seeing her again made his heart squeeze painfully. She was wearing one of those pretty dresses that Rafe had brought from Hawkings, the soft fabric clinging to her hips. He said nothing, but something must have told Amber that she was no longer alone in the hut. She turned slowly and saw him standing in the doorway.

  Neither of them moved as they stared at each other.

  “I didn’t think you were coming back,” she finally said.

  “If I hadn’t killed LaTour I wouldn’t have been able to face you. Not after I let Tudor get his hands on you like that.”

  Those words and what must be the strained look on his face sent her flying across the room, where she wrapped her arms around him and held him tight.

  “You didn’t let him do anything,” she said. “His spy told him we were here. He planned how to grab us.”

  “I should have . . .”