■ ■ ■
Command Master Chief Daryl Jolly, slid the borrowed Stunner back into the charger rack next to the dispatcher’s counter in the office behind the glass. “You got my payout?”
The Paymaster pointed to the computer screen, “Got the first one you brought in, into your account, working on the second one now.” His fingers tapped on the keyboard, “He seems a little intense, huh?”
“A little? Did you see his eyes?”
“Yeah, he doesn’t seem to be too fond of you…”
Daryl shook his head, “I mean the part where his eyes turned black…”
“The Paymaster was still watching the screen, “Black you say? Nah, I didn’t see that part. Sounds odd.”
“How about when he said we should go?”
The Paymaster paused and looked over at the bounty hunter, “When did he say that?”
Daryl waved his hand, “Never mind. Just give me my money and let me get the hellion out of here…”
“Working on it, just give me a second…” he traced the words on the screen with his fingertips, “Says here, you get fifty percent now, the rest on delivery. If we transport, you lose ten percent. If you provide transport to Rikovik’s Reef, you get the full amount. You want to transport?”
“Not a chance. Give me my fifty percent. They can drop the rest in my account when he gets there. I just want to get out of here.”
One of the guards strolled up and tossed a small plastic bin on the counter between them, “Prisoner 0033, personal effects…”
Daryl eyed the bin; a brand-new MOBIUS, a gold signet ring, a gold medallion on a gold chain, and two ITC cards. “Is this from the guy I just brought in?”
“Yeah,” confirmed the guard, “Jax Mercury, or something…”
Daryl Jolly picked the medallion up and laid it in his palm, looking at Saint Michael the Archangel, patron saint of policemen, firemen and the military, slaying a demon - the significance of which, meant nothing to him. He flipped it over and stopped breathing, the side facing him bearing a skull-and-crossbones, laying atop, but bracketed by an open, spread architect's compasses from above, its points overlaying an architect's square from below. He swallowed hard, laying it back into the bin, picking up the ring, the top having a winged animal of some sort. But it was the sides that made him cringe; one side had two men in armor riding an animal much like the one on the top of the ring, the other side, a cross passing through a crown, ringed with the slogan, “In Hoc Signo Vinces” he said out loud.
“What did you say?” asked the guard looking over his shoulder.
“In this sign thou shalt conquer,” replied Daryl, another chill running up his back. It means he’s an Ancient Knights Templar - a warrior monk of the Architects… He couldn’t bring himself to say it out loud. Because it terrified him.
“For a couple thousand credits, I could let you keep one of those trinkets as a keepsake,” offered the Paymaster with a wink.
Irrational anger ignited like a flash of lightning in his head and Daryl found himself pinning the Paymaster against the nearest wall, holding him up off the floor by his jacket lapels, hissing in his face, “Do not, ever, joke about that. Don’t even think it. Erase the idea from your mind. Do you understand me?!” The Paymasters head nodded loosely, yes, like a bobblehead doll, completely dumbstruck. Releasing the man, he dropped freely to the floor, the guard standing there, stunned, unmoved.
Daryl stepped in front of the computer, “We done? Am I paid?” The Paymaster nodded again, pointing to the ITC card that had ejected from the slot. Snagging the card and stuffing it in his jacket pocket, Daryl pointed at the contents of the bin then at the door leading to the incarceration module, “Give those back to him.” His eyes narrowed, “Do not screw with this - give those things back to him, or you’re asking for a magnitude of shit you’re not prepared for…”
He brushed past the motionless guard and let himself out of the double security doors, his mind awash in dark, dangerous, confusing thoughts, “By the Gods, what have I done…”
CHAPTER TWELVE
SANDY HILL BAR & CASINO, SANDORRA : SANDSTORM
The Chief Deputy of Sheriffs leaned back into the leather lounge sofa that wrapped part way around the conference room, one arm up on the backrest, his legs casually crossed at the knee, “You know, Ms. Huang…”
“Mercedes,” she offered, touching his hand.
He nodded, “Of course, Mercedes. I was intrigued when one of our detectives asked for a copy of all the files on Waycom Hill’s death. When he informed me it was a request on your behalf, I was genuinely surprised.” He handed her a portable card drive the size of a credit card. “I don’t have any objection to it, I expect you’ll be discreet. But I really don’t think you’ll find anything of interest there… Might I ask what you’re looking for?”
She shrugged, smiling coyly, “I love a good mystery. I…”
“I don’t think there’s any mystery,” he interrupted. “Waycom was an old man. He drank, he smoked… who knows what his dietary consumption was. And by all accounts, he partied with his own employees. Our investigation didn’t really turn up anything unusual… I think it was just his time.”
“There are other theories…”
The Chief Deputy waved it off dismissively, “Oh, I’ve heard all the conspiracy theories, believe me. And not one of them makes a lick of sense, or has any actual fact-based information tied to them. I considered Waycom a good friend, there were many nights we shared a drink or a meal - I miss him about as much as anybody could. And as much as I’d like to think there was something more I could do about it, I’m afraid there’s not much to see here,” he nodded at the card drive in her hand.
Mercedes waved the little card like a fan, “That’s alright. Consider it a little bedtime reading. A brain teaser…”
He smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners, somehow appearing a little too patronizing, “Well, OK then. Enjoy.” He lifted a small aluminum cigar box off the sofa next to him, handing it to her, “Maybe you’ll enjoy one of these too, they were Waycom’s favorites. They’re quite good. Even if you don’t smoke, I’d encourage you to try one, I smoke them myself,” he patted his breast pocket. “That little humidor will keep them fresh.
■ ■ ■
“Chase! Chase! CHAAASE!”
There was a dull thud on the door that separated Mercedes’ suite from Chase Holt’s. She could hear a muffled curse as the door slid open and Chase burst into her room, a towel, clutched in his fist, wrapped around the waist of his dripping wet frame, a slug-thrower clutched in his other hand. He swept the room with the muzzle, doing a quick scan for threats.
Chase did a doubletake, Mercedes sitting calmly on the bed, propped up against a stack of pillows, wearing a short sleepshirt. She had several MOBIUS holo-screens open at once, floating in midair around her. “What the hell, Mercy?!”
“Sorry,” she said sheepishly, “I didn’t know you were in the shower. I thought you were just hard of hearing.”
“Son of a bitch,” he wheezed, rolling his shoulder, a pink impression of the door on his skin, “I keep forgetting these damn doors aren’t automatic.”
“Maybe we need to put, push button signs on the doors…”
“Or maybe you should just stop screaming like a lunatic,” he countered. “I thought you were in trouble…”
“That’s sooo sweet,” she grinned, “you were coming in to save me.”
“Ugh,” he complained, rolling his eyes.
“Well, I do need your help,” she said, scooting to a more upright position, the sheet sliding away as she crossed her legs to sit Indian style. “I…”
“Hey!” he objected, averting his eyes, “You’re not wearing… don’t point that thing at me!”
“Oh, hey,” she challenged, waving in his direction, “in case I’m misreading Mr. Johnson’s tent, there, he’s pointing right at Ms. Meow-Meow. And Ms. Meow-Meow is not a thing…”
“Oh, for the love o
f…” he grumbled, turning away, doing his best not to lose his towel, heading back through the still-open door. “I can’t believe you named your… your…”
“What,” she called after him, “You don’t like Ms. Meow-Meow? I can’t believe you don’t have a name for Mr. Johnson…”
“No…”
“Can I name him?!”
“Nooo!”
“I think we should introduce them,” she mused, “I think they’d be good friends…”
He poked his head back through the doorway, “You are nuts, you know that, right?”
“Crazy like a fox,” she countered as his face disappeared back into his suite. “And a year without sex will do that…” she called.
His face reappeared again, “What?”
“You heard me. A year. A whole year. In fact, it’s more like fifteen months if I’m counting right.”
“Geez… that… sucks,” he mumbled, disappearing again.
“And you know what they say about crazy chics…” she called.
“No, what’s that?”
“Crazy chics equals crazy sex… Now add a year’s worth of horny, to the equation…”
He reappeared a moment later, dry, wearing a tee-shirt and boxers. Moving to the side of the bed, he set his slug-thrower on the nightstand and put one knee on the mattress, “Look, I have a girl… Karen means a lot to me…”
Mercedes spread her arms wide, sweeping the room, “Is she in this room? Or this city? Is she on this planet? Or in this solar system?”
“But…”
“Or even in this sector of space?!” she continued. “No. Does she even know you’re alive? Doubtful. Do you ever truly expect to get off this planet? Again, doubtful.”
“Hey, wait a minute…” he objected.
“Yeah, of course,” she admitted, “The Perseus could show back up tomorrow and ping our MOBIUS’. Sure. Maybe. And then again maybe not. Maybe not ever. What I do know for sure is, we’re here. You, me and Tornado. We’re all we’ve got. This time, right now, right here, is all we’ve got. There are no guarantees of tomorrow. We might as well be in a combat zone because we’re as sure as hell in hostile territory…” She shook her head, “And we sure as hell don’t have too many friends we can count on,” she held up one hand and wiggled her fingers, “one hand the number of people we can trust. But I’d need an abacus to calculate all the people we can’t.”
Chase was looking at her, past her with his head cocked to one side.
“What are you staring at?” she insisted. “Have you heard anything I’ve said?”
“Yeah, yeah,” he waved, climbing onto the bed, kneeling, “We’re all gonna’ die… What the hell are you looking at?” he asked, pointing at the holo-screens of digital images still floating around her.
“The files from Waycom Hill’s investigation…”
“You get them from the Sheriff?”
“Yeah, he brought them over earlier today.”
“In person?”
Mercedes paused, giving him a sideways glance, “Yeah, why? Do you think that means something?”
Chase rubbed his chin, “I don’t know. But it doesn’t feel right. Why would he do that personally?” He shook his head, “I don’t like it.” Mercedes reached up and moved a screen closer to him, prompting him to sit more comfortably, sliding back against the pillows, “What am I looking at?”
“The autopsy.”
“What the hell, most of it’s blank…”
“Exactly,” she pointed, “they didn’t even do a toxicology.”
Chase pointed to a section on the form, “It just says, natural causes, it’s not even specific. That’s not normal, is it?”
“Not that I’ve ever seen. They usually list something… Although, this isn’t Earth, maybe they do things differently here.”
Chase ran his fingers through his hair, “Think somebody’s covering something up? I mean, a toxicology can’t be that hard to do, can it?”
“Or they just didn’t care… Low manpower, maybe? I don’t know…” She stretched her legs out and scooted back against the pillows, leaning back, folding her arms back behind her head, her sleep shirt creeping up, revealing a dark triangle of pubic hair.
“Aww, man…”
“Quit being a baby,” she scolded, “Meow-Meow isn’t going to jump up and eat your face…”
“Yeah, thanks for that mental picture…”
She thumbed in his direction, “Mr. Johnson seems to disagree with you, he’s setting up his campsite again.”
Chase scooted back and brought his knees up, snatching a corner of the sheet and pulling it across his lap for camouflage, “Y’know, I think you’re more than crazy, you’re evil too…”
“Whatever.” She waved a circle around herself, “See this? This is me, not caring.” She reached forward, rearranging the holo-screens with the digital images of Waycom Hill’s office the night he died. Some before his remains were removed, some after. “What am I missing here…? Something is off - I can’t put my finger on it…”
Chase studied the images, “Did anyone ever decipher the coded letter he was writing?” Mercedes turned and stared at him, he turned and stared back, “What?”
“It was never mentioned in the report. And there’s nothing in the file about it…”
Chase raised an eyebrow, “Could it just be a rumor?”
She shook her head, “I don’t know. The Realtor mentioned it - where would he have heard it?”
“It doesn’t take much to start a rumor rolling,” replied Chase. His expression changed to acceptance, “But, a lot of rumors are based on fact…”
“Maybe we should ask the Realtor about it again…”
“I’ve got a better idea,” clapped Chase, “we do an upgrade for Red. We outfit him with a new storage drive, something that will hold a decade of the memories he’s been storing on the ship’s systems. Maybe he’ll have something in his backups…”
“It would certainly be easier interviewing him than digging through the files on the system…” She folded her legs again, sitting Indian style, staring at the images, trying to ignore the fact that their legs were now touching. “What am I missing…”
Chase put his hand on her knee to lean across, pointing at an image on her other side, “Is it the angle, or did that little metal box move out of frame?” He pointed at another image, “See, it’s in this one…”
Mercedes went to her MOBIUS and pulled additional images from the file, separating the frames, doubling the number of photos surrounding them. It took a few minutes and several rounds of shuffling images, but then they both saw it. She pinched her lips, in concentration, “They didn’t move it, it disappeared after his remains were removed.” She pointed to the last frame, “See here, it’s gone.”
Chase shifted, trying to manipulate his aching shoulder, “What is it?”
Mercedes swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry, “It’s a cigar box… just like the one the Chief Deputy gave me…”
■ ■ ■
“Oh. My. God…” groaned Chase, his chin hanging off the edge of the bed, “that feels sooo good it hurts…”
Still dressed in her sleep shirt, Mercedes straddling his shirtless back, leaning her weight on her elbow into the muscles across his right scapula, the oil allowing her to slide smoothly through the knot. “You’ve got one hell of a knot here, just how hard did you hit the door?”
“Unhhh,” he grunted. “Pretty hard I guess. But that’s not even where my shoulder hit the door…”
“It’s all connected,” she breathed into his ear, her fingers manipulating the muscles connecting his neck and shoulders. She sat up and slopped more oil on his back, spreading it around with her palms, feeling him shiver. “Yeah, it’s a bit cool… let me warm that up.”
A spike of adrenalin hit him when her sleep shirt plopped on the carpet in front of him, feeling her full body against his back, her thumbs digging into the muscles on either side of his neck and spine. “Ooohhhh�
�” he moaned, his muscles melting, “you’re…”
“Naked,” she said, finishing his sentence. “Yes I am.” She slid her entire body up and down his back, her weight on the flats of her forearms, sliding them out away from his spine, rolling away knots and stress.
She was slow, methodical, hypnotic, thorough, and he had given up all will, all conscious reason or objection melting away with the pain and stress.
Bending his arms at the elbows, the back of his hands flat against the small of his back, allowed her to reach under the shoulder blades with her thumbs, digging in. She slid his right hand off his back moving it along his body to gently work on the bruise on the outside of his right shoulder. Sliding up for a better reach, she straddled his left hand, trapping it, as her fingers urged circulation through his bruise. She ground herself into his hand, “Say hello to Ms. Meow-Meow,” she whispered.
■ ■ ■
Mmm coffee… Chase Holt inhaled the wonderous aroma, too comfortable, too content to open his eyes or move, only vaguely aware of the sensation of weight draped across his body, his mind blank, simply filled with a soft, velvety fog.
Jolted awake by the door chime, Mercedes rolled off him, snatching her slug-thrower off her nightstand, Chase grabbing his, left-handed, sitting up in bed. Barely covered with opposite corners of the sheet, they both spoke at the same time, weapons pointing at the door, “Come in…”
A Pit Boss from the casino floor opened the door, stepping in, immediately uncomfortable, averting his eyes, “Ah, I’m sorry, I, uh…”
Chase and Mercedes exchanged a glance, hiding their weapons, speaking together again, “What time is it?”
“One-fifteen in the afternoon,” he replied, his back still turned. “Look, I didn’t mean to interrupt, but we have a problem… Well, not a problem per-se, more of an issue…”
“What is it?”
“We have a patron who has gone over his credit line…”
“By how much?” Mercedes took the opportunity to reach for a robe and slip it on, wrapping it around her. Chase looked for his boxers and couldn’t find them, remaining confined to the sheets.
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