Bounty Hunter at Binary Flats (Nick Walker, U.F. Marshal Book 4)

by John Bowers

  A tap on her door caused her to look up. Brian Godney, a fellow attorney, took her eye-contact as an invitation and crossed the floor to her desk. He dropped a folder in front of her.

  Victoria picked it up. “What’s this?”

  “I did a follow-up on that shootout at the Isthmus of Latia last week. You know, the Marshal Walker thing.”

  “I already read that report.”

  Mildly annoyed, Victoria picked up the folder and handed it back to him. Brian was ambitious and sometimes could be really anal about things.

  “Take another look.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I think there’s more to this than you realize.”

  “Like what?”

  “Have you seen this guy’s body count?”

  “Whose body count? Walker’s?”

  “Yes.”

  “He’s a U.F. Marshal. They have to deal with some of the worst people in the galaxy.”

  “Look, I know you have history with him, but this is important. This guy has been on the job barely five years and he has more kills than any other ten marshals combined.”

  “Why are you bringing it to me? Take it to his superiors.”

  “They’ll bury it. To them he’s a national hero, or some such bullshit. But I think we may have a problem on our hands.”

  “‘We’?”

  “The Federation. Come on, Vic, just take a look. I compiled all the data for you, it won’t take you five minutes.”

  She pulled the folder back and placed it open on her desk. With a little frown she began to page through it.

  “What kind of problem do you think we have?”

  Brian Godney pulled himself up to his full five feet four and squared his shoulders.

  “A public relations problem. I think we’ve got ourselves a rogue marshal.”

  Thank You

  If you enjoyed this book, it would be fabulous if you could leave a brief review where you obtained it. Readers trust other readers, and the number of positive reviews has a huge impact on sales.

  If you’re on Facebook or other social sites, and liked the book, perhaps you could recommend it to your friends there as well. Again, thank you so much. You are my marketing team!

  —John

  Writing and posting reviews is easy:

  You don’t have to be a professional writer or particularly verbose. Reviews by “real people” are what most readers are seeking. Just tell them, in your own words, what you thought of the book. If you can put into words “why” you liked the book you can also add that information.

  Don’t give away the ending. Most people hate “spoilers” (although there are a few who actually look for them).

  Then give it a rating (usually 1 to 5 “stars”), a title, if needed, and click on the appropriate button (on Amazon, that would be the “preview” button, followed by the “publish” button if you like what you’ve done).

  That’s all there is to it. You’re now a seasoned reviewer.

  Why Reviews Are Important

  It usually doesn’t take a lot of effort to determine if an artist has talent. Walk into a gallery and observe the paintings, and chances are you will know right away whether you like the work. For painters, photographers, and sculptors, it only takes a glance to determine their ability. For musicians you can usually judge talent within thirty seconds just by listening. For actors, maybe a few minutes.

  It’s different for writers, and novelists in particular, because it takes some effort for the target audience to decide if we are any good at our craft. The sad truth is that perhaps 90% of the population never picks up a book, and for those who do, every novelist in the world is competing for their attention.

  So…when someone does actually read a book, the author really wants to know how it was received. Did you like it? Did you hate it? Can I do it better? Should I do it differently? Should I just forget it and do something else?

  Good books take a long time to write. An author can spend weeks, months, even years getting a book written, edited, rewritten, edited, marketed, and finally published. Then, assuming anyone actually reads it, if no one leaves a review, other book shoppers may decide to pass it up. Five or six positive reviews might change that.

  Obviously the author wants to see 4 and 5-star reviews, but even negative reviews can have benefit, if only to encourage the author to do a better job on the next book.

  Reviews are important. When you finish reading a book, by anyone, why not leave a note of feedback. It only takes a couple of minutes in most cases, and it will encourage the author to keep on telling great stories…or if he really sucks, maybe to find an “honest job”. Either way, the world of books will be better for it.

  Coming in 2015!

  Don’t miss Nick Walker’s fifth adventure as a United Federation Marshal, coming this fall. Check out this trailer:

  Gunfight on the

  Alpha Centauri Express

  The shooting started thirty seconds before Nick Walker walked in the front door. It was just noon and most offices in the Federation Building were breaking for lunch.

  The Federation Building was a skytower that stretched seventy-five floors into the air, and on an average day perhaps twelve thousand people worked there; with visitors and tourists the number probably approached fifteen thousand, and since the war ended nine years earlier, security had been minimal.

  Nick wasn’t even aware anything was happening. Neither, apparently, was anyone else at the lobby level. People were streaming in every direction, both into and out of the building, and the sidewalk outside was a glut of humanity. It was a beautiful day in Lucaston, the temperature warm but not hot; both binaries were up but a gentle breeze off the river tempered the heat.

  Nick wasn’t even sure why he’d been called to the capital. He had just arrived on the mag-lev from Trimmer Springs for a “conference”, a word that always generated tension in his gut because it usually meant his life was about to change, and not always for the better. But orders were orders, and here he was. He’d been told to bring an overnight bag, which he carried in his left hand—and since he was always on duty, he was dressed for work in his trademark Western clothing—denim jeans, western shirt, hat, and cowboy boots. Twin holsters on his gunbelt carried his favorite weapons, a Class 3 laser pistol and a Ru-Hawk .44 Magnum revolver.

  He crossed the broad lobby toward the elevator banks behind the security island. The lobby was twenty yards across. The largest Federation Seal on Alpha Centauri 2 was embedded in the marble floor and his hard leather boots rang with every step. He gazed up at the lobby ceiling forty feet above him, admiring the colonial architecture that rivaled anything on Terra. The first hint he had that anything was wrong was a woman’s scream from the mezzanine.

  He automatically tried to locate the source of the scream, but for a moment it was lost in the general din of voices on all sides. People in expensive suits were still in conversation, moving this way and that. Nick’s eyes narrowed as he caught a flash of movement on the balcony, someone rushing through the crowd, dodging this way and that as he bowled people aside. Nick’s pulse sped into second gear as his eyes locked like radar on the subject. He stopped walking and dropped the space bag; both hands closed over his pistol grips and he drew them, prepared for action.

  So far the lobby crowd was still oblivious, but that changed when two uniformed policemen burst into view on the mezzanine balcony and shouted at the subject to stop. Another woman screamed, then five more; the panicked suspect doubled his speed, plowing people aside, and an elderly man in a business suit was slammed against the railing, toppled over with a cry of surprise, and plunged to the marble below.

  “Freeze!” the cops shouted. “Drop your weapon!”

  Nick hadn’t seen a weapon yet, but now the suspect spun and fired blindly down the length of the balcony. Nick heard four shots and saw five people drop. The cacophony of screams multiplied.

  The cops were unable to return fire due to the civilians be
tween themselves and the suspect, so they continued pushing forward, trying to close the distance without trampling anyone. Just as the suspect reached the end of the balcony, building security belatedly activated their panic button. A deafening siren began to bleat inside the cavernous room and the outer doors started sliding shut, preventing anyone from entering or exiting. A loud, automated voice ordered everyone to take cover or, if caught in the open, throw themselves flat on the floor.

  Like a jungle cat excited by a chase, Nick’s instincts kicked in and he began to run. He’d seen the suspect disappear around the corner of the mezzanine level, headed straight for the elevator banks. He had no way of knowing if the youth, who was shabbily attired and apparently hadn’t seen a razor since he was twelve, would take the elevator, but clearly he was going to run either up or down, and up meant trapping himself inside the building, so he was probably coming down. Nick raced around the security island with guns in both hands, leaped over two people who had hit the floor for cover, and charged straight at the elevators.

  He saw eight elevator doors facing him. Two stood open with people cowering inside them, four appeared to be rising, and two more were descending. Nick stopped in front of the two that were descending and got set, both guns aimed and steady.

  One of the elevators stopped at the lobby; just before the door swished open he heard muffled screams inside, followed by two gunshots…then the door opened.

  Nick’s blood pressure spiked as the gunman charged out, dragging a woman with him. Nick had seen panic before, but never worse than this. The gunman’s eyes were white pools of terror, escape his only thought. He saw Nick and opened fire, pumping three shots across the lobby; Nick felt the wind from two of them but all the bullets missed.

  “U.F. Marshal!” he bellowed. “DROP YOUR WEAPON!!”

  Don’t miss the exciting Starport series by John Bowers. Politics, religion, war, and romance all rolled into an exciting adventure you will never forget. Available now at Amazon.com

  Starport

  Tyler gripped his shoulder harness with fingers like claws and prayed to Kristopher that it would be over soon. He had no idea where they were going or what they were supposed to do, but the general consensus seemed to be that it was dangerous. He could hear a steady roar just outside the hull, as if they were passing under a waterfall, but it was only the wind. Every time the boat tilted or bounced he felt his head swim, vertigo waiting to close in. He swallowed repeatedly, sucking air like a bellows.

  “This is the pilot,” a voice blared from overhead speakers. “Touchdown in three zero seconds. We’re coming in hot, so hang onto something.”

  Tyler closed his eyes and lifted his chin, swallowing hard, a final desperate surrender to his fate. He panted rapidly, sweat pouring from his palms. The boat bounced. He heard a crash as the hull struck something hard yet pliable. Treetops? He opened his eyes and blinked, his face numb. Toews was staring at him, his eyes fixed and hard, but—

  Pop-op-op-op-op-op-op!

  A string of holes appeared in the hull to his left, angling toward the overhead; someone screamed. Tyler instinctively tried to duck, but only his head could move. He looked down and saw a river of blood on the deck, streaming toward the front. Good God! Were those bullets?!?

  The boat hit the trees again, harder this time, and everyone slammed forward, the crash of equipment louder than the curses. The boat had slowed some, but was still traveling like a meteor. Tyler’s stomach lurched as the boat soared slightly, then sank again and hit more trees, harder still. The crash was deafening, but this time the boat didn’t bounce. Instead it plunged through the foliage and hit something soft, maybe a plowed field, or a meadow. The ride became insane, the boat bumping rapidly like a car driving over logs, jerking and bouncing and trying to roll, but slowing fast. The loss of momentum shoved Tyler forward so hard he strangled on his harness, hearing the swish-ish-ish of grass and weeds against the hull.

  Suddenly it was over. The boat lay still, rocking slightly on its stubby landing skids. Tyler opened his eyes and dropped his head back against the seat, hardly able to believe they were down and still alive. Water ran down his cheeks, but he didn’t know if it was tears or sweat.

  Suddenly the inside was filled with pandemonium. Noncoms were shouting orders in rapid fire. More bullets popped through the hull and two men fell. A new panic seized him, but before he could react he saw Cpl. Toews on his feet, gripping his rifle, shouting to his squad. Hatches Tyler hadn’t seen popped opened on both sides of the boat, fore and aft, and men scrambled out of them.

  “Third Squad, deploy to starboard!” Toews roared, windmilling his arms.

  Tyler sat frozen, not knowing what to do. He heard guns firing, automatic rifles. Just outside, to his left, he heard a sudden gaseous roar, like a giant fire extinguisher, and a billow of flame boiled into the rear of the boat through an open hatch. He heard more screams and felt a choking heat; the stench of burning hair filled his nostrils.

  “Let’s go, kid! Get the fuck out!”

  Guerrilla Girl

  Terra struggled forward through the tall grass, limping on her injured leg. The splint helped, but the leg was aching, and walking without bending her knee was hard. She held her rifle at port arms and concentrated on the ground in front of her.

  This is bullshit, she told herself over and over. It wasn’t right to treat Maj. Troy this way. She understood at some level that he had to take responsibility for losing the regiment in the artillery attack, but it hadn’t been his fault. Not really. And he’d done everything in his power to save as many as possible afterward. He had led them away from the kill zone, across the border to escape the hovertanks, and kept everyone together.

  Almost everyone, anyway. A few had died, but again, it wasn’t his fault.

  And now Maj. Fuenteros—that fucking pendejano—was using Troy like a lure, sacrificing him so he could take command for himself. It wasn’t right.

  And the pendejano was using her in the same way, risking her life if the Tropitanis or the Askelonis or whoever the hell they met up with decided to open fire. Fuenteros had never wanted her around in the first place, unless she was willing to fuck him, and was getting rid of her the easy way—and punishing Troy for showing her some kindness.

  Fucking pendejano!

  Troy was just ahead of her, unarmed, his only protection his white skin, which might or might not prevent an opponent from shooting him. His body rigid, he plowed ahead through the deep grass, stoically accepting the risk. Terra was lagging behind, and hurried a little to catch up. She knew she was supposed to keep a little distance between them in case they ran into trouble, but she didn’t want to fall back too far—she had the only rifle.

  The rest of the regiment—more like a depleted battalion—was a quarter mile behind them, coming slowly. They would be no immediate help in a crisis; Troy and Terra would take the brunt of any hostilities, giving the rest a warning and time to spread out.

  A gust of wind flayed her cheek with a sharp-edged blade of tall grass, making her duck defensively. She shook her head briefly, swung an arm to brush the grass aside, and limped forward.

  This was bullshit!

  She heard a shout.

  * * *

  The two heat sigs were coming straight for him. Tyler felt his arteries pulse as the range closed to twenty yards, fifteen, ten. Peering through the tall grass, he saw the outline of a man in green fatigues. His mouth turned dry and he gripped his rifle tighter.

  Five yards.

  He stood up, rifle aimed, and stared into the face of a startled Askeloni.

  “Freeze! Identify yourself!”

  The man raised his hands automatically, his blue eyes stark against his pale face. He had blond hair.

  “Don’t shoot. I’m unarmed.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Daniel Troy. I’m a citizen of Askelon.”

  “What are you d—”

  Tyler never finished the question. The second heat sig material
ized out of the tall grass, and this one was armed. Tyler shifted his aim past Daniel Troy to cover the newcomer; he had a brief mental snapshot of a girl, maybe sixteen or seventeen, dark and beautiful. She saw him at the same moment and her eyes widened in alarm. She swung her rifle toward him…

  “It’s a trap!” Sam Duval screamed.

  Startled, Tyler glanced to his left as Sam leaped up out of the grass.

  “Sam, wait—”

  Famine Planet

  Terra’s cheeks puffed as she exhaled sharply and gripped her guns. It was their turn next, and they were still bathed in a brilliant glare from the flares that were slowly descending from two thousand feet. Her section approached from the right, to hit the spaceport at an angle, and she held her breath as a stream of 22mm arced in her direction. It was high, but not very, and she could hear the shells whizzing overhead. She took aim at the muzzle flash, but it was too far away and she held her fire.

  “Ten seconds!” Wilma yelled to the men in back, and everyone grabbed onto a railing, hands on helmets, heads ducked. Seconds before the sled touched down, Terra saw a series of flashes from behind the warehouses—thirty at least, maybe fifty. For just a second she didn’t know what it was, then her blood turned cold. The sled slammed into the ground and rocked to a halt.

  “P-guns!” Terra screamed. “Over the side!”

  The soldiers rolled over the gunwales and disappeared into the sled’s shadow. Terra slapped Wilma on the helmet.