Gun Ship Page 4

  “Sire . . . there is news.”

  Zeab spun around to find the team’s young assistant behind him. Little more than a boy. “Danly, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, sire . . . Shorban Danly. I have news of the chase, the pursuit. Three Dynasty Stingers. They tried to lose us within the belt.”

  Zeab, nodding, put on an interested, contemplative, facial expression. An act. He was well aware of the harrowing chase, now transpiring this very moment within the OB5 asteroid belt. Like other elite personage, Zeab was outfitted with the latest technology—such as the comms-membrane display, fused to the inside of his left forearm. Although he hadn’t known they were Stingers, he knew two of the craft had been destroyed. The third, heavily damaged, had been sent tumbling off into the most treacherous depths of the asteroid belt, where further pursuit was impossible.

  The fifty Demyan Rage Fighters engaged in the battle had been reduced in number to ten. Zeab would ensure that each surviving pilot, and crew member, was publicly executed. The fatal destruction of those stasis-tubes, the Dom-Dynasty’s reigning aristocracy, was unforgivable. Those escaping space vessels were to be damaged only—stopped, but not destroyed. Still, there was a slim chance that one or more family member’s tubes had survived the ordeal on the lone remaining Stinger. The emperor had already sent for Zeab and was to meet with him later today. That could be bad, Chancellor Zeab thought. He would be ready—would suggest that his Eminence dispatch the Empire’s Fifth Fleet, consisting of six hundred warships. That all local star systems, and perhaps even frontier worlds be scoured—no primitive, backwater world left unchecked. A residual energy-wake would be detectable, along with other means of tracking the surviving Stinger’s passage. Zeab would find that cursed little ship if it was his last living act. And then, his life’s sole ambition and purpose would be to find, then kill, Loham Babar.

  Harrage Zeab, realizing the young apprentice was staring up at him, said, “I apologize . . . lost in my own cluttered mind. How would you like to ride along with me in my personal shuttle? It must be midday . . . we can lunch together.” Zeab’s dark eyes leveled on the handsome young apprentice like a venomous snake watching a small rodent. “You can tell me all about yourself. I can see you are built like an athlete. You must be into sports, am I correct on that? Let me guess, you’re on a tournament Gonchi team . . . how I love watching combative-wrestling.”

  Chapter 5

  Kilian Trip

  Bridgeport, Chicago

  It had been a long day, and after having to cover an extra half-shift for Cassandra, who was having surgery on her bunions, well—Killian was both tired and cranky. Four days had passed since Justin’s ordeal, and she just wanted to be home with him. Not here, irrigating that mail carrier’s infected thumbnail, or bandaging that bitchy cross-trainer’s ankle.

  “Half-day today, Killian?” Doctor Branch asked, approaching the Campus B Parking structure.

  Killian looked up after rummaging in her purse for her car keys. “Funny . . . yeah. Well, some of us don’t have cushy doctor’s hours.” Having fingered her keys, she swiped at an errant strand of hair and tucked it behind her ear. Doctor Branch, about fifty-five, was a few years older than herself. Good-looking and single, he typically dated twenty- or thirty-year-olds. Killian always secretly hoped he’d get tired of chasing young tail; realize there were benefits to dating someone closer to his own age. Hell, she was in relatively good shape, even could squeeze into the same jeans she’d worn as a freshman in college. And she actually could carry on an intelligent conversation, on a myriad of subjects.

  He stopped an arm’s length before her. “How’s your boy? Any more trouble from . . . ?”

  “No. He’s managing the pain with ibuprofen—”

  “I meant emotionally. What he went through was traumatic. Is he talking about it?”

  Killian thought about that. Does Justin ever talk about his feelings? Not really. “Yeah, well, you know how teenagers are. Moody and introspective. I figure he’ll come to me when he wants to talk.”

  “Well, if you think talking to an old dude like me would help, I’d be willing to—”

  “Oh, I’m sure you’re far too busy to get caught up in our family drama, Dr. Branch.”

  “Dave . . . for the umpteenth time, just call me Dave. And no, I’m not too busy to help a friend. I’d love to.”

  Killian swiped at the same errant strand of hair again, even though it was still tucked firmly in place behind her ear. “Okay . . . yeah, thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.” She didn’t allow herself to read anything personal into it. The good doctor was simply being kind. Supportive. Nothing more.

  “Guess I should get myself into the zoo,” he said, still not moving.

  “Good luck in there. You may want to get a tetanus booster shot one of these days.”

  He laughed and hesitantly strode away, and Killian began to walk as well.

  She was two strides away when she heard him call after her.

  “Killian?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Maybe . . . when our shifts align, we can grab dinner?”

  Looking back over her shoulder at him while still walking ahead, she said, “Um, sure. Why not?” She then hurried off, nervously pressing the unlock button on her key fob. With her heart pounding in her chest like a drum, she wondered, Wow, did that just happen?

  Lost in her thoughts, she heard the beep of her Civic, near the far side of the parking garage. Her footsteps echoed within the enclosed concrete surroundings. It suddenly occurred to Killian just how alone she was. How vulnerable. An abrupt noise startled her—something in the shadows off to her left, hidden behind a white panel van. Right where the overhead florescent lights were out. Terrific—as if that’s not the least bit creepy, she mused. Ten yards to go and she’d be safe within her car. She picked up her pace.

  But it wasn’t from the dark, creepy, shadows on her left that the gangbanger stepped out. It was from her right. “Ahh!” she yelped.

  The obvious leader stood a full stride in front of the rest of his intimidating crew. The three others, similarly dressed in oversized black hoodies and dark ball caps, took up positions in front of her car. “Mrs. Trip . . . you’ve been keeping us waiting. Fuck, lady, you bitches work some long hours, huh?”

  “What do you want? This garage is patrolled every ten minutes. Security is tight here—”

  “I just told you. Been here for hours. I know exactly when that small, fat, roving troll comes snooping around. But we still got some time . . . to talk. And such.”

  Killian said, “Please . . . just leave us, leave me, alone.” Pulling her purse up higher, she crossed her arms—a shield against what might be coming.

  The leader, strangely, appeared to be the youngest of the four. She noticed it was a mixed-race bunch of hoodlums. The man in front of her was black, but two others were Hispanic, and there was a young Asian man as well. What they all had in common, though, was the same dead-set eyes—eyes numb to egregious acts of violence, eyes that seemed to view life with hatred and malevolence.

  He came closer to her—close enough that she could smell his musky cologne mixed with a sour body odor. “You’re a pretty lady . . . got that MILF thing going on. Yeah, I could do you.” He looked back to his boys. “Any of you want my sloppy seconds?”

  “She’s doable,” one said enthusiastically. Killian wasn’t sure which, since her eyes were tightly squeezed shut.

  “Now, now, Mrs. T . . . don’t get all defensive-like. We just want to chat with you some. Talk to you about your boy, hidden away in that little house of yours. We’ve been, um, checking you all out. Getting the lay of the land, so to speak.”

  Killian was well aware of that fact. She’d seen them loitering around during the day. Even more so at night, huddled together on the sidewalk. Sometimes they’d make taunting sounds, cat calls.

  When the open-handed slap came, she wasn’t prepared for it. Staggering, Killian dropped her purse, then crumpled to her knees. She wanted to scream. Wanted to use her keys as a weapon—punch out—poke the leader in the eye with them. But she was too scared for any of that. Too scared to do anything but kneel trembling on the cold concrete floor.

  His face drew close—came within an inch of hers. “Tell that boy of yours he won’t get away with what he’s done. And this ain’t no eye-for-an-eye bullshit either. Before I cut him, slice his throat from ear to ear, he’s going to learn what scorched earth means. That everyone he cares about . . . will die. I just might let him watch, when your turn comes. What do you think about that, Mrs. T?”

  She could hear a car’s engine driving up the second-level ramp. God . . . please let it be security, Killian prayed.

  “We’re going to be leaving you, for now. But we’ll be around.” He traced a forefinger down her already bruised cheek and jaw, then onto her neck and left breast. “Maybe you and I will have a little fun first. Yeah, I’m still open to that.”

  Abruptly, the gang leader stood upright. Within seconds, they were gone. Killian remained where she was, still too scared to move, and only vaguely aware of the SUV idling nearby her.

  “You okay there, Ma’am? You need assistance?”

  She glanced up, seeing it was the hospital security vehicle. The squat little man behind the wheel stared down at her.

  “I’m fine, just dropped my purse . . . keep on going.”

  “You sure. Maybe best if I give you—”

  “I said I’m fine!” Killian yelled. Gathering up the items of her purse, she stood, car keys still tightly clenched within her fist. Opening her driver-side door, she climbed in, wanting to swipe at the tears on her wet cheeks. But she knew the frog-faced man driving the little SUV would notice, so she smiled back instead. Everything’s just fine here . .
. so move along now, you useless man. She started the engine and put the Civic into reverse after the SUV pulled away. She sat there a moment, watching it patrol slowly through the structure.

  Chapter 6

  Justin Trip

  Bridgeport, Chicago

  Justin pushed the front curtains aside, just enough to peer out onto the street beyond. It was the third time that morning he’d checked to see if the Chicago PD cruiser was at the curb. It was not. The detective, who’d questioned him at the hospital, had promised him there’d be an increase in patrols—especially at night. But after a week’s time, their presence nearby had become less and less frequent. Justin hated being afraid—he wanted his life to return to normal.

  “Your sack lunch is in the fridge. Tuna, banana, bag of Doritos,” his mother said, hurrying down the staircase. She was wearing her light pink scrubs and white hospital shoes. His mind flashed back to the ER—to Lewis sprawled out on the linoleum floor, flailing and sobbing at the loss of his twin brother, Harland.

  “You sure you’re ready to go back to school? Maybe take a few more days off, hon?”

  “No, Mom. I’m going crazy cooped up in here.”

  “A week is probably not enough time. Not for the kind of injuries you incurred.”

  “Mom, I’m fine. Really, can you just hurry? I don’t want to be late today.”

  Grabbing the sack lunch off the top shelf of the refrigerator, Killian handed it to Justin. “Put it in your pack—you’ll be hungry later.”

  Justin waited for her to snatch up both her car keys and purse before heading out the front door, then walked over to the passenger side of his mother’s Honda Civic. Waiting for her to unlock the car door, he scanned the nearby street and the adjacent sidewalk. On four separate occasions over the past week he’d seen them loitering around: gang members from the MP140s. They all wore the same, now-familiar uniform—oversized blue jeans, black hoodies, and black ball caps flipped backward. They came in groups of either four or five, messed around for a while there across the street from his mom’s house, making no real pretense for being here. They were there for one reason only—intimidation. To let Justin know his time was coming. That Lewis would claim revenge.

  They drove in silence for a few minutes before his mother said, “Can’t drive you to school tomorrow. I’ve missed too much work this past week already . . . can’t lose this job, sweetie.”

  Justin, who had his EarPods in and blaring, shrugged noncommittally. Only then did he notice her bruised cheek. She had tried to hide it under a ton of makeup, but it still showed through. “What happened to you?” he asked, gesturing to his own cheek.

  “Oh, um, patient . . . out-of-control junkie. Don’t change the subject. Maybe Garrett? He can drive you, I’m sure. I’ll call him later . . .”

  Justin continued to stare at her cheek. His mother was a terrible liar. Although he’d been adopted, he’d somehow inherited that same aspect. “No! Don’t do that . . . I’ll take the bus.”

  Killian glanced his way, concerned. “What happened between you two? You loved getting rides from him in the mornings?”

  Justin acted as if he didn’t hear her over the loud rap track blaring in his ears. Truth was, Justin didn’t know why he was avoiding Garrett. He felt betrayed, somehow, although he knew that was bullshit. His personal crush on Aila was beyond stupid. She deserved someone like Garrett. Still, that didn’t mean he had to like it. “Just drop me off at the corner, Mom.”

  “Oh, I know the routine . . . God forbid a teenager is caught driving around with their mom.” Pulling close to the corner, she placed a hand on his arm. “No walking home after school. Call me if you need anything. I love you.”

  Justin, nodding back, climbed out. Shutting the car door, he gave his mother a halfhearted wave goodbye. After first readjusting his backpack, he pulled his hood back over his head, hiding the new, smaller bandage on his cheek. He had to walk more hunched-over than usual due to his sore ribs. He’d wondered how much of what had happened to him had gotten around, and now he knew—it seemed like everyone was gawking at him. Conversations were interrupted as they watched him pass. Fuck! He craved to again be seated in his back-row seat in homeroom. Although tempted to bypass a trip to his locker, he knew he’d need his trigonometry textbook later. Deep in thought, he walked right into the school custodian’s large, rolling, fifty-gallon trashcan.

  “Shit . . . sorry,” Justin said, startled. He looked up to see Mr. Babar near him, dressed in his usual green overalls, and wearing workman’s gloves. The two stared at one another. Justin’s mind raced as he tried to speak, wanting to thank the big man for saving his life. He hadn’t mentioned anything about the janitor to the police, given them no explanation as how Harland had become impaled on that metal pipe. But just the same, he wanted to let the guy know he hadn’t taken it lightly—that beyond all doubt his life had been saved that night.

  But studying the man now, his striking bald head and large muscular form, strangely hunched over, he noticed the janitor walked with a definite limp. Justin wondered how this could possibly be the same person. The one who’d come to his rescue, who had moved like some kind of Parkour athlete, and fought like a Ninja.

  The corners of Mr. Babar’s lips pulled up. “You . . . feeling better?” He spoke with an Indian, or maybe Pakistani accent.

  Justin nodded. Keeping his voice low, he asked, “It was you . . . wasn’t it?”

  “Me?”

  “Who was there . . . that night. The one who—”

  “No. You are mistaken,” Mr. Babar said, maneuvering the oversized trashcan around him.

  Justin, placing a hand on the trashcan’s rubber rim, held on. “Wait. Can I just ask you something?”

  The custodian looked annoyed, as if he couldn’t get away from Justin fast enough. “What is it, young man? I have much to do this morning.”

  “Can you show me how you did that?”

  Mr. Babar assessed Justin with suspicion in his eyes.

  “They’re going to get me. Maybe my mom . . . you saw them. Saw what happened.”

  What came back was almost a whisper. “I cannot get involved. I have my own . . . issues, boy.”

  “Please! There’s no one else that—”

  “No. Leave me be.” Angrily, he shoved past Justin, metallic caster wheels clattering.

  Justin ran after him. “Help me or I’ll tell them—the police. What you did. The metal pipe.”

  “Why me?” Babar asked, still pushing his trash bin ahead.

  “I don’t know . . . I just know things have to change for me. And I know you can help me. I saw”

  The man sighed. “I’ll think about it. Go about your day, boy.” Powering the trashcan forward, he turned left at the next corner.

  Justin’s first period class went by in a blur; the same with the second. He ignored the other students, the overly sympathetic glances from his teachers. Sitting low in his seat, he thought, Something’s got to change. He mused about the nightmares he’d been experiencing nightly, ever since he’d returned home from the hospital. Mused about his life, once perfectly on track, now becoming dismal, a shit-show, and only getting worse. Something’s got to change. He’d gone from simply being the resident school monstrosity to becoming a true liability, to his mother and anyone around him. Fear was suffocating him—and he realized it had been even before the MP140s’ calamitous attack. Justin thought about his life going forward. Sure, he had good grades—great grades! A scholarship was in the bag from more than one university. Terrific. He could go from being the high school freak to a university freak. Timid and afraid, he’d spend the next four years shuttered within his dorm room. Something’s got to change . . . I don’t want to live like this anymore.

  “Hey there . . . found you.”

  Justin glanced up, then around him. The room was empty. The class, at some point, had ended. But sitting in front of him, turned around backward in a seat facing him, was Aila, who wore a bemused smile—as if she was privy to some secret goings-on. She looked around playfully. “Are we hiding out in here?”

  “Um, no. Just got lost in thought.”

  “I see,” she said, conveying back that she didn’t really believe his excuse. “Why haven’t you returned any of my phone calls?”