As soon as he stepped outside, he knew it was time to go. Lodestone’s weather was known to be volatile, restricting ship traffic with its violent and swift changing moods. Air transports crashed with alarming regularity, driven to ground by savage winds and poor visibility. Pilots demanded hazard pay whenever they landed here, which made for a profitable run that was almost worth the risks involved. Nick had built his business by taking calculated risks and the extra credits were a welcome bonus.
A severe dust storm warning had flashed to all pilots before Jonas Spark had arrived, and time was in short supply if Nick had a prayer of getting off this rock before being grounded for the storm’s duration. Nothing was guaranteed to piss him off more.
With ground-eating strides, he hurried through the narrow streets toward the spaceport and his waiting ship. Squat buildings sat crowded shoulder-to-shoulder in the deserted industrial area he passed through. Dust devils wobbled drunkenly out of the narrow alleyways driven by the brutal winds that would soon be scouring the pitted surfaces of the buildings with gritty debris.
Glow lights powered up as he reached the last row of buildings, providing dim beacons against the encroaching gloom. The red orb passing for a sun on this world offered little warmth to the inhabitants mining the planet. Now, it was barely visible through the dust cloud. It was no accident most activity occurred underground. People only lived on the surface because it was necessary if they catered to ship traffic.
Nick was being followed and had been since he’d left the alehouse. It could be a coincidence they were going in the same direction through a derelict district at the same time, but Nick wasn’t a big believer in coincidence. In addition to the unpredictable weather, Lodestone had a nasty reputation as a violent town. It was a safe bet the footsteps echoing behind him were more than another pilot with the same destination in mind. Robberies were common and transport pilots a favorite target, another reason most sane pilots avoided the place. Nick Rayven had no intention of becoming a Lodestone statistic.
Taking advantage of shadows between two buildings, he ducked out of sight, blending into the darkness. A gasp, barely audible over the wind gusts pinpointed his follower’s position.
He didn’t have long to wait before the huddled shape reached his hiding place. Nick threw a lightning-fast punch. The figure crumpled to the ground in a boneless heap. Shaking his knuckles he winced at the sting, glad he hadn’t needed to use his blaster. He didn’t need any more complications. Disgusted anyone would dare consider him a target, he contemplated the unconscious form and debated his options. Either desperation or stupidity had sent the youth after him. Regardless, Nick needed to deal with the situation and quickly. By his estimation, he only had a narrow window of time left if he wanted to get off this planet before the port was locked down.
Under normal conditions, he would prefer to tie up his stalker and leave him for the authorities to find, but the storm’s momentum was building at a deadly pace. Grit boiled across Lodestone’s surface, stabbing exposed skin and making it difficult to breathe. It would be certain death to leave anyone outside and unprotected during the planet-scouring devil screaming mercilessly across its surface.
“Damn it,” he muttered. With aching fingers, he retrieved the narrow cord he kept in his utility belt. Squatting, he made short work of securing the slender wrists behind the other’s back. Time enough, once on board, to get to the bottom of this without the worry of being grounded on Lodestone. If he didn’t like the answers, it would be easy enough to toss the bastard out the airlock. A clean and speedy end to a problem. The idea had merit as a threat, if nothing else.
He grunted as he hauled the limp body over his shoulder. He sprinted toward his ship, grateful his burden didn’t weigh much.
The Messenger was a small, ugly transport much like every other ship on the docking pad. He’d flown this one to his rendezvous counting on its very similarity to others to keep his presence concealed. Nick shifted his captive to sit a little more securely on his shoulder before pressing his palm against the security pad, begrudging the seconds it took to verify his identity. The door opened and a boarding ramp extended. Welcoming lights flickered on in the interior as he entered. He turned and hit the keypad, sealing the door behind him.
The cargo area to his left would hold his captive until he was off-world and had time to figure out why he’d been followed. Nick dumped his burden onto a pile of heavy covers behind a cargo net. He nudged the body with his booted foot. When there were no signs of returning consciousness, he shrugged. Not willing to waste any more time, he locked the cargo door behind him and loped toward the main cabin.
He skirted the small crew quarters and entered the bridge. Strapping in, he initiated the launch request to the port tower. He coughed metallic dust from his lungs as he tapped on the arm of his chair and waited for clearance. Every little delay and redundant launch protocol demanded by the tower increased his irritation. Powerful blasts of wind buffeted his ship, debris thumping against its exterior as he ran through another system check. How friggin’ long would it take to gain clearance to leave Lodestone? He snapped his responses to the tower drone while he kept a wary eye on the storm.
Authorization lit the onboard computer screen. The ship’s engines thrummed with building power readying for departure. Nick punched in the final coordinates and sank into his seat, braced for the bone-jarring force of liftoff. His ship bucked hard, fighting the planet’s gravity and the turbulent storm doing its best to ground him. He adjusted his trajectory as the planet’s atmosphere released the ship and reached the cold expanse of space. He relaxed into weightlessness and grinned when the artificial grav force kicked in.
Nick unbuckled his chair harness, leaned back in his seat and stretched. He rolled his shoulders and muscles popped as tension released. Fatigued, he rubbed grit from dry eyes and scratched the itchy, rough stubble along his jaw. He felt like hell and probably looked worse, but it was an unavoidable consequence of pushing himself so hard.
He levered himself out of his chair and headed toward the crew quarters. Once away from the helm, he brushed the worst of the dust from his clothing. He removed the small pouch from his pocket and stored it in a hidden compartment for safekeeping. Time to wake up his unwanted guest and get some answers.
* * * *
Tru Creighton regained consciousness slowly. She felt like she had been hit with a mining hammer. It was the only explanation for the ferocious headache pounding behind her tightly closed eyes. Her limbs felt heavy, weighted down by an unnatural pressure, and she frowned trying to figure out why. Grav force. Which could only mean she was on board a ship.
The odd thrumming of a powerful engine beneath her ear provided another clue she was off-world. While that sank in she struggled to put more pieces together. Her last clear memory was of trailing the large man moving like a shadow through the storm. She prayed she hadn’t made a mistake because if he wasn’t Nick Rayven, her chances for survival were close to nil. A shiver raced up her spine.
She tried to sit up, gasping as glass-sharp needles of pain shot through her abused skull and shoulders. Her hands were bound behind her back and no amount of struggle would release them. Tru panted through the pain and took stock of her surroundings. Information meant the difference between remaining alive and the alternative. She was all about surviving.
The soft whoosh of the door opening froze her in place. She closed her eyes to mere slits. Buying some time, she feigned unconsciousness.
Large, booted feet stopped in front of her and Tru’s heart danced a spastic tango against her rib cage. If the size of the feet were any indication, her captor was a big man, and she was in serious trouble.
“I know you’re awake. No use pretending.” His voice was flat, cold.
A scarred, calloused hand grabbed her nearest arm and yanked her to her feet. Tru bit back a groan and tried to wrench her arm out of the implacable grip. Dizzy and fighting nausea from the foolhardy action, she prayed she wouldn’t throw up. Sweat trickled from under her cap and stung her eyes. Perhaps it hadn’t been the best idea to follow him after all. Maybe he wasn’t the kind of man she’d imagined