Motherlode by James Axler

Author:James Axler [Axler, James]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, Action & Adventure
ISBN: 9780373626236
Google: KbQ0O6_mlP0C
Amazon: 0373626231
Barnesnoble: 0373626231
Publisher: Harlequin
Published: 2013-11-01T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty

Ryan grunted as he labored to pull aside the steamer trunk at the foot of Baron Sand’s canopied bed. The bed itself was a remarkable construction, enormous, massive, with a canopy hung with pink and purple, and satin sheets piled high with cushions. Big black iron rings were set deeply into the stout oak at the corners of the frame.

“Impressive,” said J.B., standing by examining it. The Armorer was a man who appreciated good craftsmanship, no matter what.

Jak stood by the door, his big knuckle-duster hilted trench knife in hand. The concussed sec man lay with his face to the foot of a low chest of even stouter construction than the bed frame, of some kind of age-weathered wood and carved with odd exaggerated Maltese crosses. He breathed with soft gurgling sounds around his gaudy silken gag, and showed no signs of resuming consciousness. Ryan judged either he was a triple-good actor or that Ryan had nailed him harder than intended. He thought the man’s jaw was possibly broken.

“Fireblast,” he said. “Does she make all her sex toys out of lead?”

The two courtiers now sat on the floor with their backs to the closet, clinging to each other. The bleach-blonde’s eyes were blue and as round as saucers. At closer range she looked to be at least Ryan’s age, and not having weathered the years well.

The feathered man had regained a little bit of his attitude. “Why don’t you open it and find out?” he asked challengingly.

“Oh, Ike,” the woman said, “don’t make them mad. They’re so brutal.”

Feather Dude laughed. “Relax, Arabelle,” he said. “If they meant to chill us, we’d be dead.”

“We could change our minds, though,” J.B. said mildly.

The feathered man’s eyes got as wide as Arabelle’s. They were yellow, Ryan noted.

With a final heave and groan of effort, he got the chest free of the foot of Sand’s absurd bed. The floorboards where it had been didn’t look all that different from those around them, but J.B. smiled slightly. Pulling his knife, he knelt and thrust it between two of them.

A four-foot slat came up readily. J.B. laid it aside as Ryan, who had stepped away to give his friend room to work, shifted his Scout on its sling so that he could hold it by the pistol grip, ready for use at need. Naturally he hoped not to have to do any blasting. It would bring anybody left in the house right down on their necks. And in the confines of these sturdy whitewashed walls the report would make his ears ring for a week.

In a moment J.B. had a four-by-two-and-a-half-foot space opened in Sand’s floor. On his knees he bent in, taking his lock-pick kit out of one pocket.

Ryan became aware of something that prickled his nape beneath his shag of curly hair. Jak stiffened.

“No shooting,” he said from the door. His ruby eyes looked up at a corner of the room, toward where Krysty and the others had presumably been staging their diversion.

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