The Handler's Gambit by Ingrid Moon

Author:Ingrid Moon
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: html-to-docx
Publisher: Ingrid Moon

27 Dominae

Quadrant: Fringe

Ship: Reia’s modified shuttle

Boone was not fine. But he was also not dead. Yet.

The shuttle’s unusually long plummet before accelerating slammed him against the cold, hard walls of the tiny compartment they had stuffed him into. His thigh cramped well beyond where he had taken the slug. The wound blasted pulsing spears of pain into his shin and hip, and his bicep burned from the plasma cauterization. His mouth tasted like iron. His scar itched, and he could do nothing to satisfy it.

Reia had said to him, before he became a cadaver in this metal coffin, “You are a prize almost equal to Vindik himself.” Elyon, he suspected, was the real prize.

He had done it—both he and Elyon were with Reia. His tactical mind wanted to focus on the potential scenarios he would face, and how to manage them, but he was too exhausted to grasp any thought for long. He couldn’t tell them about the HTP probe or any other potential threats from here. Frustrated, he tried instead to sleep, but the tiny compartment was cold, and his body would not relax, and his mind replayed the deaths of the three troopers on the stairs over and over again.

Soon, there was a pounding sound outside, and a hatch opened behind him. Two muzzles pressed against the back of his head. He heard the cries of someone down the hall, someone in pain. Elyon was coming down off her charge, and hard. As amplified as she was, he wondered if she would even survive the withdrawals.

“She needs rest,” he suggested, his voice scratching his dry throat. “And medical attention.”

Reia made a disgusted noise. “Did she really think you would know what to do?”

“I don’t know. Let me help her?”

“I don’t think so, Turner,” Reia scoffed. He heard the squeal of the hatch levers begin to move.

“Your presence might aggravate it. She always recovered better once she was away from Vindik.”

“With the help of a medic.”

“Well—”

The door slammed shut. Boone heard Elyon’s screams through the dense walls until he was enveloped in his own intolerable pain.

He felt sorry for the girl, as he always had, perhaps. She had no control over her life. The warlords had believed that suffering was shaping her into the weapon they desired—cold, merciless, and precise. If she recovered, she would never have to suffer that way again.

If they made it that long.

The hatch opened, and he was pulled out of the compartment and onto the floor. He gritted his teeth through the fall and instinctively tried to fight off the rough handling of his upper arms. They dragged him away from the wailing and threw him into a slightly larger room. Muzzles pressed against his cheek and chest while they shackled him to a chain on the floor. Someone gave him a kick to the ribs for good measure. When they had gone, he pulled himself upright, seated with his back against a bulkhead, and leaning on the adjacent bulkhead for support.

Elyon’s delusional cries grew louder.

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