The Assassin's Salvation (Mandrake Company) Page 3

  “There’s a bounty on your head. Fifty thousand aurums.” Sergei jerked a thumb toward the porthole. “Originates down on one of those cloud cities, so I’m guessing someone knew you were heading this way. I tried to look up the person who posted it, but it went through an intermediary. Someone clever with the net might be able to find the person fronting the money. And once the person is identified…” Sergei flicked his hand in a lazy knife-throwing gesture, almost hoping Mandrake would ask him to deal with it. Sergei would need help uncovering the person behind it all, but it never bothered him, killing those rich enough to afford such luxuries as hit men. And he owed Mandrake a favor, a pile of them. It would be nice to pay at least one back someday. Also, in offering to take care of the shadow man, he hoped Mandrake would realize beyond a doubt that Sergei hadn’t come in an attempt to collect on that bounty himself.

  “Figured that might happen,” was all Mandrake said.

  “Been annoying people lately, have you?”

  “Killing finance lords.”

  Sergei let out a low whistle. Even he would think twice before taking a contract against someone so rich and powerful. “Mandrake Company never used to stick its neck out so blatantly.” He kept himself from asking if the woman might have had something to do with it, but he did glance toward the pretty hand towels.

  Mandrake’s eyes closed to slits.

  Sergei cleared his throat. “Like I was saying. I could help you deal with this problem.”

  “I can deal with my own problems.”

  Sergei hadn’t meant to imply that Mandrake couldn’t. He groped for a way to say he wanted to repay old favors without actually bringing up a past that wasn’t comfortable for either of them. Maybe levity would be a safer route. “’Course you can, Captain, but you always make such a bloody mess when you deal with your problems. People tend to notice that. Get pissed off, irked on behalf of the fallen as it were. I, on the other hand, can make a person disappear without attracting anyone’s notice. No notice, no certainty as to the party who handled the mission, no repercussions.”

  Mandrake didn’t say anything. Maybe there had been a little too much blunt truth in the words for them to be considered levity. Or maybe Sergei just wasn’t funny.

  A comm bleeped. Mandrake waved to answer it and responded with his name.

  “Thomlin here, sir. The message that Zharkov decoded is correct. ‘We are in trouble. Your assistance requested. We can pay.’”

  Mandrake’s jaw tightened. “Where’d the ship come from?”

  “Looks like it flew out of the largest continent down there, Ferago. The fighter originated somewhere else, though, another system probably. It was an old Fleet Viper, decommissioned at least twenty years ago.”

  “I recognized it.”

  “I don’t know where they got it, but it definitely came from Ferago. Looks like someone there wants to see you.”

  “Less so now than an hour ago, I’ll wager,” Mandrake said, as grim as a dagger.

  “I don’t know about that, sir. According to your Flipkens’s report and the video footage, that pilot knew that was likely to be a one-way trip for him.”

  “Comforting.” Mandrake’s tone said it wasn’t. He cut the comm.

  “Your Flipkens?” Sergei asked, then immediately wished he hadn’t. It was a knee-jerk reaction, him wanting to know why Mandrake apparently had some ownership over the young woman, when Sergei had gotten the impression she was working for Ankari and that their business was something mostly independent of Mandrake Company. It was silly, but the idea of anyone having some ownership over Jamie Flipkens bothered him. But Mandrake had more pressing concerns on his mind; it was foolish to say something.

  Mandrake grunted, not appearing offended. “The crew likes to remind me that all persons, equipment, and notions related to Microbacteriotherapy, Inc. are indeed my pet project and shouldn’t be allowed to interfere with regular company operations.”

  Micro-what? “Huh, I didn’t get all that from that one word.”

  “It’s there. Trust me.”

  “Always, Serg—sir.” Sergei had worked under Captain Mandrake the mercenary for a year, but still found it more natural to think of him as Sergeant Mandrake. Maybe because those three years in the Fleet had been so much more eventful—more painful and seared into his memory—than the one he had spent on the Albatross. “Are you going to go down to the planet to talk to those people?”

  Sergei thought about volunteering to accompany him, to watch his back, but Mandrake might wonder why he was trying so hard to help with his problems. It would sting to learn that Mandrake didn’t think Sergei was trustworthy, after all they had been through, but he allowed that people changed over the years, and Mandrake hadn’t seen him for a while. He couldn’t know Sergei’s mind, couldn’t know that his time spent with the company had been some of the only months in his life that hadn’t been entirely miserable.

  “I might.” Mandrake didn’t look happy about it. “You say you want to help with a problem?”

  “I had your bounty problem in mind, not a random one.”

  Mandrake grunted again. “This would be related to that.”

  “Oh?” Maybe Sergei could help, after all.

  “Ankari. Half the reason we’re here is because she has a number of appointments on those cloud cities. Lots of rich clients down there.”

  “So Mandrake Company is hanging around while she works?” Sergei tried to keep any censure out of his voice, but found it odd that mercenaries would be waiting on these women. From the snippets of conversation as the shuttle had been preparing for takeoff, he had come to understand that the business had its lab on the Albatross, but he didn’t know why.

  “While her company makes money, yes,” Mandrake said, then flashed an edged smile. “We own twenty percent, if you hadn’t heard.”

  “We? Mandrake Company?”

  “Yes.”

  “Ah.” So it wasn’t just about the captain pleasing his girlfriend. “They make decent money doing… that thing they do? Micro-something?”

  “More than you would think, and without risking men and weapons. If I were smarter, I’d be in a different business, Zharkov.”

  “You’d get bored, same as me.”

  “Maybe so.” Mandrake didn’t sound that convinced. Maybe he had retirement on the mind. One couldn’t survive as a mercenary forever. “Either way, I would like to have someone keep an eye on Ankari, go down to the planet with their shuttle for these appointments. I haven’t made a secret of her. Others, outside of the ship, may know she means something to me.”

  Something? Sergei raised an eyebrow. He had a feeling that was an understatement. In the years he had worked with Mandrake, first in the Fleet and then in his company, he had never known the man to own a couch. Or teal towels. “You think someone trying to get to you might target her instead? To use as bait? Or to hurt you?”

  “It’s crossed my mind.” Mandrake lifted his brows. “You’ll keep an eye on her?”

  The question was surprising. If Sergei was signing up to work for the company again, Mandrake could order him to do whatever he wanted. It wasn’t as if there were people to assassinate every day. In the military, Sergei had been assigned everything from peeling vegetables to scrubbing floors to vacuuming ducts on spaceships. It occurred to him that this meant more to Mandrake than a duct or floor. He wanted to ask a favor, not give an order.

  “Yes, I’ll do it.” Babysitting the captain’s girlfriend wasn’t quite what Sergei had had in mind, but maybe it would turn out to be his opportunity to pay Mandrake back, after all.

  “Good. I’ll let the accountant know you’re on the payroll again, and I’ll tell Ankari that you’ll be around.”

  As he headed for the exit, it crossed Sergei’s mind that he would presumably be keeping an eye on Jamie Flipkens, as well. He wasn’t sure that was a good idea, since he was more attracted to her than he should be, but he found himself smiling as soon as the door slid shut behind him
.

  * * *

  The robot rolled up the ramp to the shuttle, dutifully carrying its crate of prepackaged food meals for the trip. Jamie grinned, delighted that the construct was following commands—and that it had stopped that lopsided clanking. She hadn’t been working from a kit this time, and the construct hadn’t come together quite so easily.

  A groan came from inside the shuttle. Jamie’s smile faltered, and she ran up the ramp. The robot hadn’t rolled over someone’s foot, had it? Lauren and Ankari were also in there packing.

  But when Jamie charged inside, Ankari was merely standing with her fists on her hips, scowling at the robot. She stood near the control console so shouldn’t have been in danger of being run over.

  “What’s wrong?” Jamie asked.

  “That.” Ankari thrust a finger toward the robot.

  “He’s not coming along. I was just… Sorry, I wanted to try him out.”

  “Him?”

  “The robot.”

  “Oh, I didn’t know it had a gender.” Ankari looked down its blocky body, as if she expected to find anatomically accurate human parts.

  Jamie snorted. It wasn’t an android. “It doesn’t. I just—was there a problem?”

  “That box of those damned meatloaf logs. I specifically ordered meals with a little more diversity. And less logginess.”

  “Oh.” Jamie’s worry evaporated. “That would be nice. The egg logs are particularly awful. Was I supposed to look for the special ones somewhere?”

  “I’ll find them, though I’m hoping some of our clients might be so moved by our willingness to help them that they’ll take us all out to dinner.” Ankari made a hex sign at the crate in the robot’s hands as she rounded it, then disappeared down the ramp.

  The business owner and microbiologist might be taken out to dinner, but Jamie doubted the pilot/engineer would be invited. Just as well. She would prefer to stay in the shuttle and read rather than pretending she had a clue as to what the rich and powerful—or at least older and citified—were talking about.

  Jamie ordered her robot down the ramp. The team planned to spend a week visiting three floating cities before returning to the ship, and there were a few other non-food crates to load.

  “There’s your answer, Striker,” a man said before Jamie could follow her robot out. She winced and paused inside the threshold. What was Sergeant Striker doing down here? He had been leering at Jamie since the day she was first captured and brought on board, and she hated interacting with him. She glanced over her shoulder, relieved when the curtain stirred, meaning Lauren was inside working on something.

  “What answer?” Striker asked.

  “As to why the girl won’t sleep with you. She’s got a pet robot to satisfy her urges.”

  Jamie’s grip tightened around the control box, and heat rushed into her cheeks. She thought about hitting the panel by the exit hatch to bring in the ramp and close the door, but Ankari would be coming back with the food and would wonder why she couldn’t get into the shuttle. Besides, Jamie had things to load.

  Sighing, she walked down the ramp, tried to ignore the two men talking and snickering ten feet away, and headed straight for the stack of crates and luggage.

  “Evening, Jamie,” Striker called, ambling in her direction, his hands in his pockets. “We just got off duty. Heard you were packing for another trip. Thought we’d see if you needed any help.” His gaze dipped to Jamie’s chest.

  She didn’t get it. She was wearing coveralls and boots, the same as she usually wore. What could possibly be capturing his fascination? Was it just that there were so many more men on this ship than there were women? And that the Albatross rarely stopped anywhere long enough for the mercenaries to have relations? Lauren didn’t get this much attention. Not that Lauren would notice if she did. Boys had come around the family farm back on Mercruse and a few had tried to court Jamie, but it wasn’t as if hordes of young men had been serenading her outside her bedroom window every night. Of course, her father would have cut the nuts off any who tried. She had always thought him overprotective and overbearing, but sometimes found herself missing his cold aloof presence on this ship.

  “We can handle it.” Jamie waved to her robot—it was idling on its treads, so she gave it a command to pick up a pair of suitcases.

  “You’re sure?” Striker ambled closer. He was a big, brawny man, with a broad face and short hair that he wore spiked up. He wasn’t ugly, but he wasn’t handsome, either. Even if he had been, his assumptions and lack of respect would have made him seem less so.

  “Positive.” Jamie drove the robot through him, not apologizing when it almost ran over his foot.

  Striker jumped back. He glanced at his buddy, an infantry sergeant Jamie didn’t know by name, who gave him an encouraging wave. Jamie frowned at him. Like Striker, he seemed oblivious to the fact that she didn’t want either of them loitering around.

  Before Striker could make a move, or whatever it was he was planning, Jamie rushed up the ramp. “Lauren,” she called so the men would know someone else was around, “where do you want your suitcase?”

  Lauren mumbled something, her voice too low for the mercenaries to hear, and Jamie sighed. She put away the suitcases, taking her time in the hope that the men would get bored and go away.

  Unfortunately, when she turned around, she found Striker at the top of the ramp with a suitcase in his arms. “Where would you like this?”

  “I’ll take it.” Jamie wished Lauren weren’t out of sight behind that curtain. She came forward, took the suitcase, then backed away quickly, as if he might grab her. He didn’t, of course—the men were never that blatant. She had heard the captain had made it clear that physical harassment wouldn’t be tolerated. They merely ogled her and managed to bump against her in the corridors often.

  Striker leaned his shoulder against the side of the hull and watched her when she bent to store the suitcase. She was wondering if she should bring her robot up to ram him in the backside—accidentally—when a throat was cleared on the ramp behind Striker.

  He turned lazily, then stiffened and jumped to the side. At first, Jamie expected it to be the captain, coming down to see Ankari off, but it was Sergei Zharkov. He stood on the ramp, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder.

  “Zharkov,” Striker said. “What are you doing here?”

  “Bodyguard.” Sergei wasn’t as tall or broad as Striker, but when he smiled up at the bigger man, the smile far more wolfish than genuinely pleased, Striker stepped back and glanced around nervously. “What are you doing here?” Sergei asked, ice in his voice that chilled Jamie even if she wasn’t the recipient of the question.

  Striker licked his lips. “Helping the girls pack.”

  “Did they ask for your help?”

  “Nah, but I knew they’d want it. I can carry lots of heavy stuff.”

  Sergei met Jamie’s eyes, lifting his brows slightly. She shook her head.

  “I’ll take it from here,” Sergei said.

  Striker looked at Jamie, frowned at Sergei, and said, “She’s not available.”

  Jamie closed her eyes and shook her head again. What den of animals had the man grown up in? Or had he simply been hit on his head too many times as a soldier?

  “Leave,” Sergei said, staring into Striker’s eyes. “Now.”

  “But—” Striker looked at Jamie again, as if she might countermand Sergei and invite him to stay.

  Jamie was so pleased that he would be leaving that she gave him a cheerful smile and said, “Have a nice week. Get some shore leave if you can.” During which he could hopefully find someone willing to have sex with him. Whatever made him leave her alone.

  Her smile had the unintended result of getting him to smile back, wave, and leave with a bounce in his step. Sergei watched impassively, stepping aside without comment. Damn. She hadn’t encouraged Striker somehow, had she? Was it too late to run him over with her robot?

  “Thanks,” Jamie told Sergei. “He’s a p
est.” That was probably obvious, but she felt the need to add it in case he somehow thought she hadn’t minded Striker being around.

  “Yes.” Sergei gave her that quirky bow he had offered when they first met. “He was when I was a member of the crew last time too.” He lifted the strap of his duffel bag. “Is there a particular place where I should stow my gear?”

  Jamie stared at him, his earlier word sinking in. Bodyguard. Did that mean he was going with them? To be bodyguard for whom? All of them? No, Ankari. That must be it. Because of the bounty on the captain’s head. But what about Sergeant Hazel? She had come along on the previous trip, to lend them some muscle and firepower if they needed it. Jamie had liked having an all-female crew. It had been a respite from dealing with the testosterone-oozing men of the ship.

  “You didn’t know I was coming,” Sergei said, sounding almost apologetic. His tone was so different from what he had assumed with Striker that it was startling.

  “No,” Jamie blurted. It wasn’t his fault. Ankari had probably known about the switch but hadn’t remembered to say something. “I mean, I didn’t know, but it’s fine. Here. There’s room for your bag in this bin.” She waved to it, then stepped back so he could access it. “Do you know if Sergeant Hazel will still be coming with us?”

  A flicker of something crossed his face—disappointment? Did he think Jamie would have preferred Sergeant Hazel come? Well, she would, but she didn’t mean to offend him by implying he wouldn’t do a good job.

  “I wasn’t told,” was all that Sergei said.

  The curtain rustled as he walked past, and Lauren stuck her head out, wearing her usual absentminded expression. “Did I hear Ankari?”

  “About ten minutes ago,” Jamie said.

  “Oh.”

  “She’s coming back.”

  “Good.” Lauren disappeared back behind the curtain, momentarily revealing a counter filled with microscopes and other medical equipment, as well as cabinets beneath and above.

  Sergei peeked in curiously, then shrugged and put his bag away. “That’s all I have. Do you need help with anything?”

  “I’ve got it.” Jamie touched her control pad, and the robot rolled up the ramp with another crate.