Trident Fury (The Kurgan War Book 3) (2 page)

The sound of a foot stepping on broken glass made Sheridan whirl around and fire his taser. A small shell containing a five-hundred volt electrical charge flew straight into the chest of a man carrying a pistol. In the blink of an eye, the electricity shot through the man’s body. He moaned and fell to the ground, writhing in agony. Sheridan dashed over and kicked his opponent in the head, knocking him out cold. He bent down and turned the man’s face toward him. Sheridan shook his head when he realized that he didn’t recognize the thug. He dug out a small patch from his coat pocket, peeled off the back, and applied it to the man’s neck. Designed to help wounded soldiers on the battlefield, the patch contained enough drugs to put the man out for at least twelve to twenty-four hours.

From behind a nearby junk pile, the gravelly voiced man asked, “Yuri . . . Yuri, did you get him?”
 

“Da,” replied Sheridan trying his best to mask his voice.

A second later, a man with a thick beard and a long fur coat walked out in the open. His eyes widened when he saw Sheridan standing there with his taser aimed right at him. He tried to bring up his weapon but was not fast enough. The taser shell hit him, activated, and sent a crippling shock of electricity through his beefy frame. Light flashed before his eyes as his knees buckled and he fell face-first to the snow-covered ground.

Sheridan moved over and picked up the big man’s pistol.
 

“My God, what was that?” asked the bearded man as he rolled over and sat up.

“I shot you with a five-hundred volt cartridge,” replied Sheridan, keeping his pistol aimed at his opponent’s head.

“My body hurts everywhere.”

“Then it worked. Now, who wants to talk to me and why?”

“Boss Abbas, that’s who.” Abbas was the reputed leader of the colony; however, he lived in a guarded compound on the outskirts of the city and was not known for his hospitality. It was rumored that like the gladiator matches of ancient Rome, Abbas liked to watch captured prisoners fight wild animals to the death.

“I asked, ‘why.’”

“I don’t know. He didn’t tell me,” replied the man, brushing the snow off his jacket. Hidden in the sleeves of his jacket were two porcelain knives.

“I’d stop that if I were you,” warned Sheridan. “You’re not that quick. Now put your hands on the ground beside you, or I’ll shoot you.”

The bearded man stopped what he was doing and did what he was told.

Sheridan knew he would get nothing more from the man. He tossed the man a med-patch. “Put that on your neck.”

The large man stared down at the patch with suspicion. “If I refuse?”

“It’s the med-patch or a bullet . . . your choice.”

With an angry scowl on his face, the thug placed the patch on his neck and was out in less than three seconds.
 

Sheridan checked that the man was asleep before tossing his pistol away. He checked his watch and swore. He had to get a move on, or he was going to be late. A minute later, he stopped outside of a building and bent down to tie his bootlaces. It was an old ploy. While bent over, he checked behind him to make sure he hadn’t been followed. Satisfied that he was alone, Sheridan stood up and opened the door to the tavern. The bar was packed. Right away, his nose was assaulted by the noxious smell of stale cigarettes and body odor. He pulled down his hood and ran a hand through his thick black hair and made his way to a corner booth where he took a seat.

“What will ya have?” asked a young woman.

Sheridan looked up and saw that the woman was a mere girl. He doubted she was more than sixteen years old. “Whiskey,” he replied.

The girl smiled and left to fetch the drink.

Sheridan unzipped his jacket and put it down on the chair next to him. He slowly looked around trying to see if his contact was there. If he were in the room, Sheridan could not see him among the crowd. The server soon returned with his order. Sheridan paid the girl and tried his drink. It was the weakest whiskey he had ever drunk. It had been watered down to the point that it could barely be considered alcohol. That was fine with Sheridan as he had no need to get drunk, in fact in the next couple of hours he needed a clear head and a steady hand. He knew he’d be drinking a bit too much over the past few months and needed to cut back.

A fight broke out at the other end of the bar. People rushed over to watch the brawl. Sheridan turned his head to see what was going on. The momentary lapse in attention was all his contact needed to step out of the crowd and slide into the booth.

“Oy, you need a haircut and shave,” said Master Sergeant Alan Cole. He was wearing a mix of civilian and military clothing. His gruff face had a five o’clock shadow on it. Cole’s hair was as it always was—cut right down to the wood.

“I hope you didn’t start that fight just to sneak over here with me.”
 

“Who, me?” replied Cole, trying to act innocent, but Sheridan knew better.

He was happy to see his friend looking healthy. They had been inserted into the Port Royal colony a month ago to gather information about smugglers and pirates operating from the distant world. Far removed from the normal shipping and transit routes, a small but thriving lawless community had been established. If there hadn’t been a war on, the military would never have paid them much attention. They had become such a nuisance stealing from military depots and boarding supply ships destined for the fleets fighting the Kurgans, they were now being targeted for eradication.

“Any trouble getting here?” asked Cole.

“A couple of Abbas’ goons tried to stop me.”

“What happened?”

“I got to try out my taser on them. Let’s just say they won’t be bothering anyone for quite some time.”

“You and your toys. Glad you tried it out on them and not me. I guess all of our poking around has not gone unnoticed by Abbas’s stooges.”

“Yeah, I think you’re right. What about you? Any luck finding us a way in?” Sheridan asked.

“I met a guy who can take us to Boss Abbas.”

Sheridan glanced at his watch. “We had best get a move on, the Raider Task Force will be here in just over three hours, and we haven’t found the missing air-defense weapons yet. I’d hate to think how things would go if the assault force tried to land into a storm of anti-ship missiles.”

“It would be a bloody slaughter.” Cole stood and looked at the exit. “Looks like the coast is clear. Come on, let’s go.”

Sheridan followed his friend outside. They walked down a side street until they came to an open-air market. Vendors stood by their stalls trying to out-shout the competition. Anything and everything was for sale. Sheridan spotted brand new Marine Corps weapons and uniforms as well as night-vision and communications gear. What surprised him the most was one disreputable-looking woman hocking a military-issue drone that appeared to be in perfect condition. What a smuggler would want with a drone was lost on him, but there was a man haggling with the vendor trying to get her to lower the price.

A couple of minutes later, Cole stopped outside of a slender two-story building and knocked on the front door. A man’s voice from the other side of the door called out, “Who is it, and what do you want?”

“It’s me, Alan, now open the bloody door. It’s friggin cold out here.”

The door opened slightly. A man peered out. “Who’s that with you?”

“He’s me mate. Mike. I told you about him. Now quit screwing around and let us in.”

The door opened just enough to let the two men slide inside. Sheridan looked around and saw that they weren’t alone. Standing farther down the hallway was a woman with two small children at her feet. She looked at the two strangers with mistrust in her eyes.

“Pauline, take the kids and keep out of sight until I’m done,” said the man.

The woman took her children by the hand, stepped back into the kitchen, and locked the door.

“Mike, I’d like you to meet Mister Smith,” said Cole.

“Good day,” said Sheridan, doubting that Smith was the man’s real name. Their host was short and skinny with smudged, sliver-rimmed glasses perched on his hawk-like nose.

Smith turned to face Cole. “If I get you into Abbas’ compound, I want to hear it from you that you can get my family and me off this planet with a full pardon for all my past crimes.”

“That’s why we’re here,” replied Cole.

“All right then. Come back in the morning and I’ll get you in there.”

“That won’t do. We have to go there now,” said Sheridan.

A worried look crept across Smith’s face. “I can’t do that. I usually don’t go there this late in the day. Besides he’s hosting some of the other smuggler clans’ leaders at his home tonight. Security will be tight
. . .
, very tight.”

“I don’t care. Get us in there or the deal is off.”

Smith looked to Cole for support but never got it. “You heard the man. It’s now or never, mate.”

“If I do this I want to be paid for my services. Shall we say one million credits?”

“A pardon and a lift off this rock are all you’re going to get from us,” said Sheridan. “The clock is ticking. Take it or leave it.”

Smith muttered something under his breath. He stepped back and raised his hands. “Okay, I’ll do it, but let me speak to my wife first. She’s scared already; this is only going to make things worse between us.”

“You have two minutes and then we’re leaving,” stressed Cole.

Smith shuffled off to speak to his wife.

Sheridan looked at Cole. “He’s the best you could find?”

“Beggars can’t be choosers. It took me a week of negotiations just to get him to agree to this.”

“Well, let’s hope that the missiles are still here or this trip will have been for nothing.”

The walk through the maze-like streets of the colony to Abbas’ guarded compound took less than thirty minutes. Tall steel walls with guard towers every one hundred meters enclosed the sprawling complex. A drone hovered in the sky, keeping watch on all who approached Abbas’ home.

Cole reached out and stopped Smith. “Before we go another step, I want to know what your plan is to get us in there.”

“I do daily maintenance on the compound’s heating system. I’m going to tell them I forgot to do something and want to make sure that it won’t fail during the night.”

“That explains you, what about us?”
 

“I’ll say that you are looking for work and that I’m teaching you all about my job.”

“Sounds pretty flimsy.”

“It’s the best I can think of. I’m not used to thinking on my feet.”

Sheridan bit his lip. He would have preferred more time to concoct a better story, but time was in short supply. He knew it was now or never. He looked at Cole. “Let’s go.”

At the front gate stood two mercenaries dressed in full body armor. They were covered entirely with state-of-the-art armor designed to withstand any small-arms fire and most fragmentation devices. Sheridan knew that it was heavy to wear and impractical to fight in, but for standing guard, it was perfect.

As they got closer, Smith waved at the guards. One of the men stepped forward and raised a hand. “What do you want?” asked the guard, his voice sounded metallic through the helmet’s speaker.

“I think I may have screwed up earlier,” replied Smith. “I want to double check my work on the heater before the sun goes down.”

“What about them?”

“They are my apprentices. I can’t do this forever. The sooner I train someone to replace me, the sooner I can spend more time with my young wife . . . if you get my meaning.”

The guard motioned for Sheridan and Cole to step forward. He slung his assault rifle, grabbed a scanning device from his belt, and turned it on. He pointed at Cole. “You first.”

Covered by his partner, the mercenary ran the scanner over Cole’s body. When he saw that there were no weapons concealed under Cole’s clothes, he made him stand by Smith. Sheridan was next. The guard was almost finished with his sweep when the device chimed by Sheridan’s head.
 

Sheridan smiled. “It’s only a hearing aide.”

The guard ran his scanner back and forth. It only went off by Sheridan’s right ear.
 

“Do you want to see it?” asked Sheridan. “It isn’t much, but without it I’m as deaf as a post in my right ear. I bought it for a couple of credits in the bazaar last week.”

The guard shook his head. “You can proceed.”

Sheridan nodded and walked over to Cole’s side. His heart was racing in his chest. They had no weapons on them. If the guards had opened fire, they would have been dead in seconds. Before leaving Smith’s home, they had hidden all of their weapons in a cupboard, intending to pick them up when they were done.

The guard spoke into his communicator. A couple of seconds later, the front gates slid open. “Go on and be quick about it.”

“Right you are,” replied Smith, taking the lead.

As they stepped into the compound, Sheridan was stunned to see how large it really was. Even with an orbiting satellite, the fleet had no idea just how well defended Abbas’ home really was. Blocked from view by an electronic field that obscured the complex from observation, it stretched out for four square city blocks. Sheridan saw that there was at least a company of well-armed mercenaries spread throughout the compound, along with anti-tank and anti-personnel weapons that were mounted on several stolen military eight-wheeled fast-attack vehicles.