Wreckers: A Denver Boyd Novel George Ellis (book series for 12 year olds .TXT) 📖

best to sound serious. “I tried being nice. But that just made you think you could ignore my orders on my ship. Well guess what? There’s a reason I don’t have crew on the Stang. I don’t like my orders being ignored. It doesn’t work for me. So either you two start doing what I say, when I say it, or I go back to having no crew.”

Edgar sighed. “Blah, blah, blah, open the door or she pays for it.”

“Bite me,” Batista replied.

“I just might,” he countered.

“Batista, why don’t you tell Edgar here how it came to be that I don’t have a crew anymore.”

She looked at me for a few moments. Then she realized I was leaving it up to her to figure out a good story. I smiled. You’re so good at lying, I thought, go ahead and lie. She nodded and turned to Edgar. “He wants me to convince you he’s a killer like us, but we both know that’s not true.”

Edgar spread his arms wide. “Should we finish what we started, or should we see what he does first?”

“Let’s give him a few seconds to plan his next move. When he’s done pissing his pants,” she said.

The two killers in the air lock looked at me. I shook my head, knowing what I was about to do would just prove they were right about me.

“If you’ll both look at the screen, please.” I pressed my handheld to the glass and Desmond’s face appeared on it. He looked at Edgar and Batista in turn. They regarded him with more respect than they ever gave me, that’s for sure.

“Edgar,” he said. “Miss Batista. Nice to meet you, though I regret it’s under these circumstances. I’m speaking to you because you’re both under the impression that Mr. Boyd here isn’t in charge of what goes on aboard his ship. While I don’t know or care what normally passes for chain of command on the Mustang, I will say that until we achieve our objective, Mr. Boyd is in my employ. As crew members of his ship, you report to him, which in effect means you report to me. He may not be a killer but I assure you, if your insubordination causes this mission harm in any way, I will not hesitate to lay the blame at your feet. In other words, he’s in charge. Understood?”

Edgar and Batista couldn’t believe I had tattled on them. I didn’t care. I mean, I was a little embarrassed but whatever.

“I’m a busy man, do you understand? I should also mention I have been granted access to the ship’s control system during this transmission, so if you don’t understand please let me know and I’ll space you both right now.”

“Fine, the kid’s in charge,” Edgar said.

“What he said,” Batista agreed.

Desmond grimaced, annoyed with having to step in. “Good,” he simply said before cutting the transmission.

I waited a beat, then unlocked the door and opened it. Edgar and Batista stood, then he motioned for her to go ahead. “Ladies first.” She obliged. As they passed me, I somehow felt even less in charge than I did before. But neither of them killed me or killed the other, so I’d achieved my main goal of crew unity, even if they were now mostly united against me. It was a temporary situation anyway, and if I was lucky enough to survive it, I’d be back to having a cat as my only insubordinate crew member in no time.

It made me think back to when I first became part of my uncle’s crew…

Chapter 9

I slid my empty glass further across the faux wood table and coughed loudly, hoping to catch the attention of the waitress. She had been ignoring me for a half hour, probably because I was already six pints down of their cheapest beer and starting to get belligerent. I also didn’t smell great, if I had to guess, based on the way nobody seemed interested in sitting within 10 feet of the drunk 17-year-old. The legal drinking age in most places in the verse was 15, but I still looked younger than that, so I often got the looks.

The Duck & Crown was one of the nicer bars on Chelsea Station, and two pints ago the owner had come by to remind me I could go right down the corridor to the Union Jack if I wanted to get messy. They’d have no problem with me starting a fight or throwing up on other patrons. They also didn’t care if people hadn’t showered in weeks over there, he made sure to add. But I didn’t feel like moving. I was fine where I was.

A few days earlier, I’d had a fight with my father aboard his ship, The Sheffield. Things were said. Punches were thrown. And it was agreed I should find a new job. After two years working for him, it was time to move on. In fact, I had probably overstayed my welcome by about a year. He and I didn’t get along, and we were never going to get along. Part of me assumed it would be the last time I ever spoke to my dad.

I wasn’t quite ready to crawl home to my mom and admit she was right about my father and half-brother, so I called the only other person I could think of. It was less humiliating than begging mom for some credits.

My Uncle Erwin sat down across the table from me, a scowl on his bearded face. His dark brown hair was flecked with gray, and he looked older than I remembered him, which made sense: I hadn’t seen him in nearly five years. My mom’s brother was a tall man with broad shoulders and a booming voice. When he walked into a room, it didn’t go unnoticed. But looks can be deceiving. As imposing as his physical presence was, it was his mind that truly set him apart. Simply put, he was brilliant. One