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

the best judge of character,” she said. “But I guess that explains the other members of your crew.”

I wanted to tell her they weren’t my choice. That I’d been tricked into partnering with one and forced to take on the other. Instead, I just kept a blank expression, trying not to give anything away.

“You don’t need to play it this way. I already know all about your crew and why they’re on board.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes.”

“Why are we talking right now? Shouldn’t you be dealing out justice?”

I figured what the hell, rip the band-aid right off. Slay nodded.

“I once dated a wrecker. In my youth,” Slay said.

“If this was some elaborate way of asking me out on a date, I could’ve saved you a lot of time and trouble,” I replied.

Slay smiled at that one. If I didn’t know better, I would’ve even guessed the smile was genuine. “I’m far too old for you, Mr. Boyd –”

“Call me Denver.”

“Denver. There will be time for immature jokes about sex. And there will also be time for justice. But right now, I’m interested in your help.”

I took a beat to let that one sink in. I was unable to hide my surprise. Slay acknowledged it.

“Yes, there’s a warrant on you and your crew,” she said. “And yes, your crew just killed a dozen fed soldiers. These are facts. Do you dispute them?”

I didn’t say a word. I was too confused about what the hell was happening.

“I’ll take it by your silence, you do not. But there are also circumstances beyond your knowledge that cause me…” she stopped for a moment, choosing her words more carefully. “Circumstances that force me to set those transgressions aside for the moment and ask for your help.”

First Desmond. Then the federation. Who was going to need my help next?

“Let’s say I help you. I mean, I can’t even fathom why you would need my help, but let’s pretend this is a real offer. What happens after I’m done with this whole helping thing? Because if I just get justice served then, I’d rather just get on with it.”

“The slate will be clean,” she said.

“I’m sorry, I want to get this straight. You don’t care about the dead soldiers?”

Slay stiffened at the question and I saw the first glimpse of true anger in her face. She quickly subdued it.

“I never said I didn’t care. I care. The federation cares, and as far as I’m concerned you should be floating in space right now, along with your cat, no matter how cute he is. But I have an objective that supersedes the dead soldiers, as distasteful as that is to me. And so here we find ourselves. Are you in? Or should I shove you and your crew in the airlock and press the big red button?”

“So you think my cat is cute?” I joked.

I don’t know why I did it. I guess I just can’t help myself sometimes. I knew it was the wrong thing to say even before I finished saying it, but, as Slay said, here we find ourselves.

Slay just got up and started to walk out.

“I’m in,” I said. “Assuming I don’t have to kill anyone else, I’m in.”

She stopped and turned. Her eyes examined mine, perhaps wondering why I had suddenly turned into a pacifist. “I’ll brief you and your team in 10.” And with that, she walked out.

The door slid closed and a second later, the electronic handcuffs on my wrists clicked open. I rubbed my wrists and looked at Pirate. “That took an unexpected turn.” He simply twitched his paws in response.

* * *

A pair of silent feds led me through the hall into a conference room. The room seemed designed for a business meeting rather than a military briefing. Batista and Edgar were already there, sitting at the far end of a shiny oval table, eating protein packs. It was the first time I’d ever seen snacks provided to prisoners on a fed ship, although we weren’t technically prisoners anymore, I supposed.

I placed Pirate’s bag on the floor next to an open chair and sat down. There was nobody else in the room yet. Just the crew of the Stang. We all looked at each other.

“Anyone else confused?” Batista asked.

Edgar just grunted. I shrugged.

“They offered me a drink,” Batista said, incredulous. “Since when did the feds have refreshments and conference rooms?”

“Did they tell either of you why we’re not dead at the moment?” I asked.

Nope. Both of them had gone through a cursory interview, much like mine. I wanted to hear their thoughts on what they thought was going on, but Slay strode into the room, followed by a beefy man in civilian clothes. He was mid-40s and had the look of violence about him, whether that meant dishing it out or just being familiar with it in all its forms. He instinctively took a standing position closer to Edgar than either Batista or I. A second later another non-fed entered. She was maybe five feet tall and 100 pounds. Her dyed red hair was shaved close in the back and long in the front, covering one of her eyes. The other eye was pierced above the eyebrow. She wore a black leather jacket and dark jeans. She might have been 20. Slay introduced her as Romy.

Romy sat down at the other end of the table from us. There was a nervous energy about her, and she didn’t make eye contact with any of us. All her focus was on her handheld. I didn’t even bother guessing why she was in the room for this meeting. What was the point? I honestly wouldn’t have been surprised if Desmond walked in the door after her.

Once the door was closed, Slay looked at each of us in turn.

“Not the team I would have chosen, but it’s the team I got,” she said.

“Team for what?” Edgar wondered.

“Keep your mouth shut and I’ll explain.”

Edgar brushed off the retort and took another bite of his protein pack, chewing it