Under A Winter Sun Johan Dahlgren (digital e reader .txt) 📖

before blast-off, but I don't think I'd enjoy the miners' company. And they wouldn't enjoy mine. Fighting can be entertaining, but I'm grumpy and tired. I might hurt someone, and I don't feel like spending the trip in the brig.

I am getting old.

“Yes, you're …”

“Aeryn. Shut it.”

“Whatever.”

I head for my cabin to strap down early and prepare for the trip. The cheap ticket I bought got me a bunk in the dorms. When I enter the room, the smell of feet and cheap beer almost suffocates me. Five miners have a private party over in one corner. When they see me enter, one of them calls out.

“Hey, compadre, come join us.”

On any other day I would, but not today. I need my beauty sleep. Assassinating immortals and evading the police is hard work.

“Nah, not today, brother. Thanks for the invitation though.”

The man who called to me glares and goes back to whatever he was doing.

Another man does not let it go as easily.

“Oy, fucker.”

Oh, dear. Here we go.

“Are you too fancy to drink with us, old man?”

“No, I'm tired. I'm going to bed.”

There's a pause while his mental gears grind on. “Are you taking the piss? Are you laughing at me?”

He pushes from the crowd and floats over. He's a big, ugly man. Large, but well-muscled under layers of fat. Looks like he can handle himself in a fight. This could get ugly.

“Nope.” I reach my allotted space and make a show of grabbing one of the inset handholds to brake my approach. My shirt slides up to show the big handgun tucked into the back of my trousers. With the current recession, getting a weapon aboard one of these boats is just a matter of money in the right hands, but it cost me a minor fortune.

He spots the gun and sobers up at once. “Sorry, man.” He grabs another bed to stop his approach and kicks off back to his mates. Seems the gun was worth every penny.

I unbutton my shirt as bits of conversation float over from the party in the corner. They can't decide if I'm an undercover cop or a hired killer for the Yakuza. Both serve my purposes since they are no longer likely to murder me in my sleep. I grin and put a hand in my pocket to get the key card to extend my bed from the wall.

What now?

I pull a scrap of paper from my pocket. There's something written on it in actual handwriting. Quaint. That piece of paper was not there when I swiped the key card at the boarding station earlier. That means someone put it there along the way. An impressive move by the mystery woman who bumped into me.

Three words in hurried handwriting.

There is another. And a Masada address.

This ride just got interesting.

Die Fast

I know it's a trap.

But they knew I would show up. If there's even a remote chance another one of those fuckers is still hiding out there, it's worth checking out. And that someone knows I hunt them intrigues me.

A woman in a hooded cloak sits dead centre in the dark, empty warehouse. She's slumped on a polymer chair, arms behind her back. The scene is illuminated by a solitary light bulb suspended on a frayed cord that disappears into the dusty gloom high above. Like the lure of a giant anglerfish. Dust motes swirl lazily like fireflies in the light. Someone disturbed the air not too long ago. This whole setup is wrong.

I slip out into the echoing space with the pistol held before me. Like everything down here in the Bottoms, the warehouse smells of old dust and engine oil. The smells of my childhood. My eyes and ears strain to pick up any hint of danger, but even my unnaturally sharp senses have to admit defeat. If there's someone out there in the shadows, they are not moving. I glance around as I inch forward, trying to make out anything in the darkness, but the contrast from the light is too strong. They staged this perfectly.

The girl hasn't moved a finger since I entered the room. Is she even breathing? I don't think they've killed her, but I can't be certain. She's likely an unsuspecting girl from the street, lured with drugs or money and left here for me as human bait.

There's a faint scrape of hardened rubber on concrete somewhere to my right and a spring baton comes twirling out of the darkness and knocks the gun from my hands.

“You've got company.”

“I am aware.”

“There are five of them.”

I drop into a fighter's stance an instant before the men charge from all sides. They materialise like ghosts as they step into the dusty light. Two in front of me, one on each side and one man behind, hoping to outflank me. Not going to happen.

They are sizeable men, and they move with the cocky assurance of experienced fighters. These men have killed before, and they are certain they will do so again tonight. Not if I have anything to say about that. I drop the first one with a quick jab to the throat. His shocked grunt can't get past his crushed larynx. It's a slow and horrible death, choking on yourself. Sorry about that. Before he falls, I kick low to the right. My heavy boot finds an unprotected knee with a satisfying crunch. The leg bends the wrong way and man number two crashes to the floor. He grabs his ruined knee and screams.

By now the other three are on me. A powerful arm locks around my neck from behind and musky breath moistens my ear as if from a rough lover. The calm, even breathing and lack of alcohol on his breath tell me these guys are professionals. I'm flattered. Someone has done his homework. I stab two fingers into his right eye, hook my thumb under his thick jaw and dig into his socket with my augmented strength. His terrified scream cuts short as his cheek