Heart of a Peacekeeper Read online

  The peacekeepers gathered around her, lasers in hand.

  "Collect the bodies,” she instructed them. “Yucel, go and see to the one inside the tavern."

  "Brack won't be happy with you.” Yucel grinned as he indicated the broken window and the angry face of the tavern owner who was scowling out at them.

  "Brack can go pull himself.” She rolled her head from side to side, and holstered the laser that Marcel handed to her. “Thanks."

  "Oy!” Brack bellowed. “What about my window, Demon? That's the second one broken this week!"

  Her gaze still on the bodies of the dead outlaws, Des shrugged. “What do you want me to do about it?"

  "Someone has to pay!"

  "And it isn't going to be me."

  "Damn it, Demon!"

  "Shut the hell up, you moaning windbag.” Scowling, she swung around to face him. “Unless you want to come out here and discuss it with me?"

  Brack took one look at the threat on her face and wisely shut his mouth. Except for his mumbling, which he did while he turned and shoved his way back through the watching crowd, who were now spilling out onto the verandah.

  And that's when Des saw him. The man was standing amongst the crowd in front of the broken window, his laser in one hand. He raised it slowly, his eyes on Yucel as the peacekeeper pushed his way through the crowd into the tavern.

  Calmly Des strode forward. The crowd, suspecting nothing, watched curiously. Sensing the threat, the man swung his head around to look at her, and his eyes narrowed. In a fast move, he swung the laser towards her instead.

  Those nearest yelled and tried to shift back.

  Des didn't wait. In several fast bounds she was up and on the verandah, the laser flare burning the flap of her coat as she launched herself at the outlaw.

  She caught him around the chest, slamming into him with enough force to send them both through the broken window and into the tavern itself.

  Patrons cursed excitedly and surged backwards while Des and the outlaw rolled onto the floor and through the broken glass.

  The outlaw brought the laser down towards her face, intending to knock her out, but she caught his wrist. They rolled over and over, both of them cursing and swearing, punching out at each other.

  Des felt a cut open up near her temple, the sprinkle of blood as she rolled over onto him, trying to pin him down. But he rolled just as quickly, landing her a blow to her jaw. She retaliated by punching him full in the mouth, and he spat blood at her as he rolled atop her.

  Slamming into a table, they sent it crashing down, and Des saw her chance. Reaching out, she grabbed a fallen bottle and smashed it against the side of the outlaw's head.

  The bottle hit with a dull thunk, and the outlaw momentarily lost focus. But he wasn't unconscious yet, so she hit him again as they rolled, this time smashing the glass. He slumped over her and she rolled over him, flopping him onto the floor, before finally rolling to a stop herself against something hard and ungiving. A pair of solid, braced legs in rough, loose pants and black boots.

  She found herself gazing a long way up into a pair of concerned, pale blue-green eyes in a roguishly handsome face surrounded by long, shaggy fair hair.

  "You all right, lass?” The giant Daamen trader started to bend down, his hand reaching to assist her, those startling eyes seeming to pierce her.

  Ignoring him, she pushed to her feet and looked around. No one moved; everyone was watching her. Yucel had a laser in his hand, while Marcel had stopped in the doorway, his searching gaze scanning the crowd.

  From her height, Des had a clear view over the crowd, and she saw no further threat, but that didn't mean there weren't more outlaws in hiding, awaiting their chance to pounce. She jerked her head at Marcel and Yucel, and they nodded, one going back outside, the other heading up the staircase.

  Silence reigned, but Des ignored the crowd now as she squatted beside the unconscious outlaw. Wiping away the trickle of blood that nearly ran into her eye from the cut on her temple, she riffled through his pockets, turning him over with ease to check his back pockets. Finding nothing, she relieved him of his laser and dagger, and straightening, she slid both weapons into the back of her belt beneath the coat.

  Coming back down the stairs, Yucel shook his head at her inquiring look.

  "No one,” Marcel announced as he entered from outside.

  "That's it, then.” She gave the unconscious outlaw a kick in the rump. “Get this prick to the cells, and the bodies to the morgue. No one is to touch them until a full body scan has been done."

  Aiken hurried through the door, his gaze falling on the unconscious outlaw.

  "Use the craft hold.” Des touched the receiver in her ear. “Raf?"

  "Yeah?” His voice sounded.

  "How's Huxley?"

  "Fine. A bit of bandaging needed, that's all."

  "Aiken's here. Get Huxley into the pursuit craft and then come and help load these carcasses into the hold."

  "Coming, Boss."

  Now she allowed her attention to wander over the crowd. Some of them had disappeared, which was nothing unusual. Running a settlement on the outskirts of the Outlaw Sector meant that two-bit outlaws were always present, and they were the first to disappear when the law came on the scene.

  Those left weren't a whole lot better, but none were on the wanted list. Yet.

  Her gaze drifted over them. Tavern whores, workers, business owners, and ... just great, Daamen traders from the Lawful Sector.

  A group of them were watching her with varying degrees of concern and amusement, their giant heights of seven foot and more dwarfing the other men. With brawny, heavily-muscled builds, shown to perfection with their coarse linen pants and open, sleeveless vests, nothing of their bulging muscles was hidden from view.

  Their dangerous good looks had the tavern whores deserting their usual clients to hang onto the giants, shivering deliciously at the knowledge that they had a chance of bedding some of the giants and experiencing first hand their lovemaking prowess.

  After all, Des's lips twisted slightly, they're well known for wenching, brawling and fighting, not to mention their trading. Goody goody for the merchants and whores.

  The fair-haired trader near the front met her gaze squarely, his pale eyes steady, while one big hand shoved his shaggy mane back over broad shoulders. His movement revealed the small, silver hoop in his left earlobe that caught the light. It also made the muscles in his arm bulge and flex impressively.

  Just what she didn't need. Des scowled at him. Brawlers. She had enough problems on her hands without having Daamens brawling in her settlement. But right now she had the outlaws to deal with. She'd have to come back and check out these traders later.

  "Marcel, when you've finished collecting these carcasses, I want you and Yucel to try and find out what anyone knows.” Her gaze ran scathingly across the expectant faces of the patrons. “Of course, everyone will cooperate."

  With a snort, she swung on her heel, strode out into the street, grabbed one of the dead outlaws by the back of his blood-drenched shirt, and dragged him easily up to the pursuit craft. The back of it was open, and she grabbed the back of the outlaw's pants and heaved him up into the back of the hold with a small grunt.

  * * * *

  Simon shook his head.

  "Now, that wench doesn't seem partial to you, Simon,” Heddam laughed.

  "The Demon isn't partial to anyone.” The tavern whore hanging off Heddam's arm rubbed her cheek against his brawny arm.

  Returning to their table by the far wall, the traders sat down, Simon, Heddam and Torkra on one side, while Aamun, Kel and Etol sat on the other side. Heddam sent his companion to get more ale, after a wink and a smacking kiss that had her giggling and blushing like the virgin she hadn't been for quite a few years.

  Leaning back in his chair, Simon ignored the alarming creak of the wood beneath his weight. “The hardest thing about a wench being in a fight is to not interfere. ‘Tis not natural.” Even no
w he had the urge to go and punch the outlaw's lights out for even lashing out at her. He had a Daamen's dislike of wench beaters.

  "Friend, I have no doubt that if you'd tried to help, she'd have had your balls for breakfast.” Torkra grinned.

  "Aye,” Aamun agreed, his eyes twinkling. “And we've been around enough strong-willed wenches to know when to back off."

  Simon grunted in agreement, but his gaze wandered back to the lit-up street outside the broken window. From where he sat, he had a clear view of the pursuit craft and the peacekeepers. The Demon, Head Peacekeeper of the settlement called Tyron, aka Des, as he now knew her to also be called, was helping her peacekeepers toss the bodies of the dead outlaws into the pursuit craft's hold, a frown on her face.

  Not that a frown was unusual for her. From the few times he'd seen her and the brief dealings he'd had with her, she always looked—and was—bad-tempered. A scowl or a frown, and her conversation peppered with swear words and curses; she didn't come across as having the sweetest of dispositions.

  "Unusual to have such an Amazon around,” Aamun murmured. “The Reekas are the only wenches I know of who are so tall and strong."

  "Aye.” Simon studied Des.

  Towering above her men, she was only about a foot shorter than Simon's own seven foot seven inches. Obviously she had the strength to go with it, something he'd also witnessed.

  "I think Simon is quite taken with The Demon,” Torkra said slyly.

  "I think you need to be reminded who is captain, boy, and show some respect,” Simon returned without rancor.

  "Anyone can see how you watch her,” Torkra retorted.

  "And I've seen how you watch the brunette tavern wench.” Simon grinned at the teenager on the verge of manhood. “Who, by the way, I believe is frolicking with your brother, Mikal."

  Unconcernedly, Torkra waved his hand. “I changed my mind about her."

  "Are you sure ‘twasn't the other way around?” Aamun drawled.

  "Nay!"

  "I saw Mikal come zeroing in on the wench while Torkra was getting more drinks.” Heddam smirked. “Boy, you'll have to learn to hold onto your wenches when your brother is around."

  "I suppose you're the one to teach me?” Torkra gave a long-suffering sigh.

  "I've been trying, I really have.” Laying one hand on his bare chest, Heddam sighed. “I guess I'll just have to set more of an example."

  Torkra rolled his eyes.

  The tavern wench set a tray of ale on the table and plunked herself happily onto Heddam's lap.

  "Lesson one,” Heddam intoned.

  "Oh!” Her eyes lit up. “Who are you teaching a lesson to?"

  "My young friend.” Heddam indicated Torkra, who crossed his eyes at him.

  "I can teach him a lesson.” Leaning forward, she batted her eyelashes at Torkra. “All three of us could go to my room and—"

  Amused, Simon watched Torkra try to fend off the wench's suggestion. Heddam was shaking with laughter, enjoying teasing their younger crewmate.

  The door at the front of the tavern opened, and he looked up, unable to say why he felt a prick of disappointment when the peacekeepers entering weren't Des. They began to work their way around the room, questioning the patrons about the presence of the outlaws. Everyone denied any knowledge of them, which wasn't unexpected in a place like this. Only a fool dobbed in an outlaw. A fool or an informer.

  Transferring his attention to the window again, he saw the pursuit craft lift off. Des was walking down the street towards the Enforcer Building, her knee-length coat flapping around her legs as she took long, unhurried strides. Her hair was dark in the night, but he knew it to be a deep red. It matched her temper. The wench would be a handful for any man game enough to take her on.

  Grinning at the thought, he turned his attention back to his friends. Heddam was already standing with the tavern wench clinging to his arms, her cheeks flushed.

  "Well, my friends, I'm going to spend a delightful time with this little lass, so I shall catch you all later.” Bending, he tossed the giggling wench over his shoulder and bore her away towards the staircase.

  Torkra breathed a sigh of relief, and Aamun laughed.

  "A bit much for you?” Simon's lips quirked.

  "Taking two wenches to bed is one thing, but sharing one with another man...” Torkra shuddered.

  "Does your mother know you've bedded two wenches at once?” Etol asked, laughter lurking in his eyes.

  "There are some things one never tells his mother,” Torkra retorted.

  Simon shook his head. “The lusts of youth. Torkra, trust me when I say you're better off to have one wench at a time in your bed. That way you can devote your time to each other, without risking making another wench jealous or feeling left out."

  Torkra rolled his eyes again.

  Aamun shrugged, though his eyes still twinkled. “Youth and lust. Ah me, but you will learn, young friend."

  "You say that because you are already wed,” Torkra replied.

  "And I love my Mina dearly. ‘Tis the best thing that ever happened to me.” Aamun took a deep drink of ale and gave a sigh of contentment. “And like all Daamens, once I found my wife, I desire no other. No, young friend, you can keep your tavern wenches. They're for you single blokes. Now we wedded blokes, we love our wives and would have it no other way."

  "You only have to see how our other friends have fared since finding their mates,” Etol added.

  "Aye, they don't travel far from home—except Aamun, and sometimes Cam.” Torkra shrugged. “Seems to me that wedding tames a man's adventure."

  "Trust me, wedding is just the beginning of a new adventure.” Chuckling, Aamun winked at him. “One day you'll find out."

  But Torkra was only half listening, his attention taken by a pretty little tavern wench who was winking at him from across the room.

  Draining his mug of ale, Simon grinned to himself. Aye, his friends who had wed were more than happy with their lot. He'd not found his true love yet, mayhap never would, but he was also content with his lot in life. He hadn't actively been looking for a wife—what would be, would be, and he was happy with that. Traveling, trading, family at home, friends ... could life get any better?

  The peacekeepers looked over at his table and one of them nodded to the other and headed over. Well, looked like it was their turn to be questioned. The Demon's orders were being followed, and Simon had no doubt that her men wouldn't be game to do anything else but obey.

  She really needed someone to teach her the sweeter things in life.

  * * * *

  Flicking off the body scanner, Des's frown grew. As expected, there were no matches for the outlaws’ body patterns in the records of the Peacekeepers file. She didn't know who they were, and the only one who could tell her was unconscious still, and being treated by the settlement medic. Waste of bloody time.

  Coming out of the cold room, she nodded to the morgue attendant who was also the undertaker. “Do what you want with them, I'm finished."

  "Cremate and disperse,” he intoned.

  "Burn the bastards, that's about it."

  Aiken chuckled in amusement.

  "What's so funny?” Des growled as they started down the corridor.

  "You have such a nice way of putting things."

  She grunted.

  "So, how's your arm?” He nodded to the burn hole in her sleeve.

  "It hurts."

  "The medic seen it yet?"

  "Yeah."

  "And?"

  "Moresby put stuff on it."

  "Is it bad?"

  She glared at him, and Aiken stopped asking questions, though his dark eyes danced in amusement.

  Aiken in an amused mood was a thorn in the side. Disgruntled, Des touched the door of the pursuit craft and it registered her body pattern and slid up. Getting in, she leaned back against the seat and closed her eyes while Aiken got in the other side.

  It was late, she was tired, her arm hurt like hell, and she wante
d to go home. But there were a few things she had to sort out first.

  "Home?” Aiken started the engines, which hummed to life almost soundlessly.

  "I wish. No, back to the Building."

  He didn't argue, but raised the pursuit craft and flew back over the settlement to the Enforcement Building. As they landed in the docking bay behind it, Des sourly noted that the other three pursuit crafts were docked, but of the outlaw ship there was no sign.

  The three pursuit peacekeepers were waiting for her inside the building. Holding steaming mugs of una, they watched silently as she entered the room, crossed to her desk, shrugged out of the coat and with meticulous care hung it up on the hook on the side wall. Just as silent, she took the dagger and spare laser from her belt and dropped them into the safe, locking it securely. Next, she poured herself her usual glass of cold, bubbling berry juice and took it back to her desk.

  Leaning her hips against the front of it, she took a deep swallow of the berry juice, her gaze fastened on the three pursuit officers. They returned her gaze a little uneasily.

  No doubt they were wondering on her mood. Well, it was bloody sour. She scowled, and the shorter pursuit officer winced a little.

  "Report, Emory,” she growled.

  "The outlaw ship was pursued—"

  "No shit?"

  "Uh ... we lost it in space."

  Gaze boring into him above the glass, she took another sip. These were her pursuit officers, and they were good at their job. Being good didn't get her what she wanted right now, though.

  "Did you spot anything unusual up there?"

  "No,” he replied.

  "Any other craft?"

  "Only the usual traffic to be expected at that time of night."

  "And you lost them how?"

  Emory glanced at Chas and Orde before looking at Des again. “I've never seen a ship with such speed. It disappeared from the radar."

  Digesting that bit of information in silence, Des drained her glass and smacked it back onto the table with a sharp thud, making the pursuit officers jump. Leaning her hands back on the edge of the desk either side of her hips, she braced her weight on her hands and squinted into the night beyond the open doorway behind the officers. “You're telling me that the ship disappeared?"