Absolute Zero (The Shadow Wars Book 4) (2 page)

“Could do without the show, man,” Trent said, taking another drag on his cig.

Drake laughed. “Sorry, didn't know you were here. Hold on.”

He disappeared back into the bathroom for a few minutes, then came back out in his boxers. He sat down on the bed next to Allan and took a cigarette when Trent offered it. Trent lit it up with his zippo and then sat back.

“I met a girl,” he said. “And I kind of want to hang around, at least for a week. Maybe two.”

Drake's eyebrows shot up. “A two-weeker? I don't think you've found a screw buddy that's lasted more than five days for the past six months. She must be a redhead.”

Trent chuckled. “Yep. All we've got nowadays are fuckin' blondes.” He nodded to Allan. “What about him? He any good between the sheets?”

“One night stand,” Drake replied. He found a half-empty bottle of vodka on the nightstand and took a slug from it. Allan looked horrified.

“I...just a...was I bad?”

“Oh, no, not at all. But you said you had to go. I thought this was just a quick kind of deal,” Drake replied.

“I could stay a few extra days...”

Trent cleared his throat. “You two sort this out. I need a shower.”

“Got the pills? I ran out and I've got a killer hangover,” Drake asked.

Trent reached into his pocket and tossed the tube to Drake, who caught it and thanked him. Trent gathered up a fresh set of clothes and slipped into the bathroom. He turned on the shower, set his clothes on the meager counter space available and stripped. Once the shower warm enough, he stuffed his bulky frame into the stall and let his head soak.

For a long moment, Trent let the water envelope him, shutting out the rest of the galaxy. He didn't let Drake know, because he didn't think it was relevant, but the last mission had shaken him up a bit. It had gotten dicey. There had been a nasty shootout when one side turned on the other and tried to get away without paying.

Trent and Drake had managed to recover the merchandise and get out of there, but there had been too many close calls. The corporation hadn't even given them a bonus. When Trent asked, they told him, Drake and the other mercs that their bonus was letting them live, considering it had been a dark operation, under the table, technically illegal.

So Trent and Drake took their meager creds and had gone off to Gibson Station. Trent didn't know why it was bothering him. Getting shot at was in the job description, close calls didn't even count as overtime when you were a mercenary. Maybe it was just nerves. Maybe he'd stared down the barrel of a pistol one too many times recently.

Maybe he was afraid of losing Drake. Or maybe it was something else. He was thirty nine now. A few hundred years ago, that was considered approaching middle age, but in an age where a man could comfortable live to see a hundred and fifty thanks to medical advances, he was still practically a teenager.

And yet, he couldn't help but think that he'd been alive for nearly four decades and he hadn't really done anything significant. The rational part of his brain knew that 'significant' was subjective, but he hadn't been living up to his own standards. He was good at being a mercenary.
Very
good. And he knew that. But it didn't feel like enough.

So what was?

With a sigh, Trent ran his hands through the strip of black hair along the top of his head. He'd taken to shaving the sides of his skull, giving himself the mohawk look, only he didn't bother with the hair gel to spike it. There had always been something wild and dangerous and insane about people he'd seen who sported a similar look, and decided the psychological warfare, however subtle, would help him out in his day-to-day life.

Fewer people messed with him, at least.

Trent shampooed what little hair he had, then lathered up some soap and cleansed the important parts. After washing it all away, he killed the water and toweled off. Being as big as he was, dressing in a small bathroom proved awkward, but not impossible. He pulled into some black cargo pants and a sleeveless black muscle shirt.

After stuffing his feet into his combat boots, lacing them up and then transferring the contents of his old pants pockets to his new ones, Trent turned and opened the door. He froze mid-step as he spied two new people in the bedroom. Allan was gone and Drake was sitting on the bed, smoking, staring at the people.

Trent's pistol was across the room, in his bag. He cursed himself for letting his paranoia slip. He sized up the two people. A man and a woman. The man was short, Hispanic and well-dressed, wearing a flawless black suit. He stared at Trent from beneath a shaved skull with sharp white eyes. The woman was the one that made him nervous.

She was tall, almost as tall as he was, maybe even same height. And she was bulky. She wore dark body armor over snow pale flesh. Her hair was jet black, cut very short. Her eyes were hidden behind black lenses that, after a moment, Trent realized were surgical insets, sealing her eyes behind black glass.

Trent tensed. So did she, wearing a nasty grin. She a pistol in a thigh holster but didn't go for it. This was going to be a pain in the ass.

“Trent, relax,” Drake said. “They're here about a job.”

The small man turned, crossed the room and offered his hand. “My name is Sergio Davis. My associate's name is Sharpe. We represent a corporation interested in your services.”

Trent shook it, easing himself back down. “Which corporation?”

Sergio hesitated. “We'd rather not say.”

“What kind of job?”

He opted to lean up against the wall, crossing his arms. Sharpe had fixed him with her insectile gaze, her mouth a small twist of a grin, as though daring him to try something. Sergio moved back to his original position.

“Secret, I'm afraid. The details I
can
give you is that it will likely be dangerous, take you out to the edge of known space, you'll be working with a team and you'll have access to whatever equipment and arsenal you can think of. Also, obviously, you'll be very well paid.”

“How much?” Drake asked.

“A million credits. Each.”

Drake glanced at Trent, who was staring at Sergio, trying to measure the man up. His speech was flawless and seemed calibrated, every word measured carefully. He was a businessman to the end, a corporate dog.

Nowadays, the corporations were so massive they were practically their own societies. They rivaled the government. If a corporation wanted something, it could have it, though they may have to jump through a few hoops. The government was always watching, though, for the most part, the companies were allowed to do their shady deeds as long as they didn't break the fragile surface tension of galactic society.

When he was younger, Trent had once asked what was even the point? Why try to hide the dark deeds at all? An older, wiser mercenary had told him that no one corporation could stand up to the government and the military. Perhaps they all could, collectively, but the corporate life was a cutthroat one, and no one trusted each other. On top of that, you never knew when the government might decide they needed a sacrifice and choose you.

So the corporations hid their darker operations and worked largely with mercenaries. What was throwing Trent off was the fact that they had sent someone, personally, to a particularly seedy part of the galaxy, to hunt the two of them down and make the offer in person.

“Will you tell us anymore about the job if we accept?” he asked finally.

“Yes,” Sergio replied simply.

Trent and Drake looked at each other. Drake nodded, imperceptibly. He was in. Trent considered it for a moment longer.

It was a
lot
of money.

And who knew? Maybe this was that special something. Maybe this was the job that was going to
really
matter to the galaxy.

“All right, you've got yourself a deal.”

Chapter 02

–
The Journey
–

Drake was getting dressed. Trent sat on his bed, smoking, staring off into space.

“So, what do you think?” Drake asked as he cinched the belt on his jeans.

“Seems shady,” Trent replied.

Drake laughed. “Yeah, that much is obvious. Shitload of creds, won't tell us any details. But apparently we'll be working with a team. I wonder if it's anyone we've worked with before.”

“Dunno. Maybe, maybe not. I guess it depends on their motives, what they want. Which company do you think it is?”

Drake slipped on a t-shirt. “Might be one of the mining corporations. They're usually the ones who stake claims out at the edge of known space. Maybe they dug something up and they want a team of tough guys to make sure it gets to where it's going.”

“What bugs me is...why hire us at all? If it's a big secret, why not send the company mercs out to do it?”

Drake began lacing his boots up. Trent decided it was time to get packed. He stuck the cig in his mouth, turned and began putting his belongings back into his duffel bag. It was the only thing he carried. Both men agreed traveling light was for the best.

“You send company mercs, you draw attention, maybe. Harder to hide it when it's within the company,” Drake replied.

“No it isn't. Company mercs keep their mouths shut. Guys like you and me blab.”

Drake seemed to consider it for a moment. Trent finished up, then turned to look at him. His partner was already packed and ready to go, but he had a troubled look on his face. Trent shouldered the bag, shifting it into place.

“Well?” he asked.

“The difference between freelance mercs and company mercs is...fewer people ask questions when the freelance mercs die,” Drake said finally.

Trent frowned, staring at him. “You think they're going to take us out there and kill us?”

“Once we get the job done, that's always a risk.”

“Should we back out?”

Drake shrugged. “Two million is two million, though dead men can't spend good money. However, when have we ever not been able to out-think the corporations?”

Trent considered it, then grinned. So, a challenge, then. “Okay, let's do it.”

* * * * *

With nothing but their clothes and duffel bags, Trent and Drake walked into Gibson Station's main hangar. Sergio had given him a ten digit number to contact him on. When Trent had made the call, Sergio had given them a docking number in the main hangar and told them to be there as soon as possible. With something like regret, Trent had called up Marie and told her he'd found a job. She'd been less than thrilled and hung up on him.

Trent frowned as he and Drake waited to be scanned through security. The whole notion was honestly a joke, and Trent imagined most of the security personnel's creds came from mandatory bribes. But Gibson Station was technically run by law-abiding citizens, so they had to at least put on the bare basics of a show.

His headache still lingered somewhere in the background of his skull, and the cacophony of voices and bright lights started to bug him. He just wanted to be on whatever ship they were boarding and take a nap.

A sharp, rapid beeping caught his attention. Drake had just stepped through a scanner and suddenly two beefy security guards appeared in front of him. Trent sighed and stepped through the scanner as well.

“Don't move,” one of them said. They both had their pistols out, and Trent spied another half-dozen security guards around.

“What's the problem?” Drake asked.

“You two have firearms on you,” one of guards replied.

“Yeah, so?” Trent asked.

“You got permits?”

Trent sighed. He and Drake had never bothered with permits, because they were absurdly expensive and the kind of places they usually hung out in didn't bother asking for permits. He considered it for a moment.

“Fine, I get the message. How much do you want?” he asked.

“You think we can be bribed?” the other guard asked.

Trent hesitated. What was going on? This wasn't how it was supposed to go. He scanned the crowd again and saw nothing out of place.

“Well no shit, dumbass. I bribed you guys on my way in, hoping I wouldn't have to on my way out. This is a seedy, run-to-shit station in the middle of nowhere. You cater exclusively to criminals, mercs and soldiers. Why do I even have to explain this to you?”

“I'm afraid you're going to have to come with us to the detention center.”

Someone cleared their throat, garnering everyone's attention. Sergio and Sharpe stood on the other side of the security center.

“They're with us,” he said.

“Whoop-de-fuck, I don't care, they have to go to the center,” the guard replied.

Sharpe took a step forward and the pair of guards took a step back. Sergio held up a hand. “If you don't drop the matter, I'll have you all fired and burn your bank accounts to the ground. Do understand me?”

The guards glanced at each other, then back at Trent and Drake, then at Sergio. They sighed and stepped out of the way.