Mercenary Courage (Mandrake Company) Page 6

  “Either that, or he knew I’d be suspicious and come in the back door.”

  Viktor waved for her to walk with him, at his side. He probably could have handled that fourth man as easily as he had the other three, so Ankari admitted she was more moral support than an ally he could not do without. She did not mind though. So long as he found her kicks sexy.

  He led them through the back door into the gym, past saunas and steam rooms with partially clad men and women ambling out amid clouds of mist. Nobody else attacked them, though an attractive lady in nothing but a towel batted her eyelashes at Viktor and gave him a long, speculative perusal as he walked past. Ankari glared at her, but did not comment. Viktor, wearing a determined expression, did not acknowledge the woman.

  He and Ankari walked through a busy weight room and into a dance studio covered with mats. The bars and the mirrors made Ankari think more of ballet than judo, but a pair of men in gis were entwined on the floor.

  A burst of movement came from the wall beside the doorway. A shirtless man in white gi trousers leaped at Viktor, fully willing to go through Ankari to get to him. She skittered back an instant before she would have taken an elbow in the face.

  From the doorway, she crouched, whipping up her pistol, not certain whether this was another ambush or the unsporting start of a wrestling match. Viktor had turned instantly to meet his opponent, whose limbs were a blur as he lashed out. The thuds of flesh sounded with the rapidity of old-fashioned machine-gun fire as Viktor blocked a hail of blows. Arms and legs moved so quickly that Ankari struggled to follow the flow of the fight—or tell who was winning. What she could tell was that this was not the mercenary captain she had seen in the mechanics’ shop. He was younger, with darker skin and black hair in a braid that danced like an agitated snake on his back as he fought.

  Ankari scanned the rest of the gym. The two men who had been grappling had stopped, turning toward the battle just inside the doorway. She spotted one more figure leaning against the wall in the corner, his arms folded over his chest, a laser pistol resting lightly in his grip and pointed at the floor near the combatants. That was the mercenary captain. Sherkov. He flicked his gaze toward her, but returned his attention to the fight. She could not tell if he was irritated or entertained. If he’d had this man ready to fight, he must have expected Viktor would get past his ambushes.

  As the thuds and slaps of flesh meeting flesh continued, Ankari fingered the trigger of her pistol, letting the muzzle point toward the floor near Sherkov. One of the men watching from the middle of the room frowned at her, but he did not say anything. Was he with Sherkov? Or maybe these were the security men she had theorized might be here.

  Though Ankari was determined to watch Sherkov and the pair of fighters, so she could protect Viktor if someone raised a weapon greater than a fist, she found her eyes drawn to the battle. She had watched him spar with the men on the ship numerous times, but with the intensive training he had received during his years in Crimson Ops, he usually made short work of his opponents, with a few exceptions. There was Sergei, the trained assassin, and a couple of combat specialists who had also come out of the elite forces, but Viktor had speed, strength, and experience that had always let him come out on top, at least when she was watching. This opponent was not quite as brawny as Viktor, but he had the speed and grace of a man who had been training at martial arts since he was old enough to walk. He also had to be at least ten years younger than Viktor.

  Viktor deflected everything the newcomer threw at him, but when he went on the offensive, his own strikes were also deflected. The flurry of blows was so swift that Ankari could not imagine blocking them, or even tracking them with the eye. These men moved on instinct, anticipating each other’s moves three attacks before they were made.

  A successful leg sweep surprised Ankari, and Viktor fell to the ground for the first time, landing hard on his back. Usually, he would have rolled to his feet before an opponent could take advantage of his vulnerability, but his head thudded against the mat. His opponent’s eyes widened with the realization that victory might be his, and he dropped down with the speed of a viper, his elbow aiming for Viktor’s solar plexus. Ankari stepped forward, turning the pistol toward the man, but she hesitated. Aside from that surprise attack in the beginning, it had been a fair battle. She couldn’t shoot someone over a sparring match, not unless the man pulled out a knife or made it clear he would kill Viktor.

  But Viktor was not defeated, after all. Impossibly, he caught that descending elbow at the same time as he surged upward, thrusting the heel of his other hand into his opponent’s chest. The blow landed with the authority of a wrecking ball.

  A ploy, Ankari realized. The fall had been a ploy.

  Bone crunched, and air flew from the younger man’s lungs with a strangled whoosh. He might have been flung several feet, but Viktor gripped his arm, keeping him close. His legs scissored, and between one blink and the next, Viktor rolled atop his opponent. He smashed the man’s face into the mat, even as he twisted his arms behind his back, using his bodyweight to make the hold impossible to escape. For a few seconds, his opponent struggled to escape, trying to buck Viktor from his back, but pain contorted his face—that blow must have hurt. Ankari would be surprised if he did not need medical attention. Viktor only tightened his hold. The man’s face flushed so red, it looked like his head might burst open from the pressure.

  “Do you yield?” Viktor asked calmly. Though he spoke to his opponent, he watched Sherkov, having clearly registered his presence sometime during the fight. His gaze flicked toward the other two men, too, letting them know he was aware of them.

  But they were not doing anything threatening. Indeed, one clapped and nodded with approval.

  “Yield,” the red-faced man whispered. Blood dribbled from a split lip and dripped onto the mat. Viktor had received more than a few injuries, too—his left eye was already swelling shut.

  Viktor leaned back, letting his opponent rise, though he kept his guard up as he did so. Wincing, the man rose to his feet, clasping a hand to his solar plexus. He straightened, clearly struggling to maintain his dignity as he faced Viktor and bowed, his single braid slumping over his shoulder. As far as Ankari knew, Viktor had been trained to kill, his instructors drawing on a variety of different armed and unarmed combat techniques, so she did not know if bowing was a part of his repertoire, but in this instance, he returned the gesture.

  His opponent walked over to Sherkov, his head drooping, more in apology than a bow. “I did my best, Captain.”

  “Hit the shower, Na,” Sherkov said, glaring past his man’s shoulder toward Viktor.

  The two men who had been watching walked through the doorway ahead of Na, and Ankari moved to the side to let them pass. Sherkov’s lips thinned.

  “Are you next?” Viktor asked, his voice cold with menace.

  His burgeoning bruises only added to that menace, and Ankari was glad she was not the recipient of his glare. Later, he might admit that he had relished the battle, but he would not let Sherkov know that.

  “Not me, Mandrake,” Sherkov said. “I figured you would want a true challenge. That’s why I brought Na.” He continued to stand against the wall, his shoulder brushing it, but he edged toward the door.

  “What I want is to know why you’re hounding me.”

  Sherkov hitched a shoulder and took a couple more steps toward the door. “Money to be made.”

  “Are you done?” Viktor asked. He had not yet moved to head off Sherkov, but his eyes closed to slits.

  Still standing by the doorway, Ankari tried to draw his attention, wondering if Viktor wanted her to stop Sherkov or step aside to let him go.

  “Probably,” Sherkov said, taking a couple more steps, his focus never leaving Viktor. Did he see her? Did he not consider her a threat?

  When Viktor did not move, Sherkov strode toward the door, his grip tight around his pistol. Ankari shifted her weight, thinking of stopping him with a kick to the knee, but
Viktor sprang, moving so quickly, she almost didn’t register it until he was on top of Sherkov.

  Sherkov jerked his pistol up, but Viktor knocked it aside with so much force that the other captain’s hand cracked against the wall like a hammer striking, and he gasped, the weapon falling from his grip. Viktor spun him into the wall, smashing his face against the unyielding metal. He tried to struggle, to push away, but he had even less luck escaping than the martial arts practitioner had.

  “Henry,” Sherkov called. “Sebastian?”

  The men who had left? Ankari put her back to the doorjamb, so she could see if anyone headed back toward the gym, but the captain’s call was not very loud, and his allies were not lingering in sight.

  Viktor stabbed something into Sherkov’s neck. Ankari jumped, her first thought that it was a knife. But Viktor would not kill Sherkov in cold blood. At least, she didn’t think so.

  With the first soft hiss, she realized what he had done. It was the injector he held, not a blade.

  After another fifteen or twenty seconds of struggling—and threatening Viktor that Fleet would show up any minute for him—Sherkov slumped against the wall, his will to fight dissolving. Along with his will to resist questions, Ankari guessed.

  “Who paid you?” Viktor asked.

  “Lotsa people pay me,” Sherkov said, not a hint of resistance in his voice. As with his body, his words had gone limp, acquiescent.

  “Who paid you to try and get me arrested?” Viktor repeated.

  “Oh. That.” Sherkov giggled.

  Ankari lifted her brows. That was an alarming sight and sound coming from the scarred captain.

  “Captain Xu, of course,” Sherkov said. “He’s a young up-and-comer, you know. Trying to kiss all the right asses. Someone in Fleet doesn’t like you real well, Mandrake.”

  “No kidding. Got anyone specific in mind?”

  The letter to Captain Xu had been from an Admiral Petrakis, but Viktor must think someone even higher up was after him.

  “Nah,” Sherkov said, “it doesn’t pay to ask questions when you’re dealing with the Fleet. Best not to attract their notice, if you catch my meaning. But you aren’t that smart, are you? You get noticed all the time. Dumb boy, Mandrake. Real dumb.”

  “The men who ambushed me in the hall,” Viktor said, adjusting his grip on the back of Sherkov’s jacket. The man looked like he would slump to the ground if Viktor let him go. “Were they yours? Or Xu’s?”

  “Mine, except for two, the ones with...” Sherkov turned his neck, his eyes crossing as they tried to find the injector Viktor held. “Yup, that’s what they had.”

  “Those were Fleet men?”

  “Xu’s men.”

  “What questions did they intend to ask me?”

  “Hell, I don’t know, Mandrake,” Sherkov said. Saliva dripped from the corner of his mouth, and his eyes had a glassy quality. “Fleet doesn’t tell me nothing. If you were smart, you would have asked them.” He smiled at Ankari, as if he had said something cunning.

  Ankari was surprised Viktor did not bash his face into the wall a few more times for his insolence. Had she been in his position, she would have been tempted.

  “You got anything else you want to tell me?” Viktor leaned harder against the man’s back, speaking into his ear. “Something that would give me a reason not to kill you right now?”

  “Your woman is hot. I’d paint a shuttle pink, too, if she’d let me screw her. I like the way you handle that pistol, girl. You get tired of Mandrake, you come see me. You—”

  This time, Viktor did slam Sherkov’s face against the wall. Not multiple times, the way Ankari had wanted him to, but once was all it took. The drugged captain’s eyes rolled back into his head, and as soon as Viktor stepped away from him, he collapsed to the mat.

  “That was a waste of time,” Viktor said with disgust.

  “At least you got a good workout.”

  He grunted. “Did the fight last long enough that time? For you to admire my brawny grace?” His words came with a self-deprecating wryness, as if he believed he had been anything but graceful, and he touched his swollen eye with his knuckles.

  “Yes, but next time, I’d appreciate it if you stopped at some point to take your shirt off. I admire brawny grace even more when muscles gleaming with sweat are rippling beneath the lights.”

  That only brought another self-deprecating grunt, as if he could not imagine anyone wanting to admire that.

  Ankari smiled and stepped toward him, lifting her fingers toward his injured eye, but she refrained from touching it. That could only hurt. “Why don’t we get that room? And an icepack?”

  “I would be amenable to that. And taking my shirt off, as well. Other things, too, if you’re still interested.”

  Her smile broadened, and she winked at him. “I’m always interested.”

  • • • • •

  “King-sized bed, his and her sinks, two-person shower, personal coffee station, and holodisplay loaded with a billion free movies,” Ankari announced as she and Viktor waited for the elevator. “Will that do?”

  “What’s a two-person shower? As opposed to a one-person shower?” he asked.

  “Something much larger than that coffin in your cabin, I hope.”

  “We’ve gotten two people in there.” Viktor had been wearing a dour expression since they left the gym, but a slight smile curved his lips now.

  “Yes, and I have the bruises to prove it. The knobs are at an unfortunate height, and the less said about the positioning of that soap dispenser, the better.” Ankari showed a three-dimensional display of their room above her tablet, tapped the bathroom door, and the view whooshed inside to show off the big glass-walled shower. “This has two heads, one for each person.”

  “We wouldn’t be close to each other.”

  “You would be welcome to come visit my shower head. And I could visit yours.”

  Viktor’s smile stretched wider. “You’re always welcome to visit my head.”

  Before Ankari could share an appropriately naughty reply, two gray-haired monks in brown robes stepped up to the elevator beside them. They were in their sixties or seventies, and one quirked his eyebrows at Viktor, apparently having been an audience for his last statement. Unflappable as always, Viktor did not reply, either with words or his eyebrows.

  The elevator chimed, and Ankari and Viktor stepped inside, the monks following. She wondered if they had been at the gym or if they had other business on this floor. She vaguely remembered one of the directories showing Buddhists, Christians, and druids all having temples or churches on the station. The monks stood to one side of the elevator, and Viktor and Ankari claimed the other.

  “Do you need to check in with your men before we can go... shower?” she murmured. Even though Viktor had scoffed at the idea of his injuries needing treatment, she wanted to find a first-aid kit and slather some gel on his eye before it turned into a dark circle the size of a black hole.

  “Yes.” He reached for his comm-patch, but the elevator doors opened again first.

  They had only gone down a floor. A group of white-haired ladies who made the monks seem young crowded into the car, shopping bags bumping and rustling as they chattered. One wore an iridescent fur coat with a fluffy scarf, which she adjusted by flinging it over her shoulder, nearly swatting Ankari in the eye.

  “I don’t understand why they’re closing all of the shops,” one woman said. “They’re supposed to be open around the clock.”

  “I know. I only have three days here before I have to take the transit back home. I can only afford to make this trip once a year. This is such an inconvenience.”

  As more women pushed into the elevator, Ankari found herself pushed against Viktor’s chest. He had already backed into the corner. Ankari might have protested the crowded confines—couldn’t half of the group have waited until the next lift was available?—but Viktor wrapped an arm around her from behind, and she decided it was not so bad, after all. She
leaned back against him, thinking of the kiss they had shared before Sherkov had called.

  In the past, she had never been one to be so overcome with passion that she needed to fling herself onto a partner in a public setting, but she also hadn’t had partners who so often put themselves in harm’s way. Ankari laid her hand on Viktor’s, stroking it with her thumb, wondering what exactly he had endured in the weeks they had been apart. She had seen the news, of course, and knew from his own terse reports that the side Mandrake Company had chosen to back had lost. Somehow, the outfit had still been fighting after the native forces had pulled out. Viktor had said something about betrayal and being used as fodder, so the locals could gather their resources and escape. Maybe that had been all they had ever intended. It saddened her to know that so many people saw Viktor and his mercenaries as nothing more than tools to be used and discarded—or destroyed. Their employers never came to know the men, to know him. They never came to understand that he was worth their regard, and more.

  As the elevator stopped on the seventh floor, Viktor rested his face against the top of her head, nuzzling her hair. His soft touch awakened Ankari’s body, making her more aware of his hard form behind her. She hoped the women were getting out. She longed to escape, so she could finally be alone with Viktor. But a couple of men were the ones who had called the lift. They peered inside, saw how full the car was, and let the doors close again without entering.

  Ankari closed her eyes, appreciating Viktor’s light touch. She could feel the rise and fall of his chest against her back and knew he was breathing in the scent of her lavender-lilac shampoo. Of her.

  “I’m glad you came and found me,” he murmured in her ear, one hand resting on the top of her shoulder, his thumb kneading the muscles at the back of her neck. To an enemy, those hands would be deadly, but for her, his touch was tender, stirring sensations of desire within her. She still marveled that he showed her that gentle side when so few others knew it existed. “I saw you watching my back while I fought,” he added, his lips brushing her ear, the low words for her alone. They were almost a growl, the rumble of appreciation within them making her shiver. “You were watching Sherkov, ready to shoot him if he raised his weapon at me.” He caught the bottom of her earlobe between his lips and nibbled.