Ajax: Book 2 of the Argosy Trilogy

AJAX

Book Two of the Argosy Trilogy

Stephen J. Schrader

Published by Foremost Press at Smashwords

Copyright 2008 Stephen J. Schrader

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CHAPTER 1

High in the Rocky Mountains, the weak winter sun was enough to add a brilliant hue to the snow-covered streets of the small ski resort.

Taking full advantage of the beautiful weather, Michael J. Mike Sykes was sitting at a small table in the street-side patio area of the little bistro. In front of him was a half-empty bottle of wine and the remnants of a light lunch.

He was wearing a quite dapper turtleneck sweater and houndstoothed jacket. It even featured the classic leather elbow patches. All in the appearances, he thought as he took another sip of wine.

He turned another page in the thick book he was reading. The other patrons of the restaurant would probably have been surprised at the subject, though maybe not.

As with most tourists, he wasn’t paying much attention to what was going on around him.

If he had, he would probably have taken note of the snowmobile that pulled into the slot in front of the restaurant. Or, barring that, the rider would certainly have drawn his attention.

Tall and lithe, she climbed off with the grace of a panther. Pulling off her helmet, she shook out the long, auburn hair that was her trademark. The padded, leather snowmobile suit she was wearing could only accent the long legs and tight curves of an athlete—or something else. Because, the look in the captivating green eyes was anything but benign as she scanned the scene, finally settling on the unsuspecting Mike Sykes.

She then turned, tucked her helmet under her arm, and flexed her still gauntleted hands. With a cold little smile, she sauntered over to the small gate that accessed the patio from the street.

She slipped through the crowded tables until she was standing across his table from him. With a wicked grin, that turned into an expression of happy surprise, she gushed, Mike? Mike Sykes? Oh my God!

Mike looked up, confusion conflicted with surprise as he blinked. Um, ah . . . I’m s-sorry?

Setting her helmet on the table as she slid into the chair opposite him, she continued to gush, Now Mike! Don’t tell me you don’t remember!

Mike looked up in agitation as a rather snooty waiter walked up holding a small leather folder, holding his bill. Glancing back and forth between the two, the waiter coldly and pointedly asked, Will there be anything else . . . Mr. Cartwright?

Mike licked his lips before mumbling, Um, ah, not for me . . .

Grinning, Brooke batted her eyelashes at him and said, Why, I’d be delighted to have a glass of wine.

Mike gulped. Yeah, sure. Bring a glass for the lady. Miss . . . ?

Her grin widened as she purred in her deep contralto, Brooke, Autumn Brooke.

The waiter nodded and put the folder on the table at Mike’s elbow before turning to leave.

Before Mike could reach for it, Brooke had it in her hand. She opened it and took out the credit card within. Looking at it, she chuckled and gave Mike a knowing look before asking, Does Mr. Bill Cartwright know you’re enjoying a ski vacation at his expense?

Mike gulped. Thinking quickly he started, Well, you see, um, a man in my business has many—

She was almost purring as she interrupted, And, what exactly is your business, Mr. . . . Sykes?

Despite the cool temperature, Mike was sweating as he answered, Oh you know, import-export. That sort of thing.

Brooke gave an excellent imitation of a cat playing with its food as she purred, Oh? And here I thought you were in the business of identity theft.

Mike feigned surprise as he muttered, Ident . . . No! Um, I . . . ah . . .

Brooke finally relented. Leaning forward, her purr turned into a growl. Look, we haven’t got much time. Why don’t we just agree that I accuse you of being a liar, a sneak, and an identity thief. You object. Then, I start listing the names of your victims until you give up in embarrassment; admit that I’m right; and ask who I am and what I’m going to do to you. Okay?

Mike seemed to deflate as he gulped and asked, Okay. Who are you? Cop? Reporter?

Brooke’s laugh was genuine as she answered, Neither. I’m a mercenary and you stole the identity of the wrong man.

Mike blanched, looking at Brooke in real fear. He gulped. You’re going to hurt me. Aren’t you? I embarrassed somebody who wants his life back. Didn’t I?

He was concentrating on Brooke and didn’t notice the four Middle Eastern men, overdressed in massive arctic parkas, working their way through the crowd toward them.

The waiter returned and put a second glass on the table before pouring for Brooke. She gave him a grateful smile and took a sip, using the opportunity to surreptitiously check out the approaching men.

Lowering the glass, she gave Mike a warm smile and said, No, you stole the identity of somebody who wanted to get rid of that life. It’s a bad idea to pretend to be a man who’s had a fatwa issued against him.

Mike blinked. A what?

Brooke reached up and started to absently finger the neck of the wine bottle as she answered, A Middle Eastern death warrant. I was sent to protect you. And now, you must do what I say, and come with me. Or you will die. She picked up the wine bottle, ostensibly to refill her glass.

The four men had managed to surround them. Now they moved in, going for the weapons under their parkas.

Brooke moved fast. Flipping the bottle to grab it by the neck, she jumped up, tossing the table aside. With a savage throw, she smashed the bottle into the throat of the man to her left.

He dropped with a gurgle, blood fountaining as the glass ripped his throat open.

Shocked people were only just starting to react as she spun into the face of the man to her right.

The crowd surged back in panic. Screams erupted as, almost touching her with the muzzle, he emptied a full clip from his submachine gun into her chest. Her body danced with the impacts before dropping to the sidewalk like a sack of cement.

With a sneer, he stepped over her body. Shoving a fresh clip into his weapon, he raised his eyes to meet Mike Sykes’ stunned gaze. The two remaining gunmen stepped up to bracket their shocked victim.

Grabbing him by either arm, they woke him out of his trance by twisting them behind his back; forcing him forward and onto his knees.

The gunman carefully shoved the muzzle of his machine gun into Mike’s mouth and hissed, You will serve me in paradise, dog! Seeing his compatriots start, he spun around, and found himself face-to-face with a smiling Brooke. She winked at him as she reached up, punched her fist into his chest, and ripped his heart out.

Raising the still beating organ in front of his shocked and dying eyes, she purred, You’ll be served as cold cuts in hell!

As the terrorist dropped, his shocked compatriots started to react. Releasing Mike, they went for their own guns.

With quick right- and left-crosses, Brooke slammed each of them in the chest. Each flew backward a good twenty feet, to smash through the deserted tables. Crashing to the tile floor of the patio, they both retched and writhed, unable to breathe or scream past their shattered sternums.

Glancing to make sure all the terrorists were down, Brooke reached down to drag a still-shocked Sykes up by the lapels of his jacket.

Turning, she bent to retrieve her helmet. Then she lifted him lightly, in one hand as she hopped over the low patio wall and dragged him to where her snowmobile was parked.

Finally starting to recover, Mike blinked. Who the hell are you? Who the hell are these guys? What the hell’s going on?

She shook her head. Later. We have to—

She was cut off by the roar of engines. Looking up, they saw two Mercedes sedans roaring down the now empty street toward them.

More terrorists leaned out the windows of both cars, aiming their automatic weapons at them. In the back seat of one of the cars, another terrorist pulled the pin from a grenade.

Mike gaped. Who the hell are these people?

Brooke shook her head. The terrorists’ support and backup teams.

Mike gulped. You got a gun?

With a grin she slipped her helmet on. She said, in a bad Hollywood accent, Guns? We don’t need no stinking guns!

Brooke grabbed Sykes and shoved him down behind the snowmobile. Bullets started to fly as she stepped over to the next snowmobile.

Mike could actually see the rounds slamming into the woman, as she calmly bent down and . . . picked up the snowmobile. Turning, she tossed it the twenty or so yards to smash through the windshield of the first Mercedes.

Smashed and swerving on the snow-covered street, the car spun out and slammed to a stop against a parked car. Unable to stop or swerve, the following car slammed into it. In the back seat, the terrorist was thrown into the front seat, dropping his grenade.

Back up the street, Brooke looked to make sure that nobody was getting out of either car soon. Satisfied, she turned to . . . Even she flinched as the grenade in the car went off, detonating the already damaged gas tanks of all three cars in the pileup.

Brooke turned back; she looked impressed at the burning pyre and the screaming remnants of the terrorists.

Still crouching behind the snowmobile, Mike Sykes screamed when Brooke grabbed him and yanked him to his feet. Looking at the horror up the street, he turned to her and gulped. Who the hell are you? The Bionic frikkin’ Bimbo?

Brooke pulled off her helmet. The grin she gave him sent a chill up his spine as she growled, No. She was one of the good guys. I’m a very bad girl.

Seeing the oil and gas leaking out of the bullet holes in her snowmobile, she shook her head. Damn. My ride’s shot, and we’ve got to get out of here.

Sykes shook his head. No! I’m not going anywhere! The cops will be here soon and . . .

Brooke silenced him with a glare. You don’t understand? You have no choice but to come with me.

Sykes shook his head. Oh no! I’m staying right here. And, if you think you can drag me away before the cops get here . . . Well, you can’t.

Brooke growled, We don’t have time for this. Look, remember that ID you stole? The reason there was a fatwa against it was because he was listed as a terrorist mastermind, who challenged the very power base of the Islamic states.

Sykes shook his head. So what? I’m not him, and the cops aren’t terrorists!

Brooke shook her head impatiently. You idiot! The Islamists didn’t brand him a terrorist, the US GOVERNMENT did that! And, when they check you out, they will think that you are him. In today’s America, that is a bad thing.

Sykes shook his head. But they’ll figure out what happened. I’ll tell them what happened.

As people were starting to peek out from where they’d run, Brooke grabbed him and started frog-marching him down the snowy street. They won’t care. You’ve seen a bit of the technology he’s got access to. It scares them to death. They will kill you rather than risk you having anything to do with him.

Literally dragging his heels, Sykes barked, Bullshit!

Brooke gave him an irritated look. Then, tell them that I kidnapped you. But, one way or another, you are coming with me. My orders are to keep you alive.

Sykes was still pulling back. Bullshit, I’m staying right here.

Holding her helmet in one hand, she calmly reached out with the other, grabbed him by the front of his coat, and heaved him over one shoulder.

The first sound of sirens were starting up, and despite his struggling, she started to lightly trot up the street.

What the hell are you doing! Put me down!

Brooke growled, Shut up.

Sykes sneered. Or what? You can’t kill me, and you can’t run off and leave me.

Without looking up, Brooke grinned. There’s nothing in my orders about not hurting you.

She shifted from lightly trotting up the street to leaping. Each leap covered a good five yards. Each time she hit the ground, Sykes was slammed down across her armored shoulder.

After the first two bounces, he quit screaming. After the next two, he quit squirming at all.

Slowing back to a trot, Brooke purred, Get the idea?

Sykes managed a strangled, Urk!

Brooke grinned and gave a cheerful, That’s the idea!

* * *

So far, ducking and dodging down back alleys and side streets, Brooke had managed to elude the growing police search.

Now she was running down an alley; the blank wall surrounding a large, long-term parking lot on the right, and the equally blank sidewall of a rather famous discount-retail store on their left. Up ahead she could see another alley that entered theirs in a T-juncture. She thought, Maybe I can get a call to the Captain there . . . or maybe not. She drew up short as she saw a police patrol car slowly pass the end of the alley, lights flashing. The unit’s side alley light actually passed over her as the unit cruised by. Then she saw it stop and start to back up.

Definitely not. Sliding to a stop she spun on her heel and headed back only to see another police unit pull into the alley in that direction.

Cripes! She stopped and stood there, a scarcely conscious Mike Sykes draped over her shoulder. She waited as the two units carefully approached. She shook her head. The Captain’s strict orders were that only verified terrorists were to be killed. Damn!

The two police units came to a stop; the policemen inside popped open the doors and slid out, using the doors as cover.

The driver of the unit she happened to be facing used the car’s bullhorn to bellow, Drop the body! Hands up! Against the wall! Do it! Now!

Once she was leaning against