Warrior's Wife (3 page)

Two sets of metal mesh hands reached for their necks. Headpieces were unfastened and removed in eerie synchronization. The faces revealed were harsh, utterly devoid of emotion and too human to give her hope they would be missing any of the standard male equipment.

The strip show continued with their gloves, chest pieces, boots and leg coverings. Under the armor their skin was pale, hairless and taut. The groin sections came off with slow, deliberate caution and winces. Confirmation her captors’ pain receptors worked fine. Good news.

She caught a glimpse of intimidating erections and her courage wavered. She squeezed her eyes shut as if not looking would make them magically disappear or at least go limp. She forced herself to view the penises with clinical detachment and still cringed. Those were going to hurt.

A grapefruit-sized ball of lead formed in her stomach and threatened to sink through her intestines. At the same time her survival instincts kicked into high gear, accelerating her pulse and throwing off some of the anesthesia’s side effects. She managed to croak, “Where’s Rocky?”

The response was a crack to the side of her face that rattled her braincase and made her see stars. She rolled into a ball, hugging her knees while she blinked back tears and swallowed blood. Her opponents were bigger, stronger and at least part machine. Hopelessly outmatched summed up a bad situation. A smart woman would lie back and think about flag and country. Too bad she lacked the quit gene.

She understood she would lose the fight, but she wasn’t going down easy.

Acting hurt wasn’t a stretch. She rocked and whimpered, pulling her legs tighter until she closed around the hilt of her backup knife. Thank you, God.

One of them jerked her braid so violently her teeth snapped.

Satisfied he had her attention, he pulled up.

She only had two options—cut off her hair or stand. Not ready to reveal her weapon, she rose, keeping her arms wrapped around her waist.

“Hands behind your head.”

She slid her arms until her left palm cradled the back of her knife hand. Then she raised them to her head as instructed. Luck smiled at her. The males were too busy staring at her breasts to notice any flash of metal.

One of them produced a knife of his own. Naturally it was way bigger than hers. She swallowed a lump of terror and reminded herself that she’d seen his blade. Hers was going to be a nasty surprise. She tore her eyes away from the threat of the sharp edge and watched his eyes.

Something cold and hard slid along the top of her shoulder. Just her luck, the guy behind her had a knife too. Her thin cotton t-shirt parted. The male in front got with the program, repeating the slicing action on the other shoulder. The faded-olive drab rag fluttered to her feet.

They took a second to sheath their blades then two pairs of cruel hands were busy bruising her breasts.

“Natural,” the one behind her said.

If that was a compliment, she was totally unimpressed with his sweet talk.

The other grunted in agreement and pinched her nipple.

She swallowed back the cry of pain rising in her throat.

Pale hands twisted and pummeled her tender flesh. A hard shaft pressed against her back. Not fun. Then she made the mistake of glancing down. The other’s penis dripped warm pre-cum on her stomach.

The lead in her belly lurched and sank lower. They backed off. She let out the stale breath she hadn’t realized she’d held.

Twin blades of cold steel went to work on her pants.

She slashed backward with everything she had, sinking her blade past muscle into soft tissue and twisting.

A quiet grunt came from behind her.

She jerked the knife free and aimed for the other male’s exposed throat.

Hard fingers clamped down on her wrist. He applied pressure until she dropped the weapon. The metal landed silently, resting on the remnants of her t-shirt. It might as well have been on the west coast.

“You okay?”

“Fine, she just scratched me.” The male holding her arm dipped to retrieve half of the discarded cloth. He took the time to kick her weapon out of reach before he used the torn shirt to bind her wrists.

The front male finished ripping her pants and tucked away his knife. “You’re leaking fluid, Sly.”

Hope rising, she turned to check out his damage.

Tank’s fist connected with her temple.

Hope and her legs folded like a bad hand in a game of five-card stud. Considering what was coming next, unconscious seemed like the best of rotten options. Still with her hands bound, falling was going to hurt. Lucky for her, blackness was right there with another full-body wrap.

Chapter Two

Marcus reformed at the original insertion point. Gideon and Horace solidified an arm’s span apart on either side of him. After a few seconds, his senses came back online and his body still worked. Yay team.

The half-moon put out enough glow to light up the site. He scanned the area. As far as he could tell there’d been no change to the scene Nigel described. The flattened grass, a dent in the vehicle, a couple of dark spots that could be blood supported the snatch-and-struggle explanation. Good to know, but no help finding Tori.

He checked his neural net. The usual two spots lit up nice and bright. Both of the regular lights belonged to his buds, Gideon and Horace. No friendly blips from the cyborgs’ pet droid, the surefire techno contact guaranteed to let them home in on their woman. Great, they’d just landed and the mission was already fucked.

The rest of the triad wasn’t quitting. He wasn’t going to let his buds down. Their leader strode off, following some invisible trail. The bioengineer knelt and got busy analyzing the spills.

Marcus’ specialties, metal and history, didn’t have any clear application. He loved history, especially the post-pandemic era. Too bad time travel had made the past a volatile stream of endless possible outcomes that needed a probability expert, not an old-school history buff. Even the seduction classes, where he’d shined, were no help without a future wife to romance. He’d never been more useless.

Standing around did nothing to help rescue Tori. Thinking about what she might be suffering made him mental. He tugged off his gloves and loosened his chest piece to wipe his sweaty palms on his undershirt. After quickly refastening his gear, he pulled the light metal mesh gloves back on and whistled a pre-end-of-days-era ballad to mask his tension while he trailed after Gideon.

The triad’s leader was hard as nails with amazing field craft—a straight-up killing machine. With his calorie hole piping to keep the doubts away, there was no way for Gideon to miss Marcus tracking him. His leader didn’t turn on the link and ream Marcus a new asshole for making noise. He paused, angled his head enough to make eye contact, then slashed a palm across his throat. Marcus figured, unless he was really pissed, the signal meant silence.

Message received. Marcus sucked back the next note and sealed his lips. Damn him to hell and back, he knew better. He wasted a couple seconds wondering why Gideon hadn’t opened the mental connection. Their leader might be brooding about the mission or maybe he didn’t want to include Horace in the convo while he dragged Marcus’ ass over the coals. Whatever. He didn’t want a second reprimand so he was careful to maintain the correct distance and minimize the track of their passage. He matched his stride and took care to place his boots exactly where Gideon had stepped. The signs Gideon followed eluded Marcus. He plodded on anyway, because he’d follow the hardheaded mech off a cliff. The warrior had an uncanny knack for catching a trace and running it to ground.

The next time Marcus looked behind him Horace was catching up fast. The third member of the triad had so many tech degrees he made up his own geek squad. For all his smarts, the mech was naïve about real life and missing any semblance of common sense. He also made an awesome, wicked fighter and an even better friend. Not that Marcus planned to do anything girly like start gushing or hugging his bud.

He and Horace stayed with Gideon like good soldiers for another ten minutes. A manufactured light source stood out against the black and blacker like the promised homing beacon. The vehicles and tents were period pieces, but the light was twenty-sixth century all the way. Hello, cyborgs.

The three of them double-timed it toward the enemy’s camp. As they closed in on their bright-and-shiny clue, the stink of cyborg hydraulic fluid and fear stung his nostrils. His eyebrows rose in surprised admiration. Tori must have wounded at least one of the bastards. His woman was a dangerous fighter. Damn if that didn’t make his itty-bitty heart beat faster.

Marcus take point. Horace search the trucks and structures. I’ve got your backs. Protect and serve.
Gideon opened the mind link long enough to blast orders.

Horace split off to check a vehicle.
Yes sir.

I’m on it.
Marcus unsheathed his weapon and approached the lit-up tent. He already wished he could take off his gloves and wipe down again. The disrupter was extremely effective against unarmored living tissue. In the current sitch there were a couple of problems using it. First the other side had the same technology for both weapons and body armor. Second the disrupter’s delivery system was more broadband than laser precise—the weapon didn’t discriminate whose cells imploded. If Tori were anywhere close to a target she was in danger.

Sweaty-palm time, but he sure as hell wasn’t doing Tori any good hanging around outside worrying. He ducked and entered the tent, bent over like a fishing hook.

A naked cyborg traumatized his eyeballs. Finally a break for his side, the bastard had no armor or anything else blocking the ugly sight. Not exactly a fair fight considering the fucker was unarmed, as long as Marcus didn’t count the leaking gun hanging off the front of his hips and aiming at Marcus’ destined mate.

No Mr. Nice Guy when it came to the enemy. He swallowed rising gall and fired. The small weapon emitted an invisible beam of energy. The red line of the laser guide was the only visible clue anything had happened until the beam made contact and disrupted the hell out of the enemy’s cells. He stepped over the twitching bag of parts that used to be a cyborg and searched for Tori. As he edged past a table and a couple of canvas chairs, something clamped around his left ankle.

A second naked bastard with a serious fluid leak croaked, “End me.”

Ick. Marcus was definitely going to have to bleach his eyeballs.

The pleasure is all mine, scum.
He kicked loose and discharged the enemy. Mercy killing was better than cyborgs deserved.

He found Tori crouched in a corner of the tent. Her pictures hadn’t prepared him for the real woman. She was insanely small and fragile and her clothes had been ripped to scraps.

“Stay back.” She curled a puffy split lip to hiss at him.

It truly hurt Marcus just to look at her. He squinted, trying to imagine her healed up a little. Lots of dark-red hair and milky-white skin that might be pretty if it weren't swollen, cut, and so damn bruised. While he continued gaping at her like a clueless droid, her courage reached right out and snatched his heart from his chest.

Fucking cyborg bastards. He was ready to go back and kill them again, slower and much more painfully. He was grateful the enemy team had been such total fuckups that one slender woman had incapacitated two of them. Then he caught a flash of the blade she gripped in her swollen right hand.

Knife fighter, huh? Brilliant weapon choice. Like mechs, cyborgs were pretty much bulletproof. Of course dumb, dumber and dumbest had taken off their armor without binding her or bothering to secure all her weapons.

Note to self—make sure she’s on board with the plan before getting nakey.
He liked his big-boy parts right where they were, at least long enough to give her a chance to appreciate his real gifts.

His woman was a true warrior. Didn’t that say it all? If he hadn’t already fallen for her, he would’ve been instantly in love.

Report.
Gideon’s order slammed a lid on Marcus’ private sap party.

Two cyborgs ended. Tori injured.

Not reading you, there in five. Protect and serve.

What the fuck did Gideon mean by not reading? Marcus mentally shrugged and skipped, counting off the minutes. Gideon ran like a well-made chron—one hundred percent accurate all the time. Instead he edged a millimeter closer to his wounded woman. “I’m not going to hurt you. I only want to help.”

“Then find me something to wear.”

Clothes would’ve been way down his priority list, but he nodded his understanding. A quick scan of the amenities revealed a serious lack of anything other than the putrid stuff the cyborgs wore. Some of the bags stacked around the tent might hold human clothes, but they were unlikely to be Tori-sized. He eyed the canvas wall for toga potential and dismissed the tough fabric. The solution hit him and he unfastened his helmet.

The second his headpiece came off, she pressed herself harder against the canvas at her back.

Understanding crashed through his thick skull and he backpedaled away from her with his arms extended. “I’m taking off my armor to get you my undershirt. You’re safe with me, I swear it.”

Enormous hazel eyes tracked every movement as he got busy handling the slowest and most careful chest-piece removal ever. Once he’d shed the metal, he tugged the soft underlayer off. He held the warm garment out for inspection. “Okay?”

Her chin dipped.

He tossed.

She caught the material in her left hand, never taking her gaze from him. “Turn around, please.”

“Absolutely.” He gave her his back and held his breath.

A couple of long seconds crawled by before she said, “You can look now.”

On her the snug shirt worked like a baggy dress, covering her from neck to knees. She looked absolutely adorable. A no doubt sappy grin stretched his mouth.

Her gaze dropped to her dainty combat boots and stayed there. “Thank you.”

Wow, didn’t those two little words puff his bare chest up a couple of sizes? He bobbed his head at her as stupid as a single-function bot. His ears picked up footfalls and he rotated his neck to share his goofy smile with Gideon.

Too bad it wasn’t his boss. A fresh trio of armored cyborgs spread out and began closing in on his position. Without thinking about it, he stepped in front of Tori as if his unarmored body would slow down their lethal beams. He wondered why they hadn’t been disintegrated for a nano-second or two. Maybe the fuckers didn’t want to take the chance of killing Tori. Then he quit thinking and pulled out his own disrupter—great weapon for annihilation, unless your opponent wore armor.

Tori moved until she stood next to him, not quite touching, but close enough that he knew when she shivered.

So scared she shook, Tori edged in front of the man she’d dubbed Galahad, catching a whiff of dark spices and clean man. Going by his scent, he had to be a good guy. Evil would never smell so utterly wonderful.

No way would she cower in the corner while the new batch of metal monsters killed the man who’d literally given her the shirt off his back. If he hadn’t stripped off his armor for the sake of her dignity he might’ve had a chance against them. A rotten, three-against-one chance, still she owed him.

Dying wasn’t the most awful thing that could happen. She’d been living moment to moment, constantly on guard for more than year. Everyone she’d ever loved was long dead and gone. The dream of joining some new group in California had been just that—a dream. Not enough of a reason to buy her survival at the cost of her protector’s life.

The man next to her frowned and put himself between her and the metal guys, plainly determined to be a hero.

She elbowed back in front of him. “Don’t be stupid. They want me alive.”

“Step away from the woman,” one of the metallic monsters said in the same flat tone the tanker boys had used. He waved a shiny little stick to emphasize his demand.

The small metal rod looked no more menacing than an oversized ballpoint pen. Her noble rescuer gripped an almost identical metal stick. Maybe the pointy things were a lot deadlier than they appeared. Alien weapons were a complete mystery to her, as was everything else about them. The biggest question was why they wanted her alive, especially considering they didn’t seem the least fussy about damage. Every inch of her had been cut, bruised or battered. None of the small injuries hurt too much, probably because of the adrenaline flooding her bloodstream. Either that or else she was in shock and would crash into unconsciousness any second now. Since she already felt lightheaded, she quit cheering herself up and bit her split lip. The pain kept her focused on the current standoff.

A ripple in the tent’s front wall caught her attention. A dark blade silently parted the tough canvas. She tracked the movement from the edge of her vision, hoping reinforcements had arrived. If the newest intruder was with the metal guys, he wouldn’t bother sneaking in, right?

She bit her lip harder as the dull gleam of a metal-covered fist appeared. Next to her Galahad struggled into his protective gear. She made an intuitive leap, concluding the ominous glove might belong to a friend. She had no way to ask her protector or even call his attention to the intruder without alerting the metallic aliens. Their strange, mesh-covered heads tracked every movement she made. Carefully she angled her gaze away from the lengthening slit in the canvas shell.

She’d seen enough battles to last her a lifetime. Galahad stuck close to her, his stubborn insistence on guarding her made him a non-combatant. Without some kind of help the good guys would lose. They would both die, or wish they had. Abruptly she realized a distraction would help Sir Galahad’s buds get the drop on the bad guys.

Since getting to know the cold, metal band of un-merry aliens, she’d changed her mind about nothing being worse than death. She’d never thought of herself as the martyr type and still didn’t. Dying fast and painlessly while she tipped the odds in the heroes’ favor seemed like a decent way to go.