Wreckers: A Denver Boyd Novel by George Ellis (ebook reader ink .TXT) 📕

Still, he said nothing. And his eyes gave away nothing. Once again, I broke the silence.

“Look, if you’re still mad about that whole Silver Star mixup, I can explain what happened,” I said, doing my best impression of a guy that was not counting how many minutes he had left to live. “It’s actually a funny story.”

“Good. I like funny stories. I look forward to hearing it when we speak in person,” he replied, cutting me off with a raised hand as I began to open my mouth. “It would be wise, kid, if you didn’t inject one of your patented snide remarks at the moment. Just nod your head if you accept my invitation to come aboard.”

So. It was like that. I couldn’t even make a joke to break the tension. Desmond’s face seemed to change at that moment. He grew even more confident, and I suddenly realized why. While we’d been having our little chat, the Golden Bear had crossed into firing range. If I refused his invitation now, things would quickly get messy. In the event of said mess, I gave myself less than a 50 percent chance of getting away in one piece.

I bit my tongue and nodded, curtly. The screen went black.

“Once again, Denver Boyd proves to be a master negotiator,” Gary teased. “That’s the second time he’s convinced you to step aboard his ship. I wonder how many people make it to three…”

That time, Gary had a point.

“Can I keep Batista if Desmond kills you?” he added.

* * *

The Golden Bear looked different than it did last time I walked the corridors. For starters, there were at least twice as many crew members packed in. The casual air of the ship was gone, replaced by an angry tension that was almost palpable. It was entirely smellable with all the extra bodies crowding the galley. As the two heavily armed guards led me to Desmond’s quarters, I could feel a dozen eyes on me. They weren’t friendly. Suddenly, a very tall, very bald mountain of a human being stepped directly in our path.

“This the guy?” he asked one of the guards, a sizable dude in his own right, who looked like a child compared to Mountain Man. “Or should I say, boy?”

“You talkin’ to me?” I replied, doing my best version of the deranged cab driver in a violent movie set in ancient New York. I looked around the room. “You talkin’ to me? Then who the hell else are you talkin’ to? I’m the only one here.”

Even my escorts seemed to tense up, wondering how this bald hulk would react. He slowly shifted his gaze down on the top of my forehead (I came up to his chin). I flicked my eyes around the room and realized we had everyone’s attention.

“Yes, I’m talking to you, moron,” Mountain Man sniped. “Don’t mess up, or I’ll tear off your arms and cram them up your ass.”

That got a murmur or agreement from the onlookers. Before I could even ask what the hell he was talking about, the guards were shoving me out of the galley. Last time I was aboard this ship, Desmond had personally given me the tour and treated me like a visitor. This time? More like a prisoner. Though I wasn’t in restraints just yet. So that was something. As we passed through the crew’s bunk area — a long corridor with cubbies belonging to various members of the ship’s bursting gaggle of personnel — I had an eerie feeling that the ship was preparing for battle.

“There some war going on that I’m not aware of?” I asked my escorts. They said nothing. One of them grinned.

“Ah, you decided to leave your passenger on the Stang,” said Desmond, opening the door to his personal quarters. There was a hint of disappointment in his voice. He turned to my guard friends and nodded. They left.

Desmond gestured me into his living space and closed the door behind me. It wasn’t the biggest or most luxurious captain’s quarters I’d been in. Certainly it was nicer than mine, but that’s not saying much. The room fit the man, however. It was minimal. Sneakily well-designed. And functional: a bedroom, bathroom and large table with four chairs around it. I tried to picture who on the crew he might eat or meet with on a regular basis, but drew a blank. I doubted it was the Mountain Man.

“A lot of things have changed since my last visit,” I noted, uneasy. “Guess you only get the VIP tour once, huh?”

“Before I extend you the proper courtesy, I should make one thing clear,” he said, standing so close to me I could smell what soap he used. It was lavender-scented. “You owe me a debt. How the next ten minutes go will determine whether I collect that debt immediately, or give you a chance to wipe the slate clean. Do you understand me?”

Yep. I was a dead man. Unless I did something new for him. I nodded.

“Good!” He patted my shoulder, smoothly slipping back into the role of a gracious host. “Have a seat. If I remember correctly, you enjoy the hoppier end of the spectrum.”

As he grabbed me a tall, skinny can from the fridge next to his bed, I sat in one of the chairs by the table. I had no idea what the next ten minutes of conversation would entail, but I could already tell I was not going to like it. This was bad. This was very bad.

I mean, aside from the beer. That was good. That was very good. Desmond had the best beer I’d tasted in a long time, and it was almost worth risking my life just to enjoy a few swigs of pure hops perfection.

“Where do you get this and how can I have it all?” I asked, inspecting the logo of a rising sun over a tall mountain peak on the silver can.

“I believe they used to call