Mack 'n' Me: The Wolves of Alpha 9 by C.M. Simpson (top ebook reader txt) 📕

and I grabbed hold of the instinctive affirmative I’d been about to utter. There were, after all, a number of different tanks in the universe, and not all of them were for healing. I’d seen tanks filled with the flesh-eating beetles on Hanovra, tanks of water, tanks of acid, and I figured now might be the time to be real specific.

“He needs a regen tank,” I said, and kept my eyes on Barangail’s face.

The man gave a bark of laughter, even though no merriment touched the rest of his expression.

“Very good,” he said, cynicism and laughter licking at the edge of his words. He ducked his chin, and spoke into the comms unit tabbed into his collar. “Captain, put Captain Star in a regen tank—and make sure his legs are set correctly.”

He cast a glance at my face.

“He needs to be in the same condition as when he we put him in this cell.”

Barangail must have caught the expression that said I was worried about the injuries Mack had been carrying when he’d been drugged, and he amended his words.

“Make sure he heals all the injuries. I don’t want a scratch, bruise, or break on him—and keep him under; I don’t want him breaking out.”

“Yessir,” came out in a tinny rattle from the collar tab, as well as across the floor in a quieter baritone, and I let out the breath I’d been holding.

Barangail’s face was as cold and emotionless as stone, when he turned towards me.

“And you,” he said, “have some retrieving to do.”

I stared back into his eyes, and I waited. I was pretty sure the man wasn’t finished with me. He stared a little longer at me, and then he continued.

“You know what the bracelet looks like?”

I nodded, and he kept on.

“And you know we last saw the woman in the mines.”

Again, I nodded. Man didn’t seem to be interested in an answer.

“So, what do you need to get started?”

I shrugged, pulling at the cuffs around my wrists.

“I need outta these, for a start,” I said, and he hesitated.

I looked over towards Mack.

“No sign of a tank, yet,” I said, “and I’m gonna need a map of the mines and the known caverns around it.”

The man holding me, stirred restlessly, and Barangail looked past me, as though catching his eyes.

“You’ll also need to be wearing a tracer,” he said, and I backed up—or I tried to.

The movement caught his eye, and understanding lit his eyes.

“Good point.” He turned to another man. “You the tagger?”

The man shook his head, and looked towards another of his colleagues. The new guy stepped forward, taking what looked like a mutated blaster from the holster at his hip.

“I’m the tagger,” he said. “How can I serve my lord?”

Barangail made a brief gesture in my direction.

“She needs something that’s not going to shake loose in a hurry.”

“Shoulder tag could be lodged nice and deep,” the man said, tilting his head as he inspected me, “or I could slide one into a rib, snag it on the bone to make it harder to remove.”

“Rib,” Barangail ordered, ignoring the way my feet were already trying to walk my body outta there. He paused. “Better stick her with two, one on either side.”

And I started to struggle in earnest.

All that earned me was a time out, as the big dude holding me squeezed until the spots returned in front of my eyes, and coalesced into darkness. My ribs were sore and both sides aching when I came round, and my corset was gone. I was still held—but my hands were free. That was a plus.

Barangail was standing just out of arm’s reach, his blast-pistol drawn and pointing at my middle. That would hurt if it went off. I raised my hands, and hooked them over the arm that was, again, curving across my throat.

“What else do you need,” Barangail asked.

“Map?” I asked, and realized my implant was live, and there was a message waiting.

Damn, it hadn’t taken them long to get my contact... or had they? It looked awfully like that message was stuck in Message Limbo until I let it in. Only problem was I couldn’t touch it. Yup, bastards had locked the implant down so I couldn’t go dancing through their systems, again.

Well f...

“Calm down, Cutter. We’re here.”

And I’d never been so happy to hear Tens’s voice in my life. I stilled, watched as he reached out of my head, broke the barriers between me and Mack’s implant, and buffered me against the pain rolling through the man’s head.

“I’ll be—"

“No.” Mack’s voice might be kitten weak in my mind, but it was firm, and I realized he’d come round and was playing at still being out. “Cutter’s handling it. I’m just insurance. They’ll get a tank in here as soon as she’s en route.”

I didn’t ask him how he could be so sure that was gonna happen, and he didn’t enlighten me. Instead, I turned back to Barangail. Before I could speak, though, Case cut through, dropping her news like a planet-buster, in our midst.

“We’re locked into the docks,” she said. “I could bust us out, but...”

“No.” Again, Mack’s answer was firm, even if his voice was not. “Just get your business done on world, and wait for me.”

It made me wonder how he could be so sure he’d be making it back to the ship, but Barangail chose that moment to start talking, and I had to listen to what he said.

“Will it suffice?” he demanded, and I knew he meant the map.

Again, my eyes strayed to where Mack was hanging against the wall. Barangail followed my gaze.

“Tank’s almost here,” he said. “I had to bring one up from the infirmary.”

Made me wonder why, right up until the door slid open and the tank was guided through. Damn thing was levitating off the floor, and being guided by a couple of paramedics and a few soldiers. What was it with this man? How the fuck did he think Mack was going to be