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   Chapter 11 No.11

Dead Beckoning By Christina Engela Characters: 6065

Updated: 2018-06-30 12:02


"What's your name today, honey?" The girl asked nonchalantly, smiling into his eyes. Her sultry sweet voice brought him back to the present. She wore a low-cut dress and her hair hung long and flowing. Her assets were bulging and very nearly in his face. Her make-up was noticeable, but perfect, and her eyes and her lips full and inviting. Her name was Marsha and the timbre of her voice indicated to him – and almost everybody else – that she had some equipment down below that most other women didn't leave the factory with. Strains of Lola came to mind, but that was fine with him. Just fine. He took another thoughtful sip from his glass and placed it back on the bar counter. His eyes scanned the roughcast ceiling as if he were picking a name from a hat.

"Adam." He smiled at her poignantly, relishing the little game they were playing. "I'm Adam today."

"Adam..." She smiled back at him, looking deep into his eyes. "What a coincidence! My name's Eve…"

"Oh, really?" He grinned back. "That's interesting."

"Yes, it is. Today, anyway." She smiled, stroking his short jet-black hair and the skin of his face. Until recently he'd worn a full beard, but he'd decided a change was long overdue, just like the other changes he'd made to his life, and anyway, he looked years younger without it – and even better looking, if that were possible. Yes, he thought – a change of life and a change of occupation. No longer was he a commander of Corsairs, no longer the dark-hearted figure who led looting raids. No longer a leader, but a loner. A survivor – a man without masters, a man with all his time his own.

A short spell in an Imperial starship brig and an encounter with his own conscience, a little danger, and now he was here – a free man with an Imperial pardon in his hand, and the inconvenience o

rated coldly. "Or so pretty I could even kill you for free."

The ugly one grinned at nothing in particular, more for aesthetic reasons presumably, or because he thought it made him look relaxed or even more dangerous. Sitting there on his stool, Adam presented them with a perfect target. 'Sitting duck, ' he believed it was called. He tilted his head, just so, giving them a clear view of his good side, smiled – and with lightning suddenness, stepped backwards off the stool and flung the glass into the face of the first man. Then, in one smooth movement, he flipped the stool into the air with his front foot, which was still hooked into the footrest, caught it with his hands and hammered the feet into the stomach of the second. A lightning grab of the first man by the gun-arm led to him smashing his attacker's face into the bar counter, which sent the man crashing into the base of the bar, stunned. Before the second could recover, Adam hammered him in the throat with a fist, quickly whirled him round into a choke-hold and then broke his neck. He let the limp, surprised-looking weight slowly fall to the floor. In the background, patrons were only just now scattering and making for the exits.

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