Captive - Cheryl Brooks Page 0,3

escaping the cell. He could wait behind the door and attempt to overpower anyone who entered, or he could go to work on the lock. Fortunately, he didn’t need much in the way of tools to do the job, although a quick check of the pockets of his jacket and trousers was enough to inform him that he had undergone a thorough search prior to being deposited there. Even his belt and boots had been removed.

Waiting behind the door, it is.

A hidden camera would nullify that tactic, although being free to move still gave him an advantage. He took a few moments to study his surroundings, which didn’t take long because except for him, the room was empty. The only light came from a single overhead fixture. A camera could be hidden there, but as archaic as the fixture appeared to be, he doubted it was equipped with anything that sophisticated.

He checked the lock anyway. Since it was sonic operated, he could’ve altered his comlink signal to override it, but of course, that was gone too.

Nothing to do but wait.

Hungry, thirsty, and in dire need of a trip to the restroom, he could’ve called out to his captors that he needed to relieve himself, which would’ve been a good idea if he hadn’t been gagged as well as bound. Once he started talking, they would know he was loose.

He settled down beside the door, noting that it was at least hinged. A door that opened inward was a mark in his favor. A sliding door or one that opened outward would severely diminish the element of surprise. Nor, he now realized, was he being held aboard a starship—unless the stardrive engines were currently shut down. Having lived on a ship for nearly his entire life, he was attuned to changes in the engine’s hum and the barely perceptible vibrations of space travel. These were, however, absent, suggesting that he probably hadn’t left Haedus Nine—might even still be in Srekatoa, the same crappy city in which he’d been captured.

He should’ve known better than to let his temper get the better of him. Nothing good ever came from throwing a tantrum, no matter the age of the person involved. Anger made you do things you wouldn’t ordinarily do, like breaking things that were sometimes irreplaceable. Still, when the mood struck, ignoring it was just as unhealthy.

He was about to give up and go pee in the corner when the lock finally disengaged. Moe leaped to his feet in a silent move only a cat could have duplicated. He waited until the robed figure had cleared the doorway before kicking the door shut and pouncing on his prey.

That his adversary was female didn’t give him any advantage whatsoever, especially given that she had a pistol in her hand. Moe had learned several forms of martial arts during his formative years. But so, apparently, had his captor. Every move he made was met with the appropriate countermove—almost as though they’d had the same teacher.

The fight went on far longer than it should have, and Moe was forced to admit that she was an even match for him in technique, if not in speed. He knew he was holding back, although he wasn’t sure why. He should’ve simply beaten the crap out of this woman, recovered his belongings, and high-tailed it back to his ship before leaving Haedus Nine forever. What was stopping him?

With no clear answer for that, he dropped to the floor. A quick spin on his belly brought his feet up against her legs, knocking them out from under her. The moment she fell, Moe pounced.

Her breath went out with a whoosh as he landed on top of her. Pinning her hands to the floor above her head, he wrestled the pistol from her grip. Despite knowing he should take advantage of this momentary lead and start running and not stop until he reached the spaceport, curiosity, which had been known to kill cats in the past, got the better of him.

Straddling her hips, he sat up and jerked the hood from her head. For a long moment, all he could do was stare as his gaze darted from her pointed ears to her catlike eyes, long curly hair, and sharp fangs and back again until her snarl of frustration brought him back to his senses.

“Mother of the gods,” he said with a hoarse whisper. “You really are Zetithian.”

Moreover, she looked oddly familiar.

“Half Zetithian,” she said with a contemptuous snort. “My mother