Trapped (The Condemned Series #1) - Alison Aimes Page 0,4
the canyon, thoughtfully telegraphing his precise location. “Our shuttle streaked through the sky like a clear come-and-get-me invitation for the entire penal population of murderers and psychopaths. We don’t have time to dick around. We don’t have time for those who’ll only slow us down. We’re moving out.”
“You coward. I saved your life. The least you can do is try and return the favor.”
673 cleared the canyon in time to see a bull of red-haired soldier dressed in fatigues grab a far smaller woman in a torn grey uniform, her boots dragging along the ground as he shook her hard.
673’s whole body went tight. He didn’t like bullies. He dropped into a crouch. Instinct taking over as he slunk forward, his gaze absorbing everything. The way the soldier bastard favored his right side. The large firearm strapped to his holster. The second weapon at the man’s back. The way the woman’s ripped uniform clung to her curvy body and the outraged rigidity of her spine even up against a man twice her size. The nine other thick-necked, smug soldiers with similar military-issued buzz cuts standing close by, no clue of the danger he represented, their sole attention on the woman.
In the next instant, the woman dropped into the dirt. On a perfect, heart-shaped ass.
Freezing in place, 673 waited to see what happened next.
“Fine,” the woman shouted, stumbling to her feet. “Go. But I’m not leaving. We’ll find a way.”
“Your funeral.” Soldier bastard grabbed a pack off the ground. He slung it onto his shoulder next to a similar one.
“At least leave us one.” She surged forward, grabbing for the pack, but soldier bastard darted out of reach.
“Not so high and mighty now, are you, Cadet West? In fact, seems like you and your Council-friends might need us after all.” Soldier bastard patted the pack. “These were issued to the military crew, and you know how strict Command Council is about ensuring resources are relegated to the proper department. You survive the night, I’ll be ready to hear just what you’re willing to do to get an unsanctioned taste.” With a final leer in her direction, soldier bastard kicked it into a jog. “Let’s go, men.”
An odd frisson of uncertainty snaked through 673. He wanted those weapons. Wanted what was in those packs. But he’d come for a different reason entirely, and with the seven soldiers out of the way, the few left would be easy pickings.
It was a curious thing: choice. For so long, there had been only the option to survive. He didn’t like having alternatives. It almost made him feel human again.
“West, please,” a dark-haired female in a similar grey uniform limped over to where the other woman stood, the quality of her boots marking her as Council even without his ability to see the CC designation on her skin, “go with them. You’ve done so much for us already. Why should you die, too?”
He’d already noted this second female and the wounded Council officer on the ground and dismissed them as any kind of threat. Fact was, like fighter girl, they were dead folks walking—because, in this case, soldier bastard was right. The strong barely survived out here. The injured didn’t have a chance in hell.
His fighter girl didn’t seem to care, though. His? No, she wasn’t his. She wasn’t anything but Dragath25 dirt in the making.
He’d learned long ago not to stick his neck out for anyone else. Keeping himself alive was hard enough.
Just beyond, the wind picked up, brushing against 673’s skin, signaling the start of another dust storm. Within the half hour, this place would be choked in dirt and debris, everything within suffocated under an indifferent cloak of dirt and rock.
“I’m not leaving you.” Fighter girl stumbled forward, her wavy, soot-colored hair brushing her ass…so easy to grab and wrap around his wrist. “Let’s find something I can drag Dr. Winthrop in.”
She turned in his direction, giving him his first full view of wide green eyes, a lush pink mouth, and firm, high tits full enough to fit his hands.
His body rioted to attention, the man he’d once been waking with a silent roar as white-hot lust flooded his veins. He jerked to standing, all subterfuge, all caution, forgotten. The absence of touch for eight long years a sudden agonizing stab of need across his skin.
“Look!” She pointed near to where he stood, and for a heart-stopping moment, he was sure he’d been sighted. But then she turned back to her friend. “There’s