Pirate Gil Ahn is after money, not romance. And if he keeps repeating that to himself, he may even start believing it.

Gilthen Ahn is captain of the Darck Banks cartel, one of the more notorious pirate bands in Republic space. He has six ships under his command. And, unless he finds money to pay his debts, he’ll lose everything.

Poor little rich girl, Tera d’Olzon, is trying to make a difference by thumbing her nose at the despotic Republic, but things haven’t quite turned out the way she anticipated. After running from the Security Force, she is “rescued” by Gil’s cartel.

The reasonable thing for the cartel to do is to ransom her. But that won’t bring in enough money. So Gil hatches a plan….

Restricted–18+ only

PUBLISHER: Total-E-Bound
LENGTH: Novel
ISBN: 978-1-906811-66-2
COVER ARTIST: Lyn Taylor

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.: Chapter One :.

This is the first chapter from A PIRATE’S PASSION, available NOW from Total-E-Bound!

“Fuck.”

The heavy jolt catapulting her from the pilot’s chair told Tera that a tractor beam had locked onto her ship. Her small, fast, yet admittedly stolen, scout ship.

“Fuckfuckfuck.”

She righted herself and, bracing her stance with widespread legs, hunched over the controls, skimming the readouts with disbelief. She was well and truly caught, her chance at thumbing her nose at the Republic evaporating with each second of the beam’s grip. It was only a strike destroyer that held her—one of the smaller ships in the Space Fleet’s arsenal—but her getaway was even smaller, without any mass she could leverage to break free.

So close. She had been so close…

A second jolt almost sent her tumbling to the floor again and this time she didn’t waste a moment. She knew the feel of a tractor shear when she felt one. She mumbled as she seated herself, her fingers flying over the console, marrying words to the commands she had to execute on an unfamiliar board. Rotate. Dive. Accelerate. Turn. Again.

Despite the scout’s anti-grav unit, acceleration pushed Tera further back into the thick upholstery, sliding her from one side of the seat to the other. She used the relative stability of a brief respite in gyrations to lock herself into the chair’s harness then—with a savage grin—started a series of manoeuvres that would take her to the edge of blacking out. But would also, if she was as good a pilot as she thought she was, speed her out of the destroyer’s—and the government’s—grasp.

She didn’t know why the shear had kicked in. Maybe her pursuer had burnt out one of its tractor units. Maybe it had suffered a cascade failure. Whatever the reason, Tera d’Olzon wasn’t hanging around to find out. She spared a glance at the sensor display and smirked against the changing g-forces at what she saw. The Republic ship was falling behind—already it was a little over two light-seconds away from her, and the gap was slowly increasing—although it was trying valiantly to catch up.

They wouldn’t. Tera knew exactly what kind of craft she’d stolen when she jacked the scout from Tor Gamma’s B Cluster shipyards, and it didn’t fail her as she lengthened the distance from her enemy.

It was all her fault and she knew it. If she hadn’t been so complacent after her last crease-jump, she would have detected the flicker of screen-noise that indicated a camouflaged Republic craft out on patrol. And, instead of staying sharp and crafting an avoidance plan, she bought trouble. Even now, she knew she couldn’t divert any of the ship’s precious memory to planning a possible hyperspace crease entry. Not yet. She wasn’t far enough away to ensure that the destroyer wouldn’t also tag her along the same exit path, and didn’t want to lose her edge in post-crease disorientation.

The distance from the destroyer lengthened to ten light-seconds—almost enough for her to chance an initial calculation—when her ship got hit by another tractor beam.

Where had that come from?

Sensor maps showed nothing, except for one minuscule blip on the edge of a screen, big enough only to indicate a small comet or meteor. But whatever whacked into her ship held more punch than a large rock and, judging by its tenacity as she again threw her little craft into another series of extreme movements, more power than the destroyer she had left behind.

After ten minutes of fruitless struggling, Tera gave up. Whatever had her in its grip was not about to let her go. And considering that it was already travelling at high velocity, pulling her along like a recalcitrant toddler—with more than enough energy to burn—it would be futile fighting against it any longer. Her engines had redlined five minutes ago and the temperature in the small cockpit was rising as the life-support systems tried to compensate for a battery of overheated equipment.

With a sigh, she powered down the engines, and jolted sharply once more before the tractor adjusted to her sudden lack of resistance. Whatever had nabbed her wasn’t Republic—they valued their privacy for one, still masquerading as an inanimate piece of rock as they dragged her through the sector at a phenomenal velocity—but, at the moment, any other player might be equally as dangerous as the galaxy’s renowned bully. She would need to be on her guard.

* * * * *

Gil was still half-amused when he led his small team down to the cargo bay. The first thing he wanted to do, after taking the scout’s pilot into ’custody’, was congratulate him on a series of hare-brained churns that had his own usually laconic navigator pulling his hair out. It wasn’t often he saw San swearing the air around him blue as he tried to keep up with the small vessel, matching their tractor’s output against the gyrations that pulled against it. In fact, if it wasn’t for San, they would have lost the small ship on several occasions. That the scout had been stolen was obvious. Only criminals ran from Republic destroyers. The true believers nestled trustingly in their deceptive, destructive arms, most of them never realising the trap they had sprung for themselves and their descendants. The law-abiding members of the Republic listened to the brainwashing, accepted it, internalised it, and lived their lives according to it. Only those who had turned their backs on the propaganda—criminals, by any other name—were brave enough to buck the trend.

Cynicism pulled down one edge of Gil’s lips as he waited for the atmosphere in the bay to equalise.

“What if it’s a shapeshifter?” Kotase asked. He looked relaxed, his hands hanging loosely by his sides, but Gil saw the glitter in his faded blue eyes. His first mate was an older man—his silver hair shorn close to his scalp—but he still had the strength of three and the mental agility of a mathematics genius.

“Then I’ll be depending on you to watch our backs,” Gil replied with a lift of his eyebrow.

Kotase snorted, saying nothing, but Gil knew he was pleased. Men his age, and with his background, were supposed to be retired and living the good life with several nubile sycophants by now, safe on a planet on the outskirts of Republic space. Instead, the first mate was still managing an active, and dangerous, concern. Maybe it was pity that kept him at Gil’s side and, at any other time, the thought would have rankled. But, under present circumstances, Gil was just grateful for the extra help. There would be time to pay Kotase back for his loyalty later.

“I hope this kidnapping was worth it,” Gil muttered. He had given up a prime position along a less frequently used but still lucrative transport route in order to capture the fleeing scout, and hoped he hadn’t traded a potential golden opportunity for a handful of space dust. Tightening his lips, he nodded curtly to one of his men to open the cargo bay doors.

The criminal—whoever he was—didn’t wait for Gil to enter with his team of men. The door of the scout was already open, somebody had taken position just out of clear line of sight, and shots began even before the bay doors had dilated fully, sending the men scurrying behind stacks of surplus equipment or retreating to flatten themselves against the wall of the corridor outside.

“I want him alive,” Gil shouted, above the sizzle and bangs of exploding supplies. The Republic had obviously wanted the ship—and its occupant—in one piece, which was why it had attempted a tractoring, over the easier tactic of just blasting the scout out of existence. By itself, that uncharacteristic tactic was a good enough reason to capture the criminal, rather than kill him. And the second—a box of titanium alloy 8-rings shattered into pieces above his head, showering him with shards of hot metal—was as reparation for the amount of damage their little rebel was inflicting.

“Told you you should have gassed the bay first,” Kotase remarked, next to him.

“No you didn’t.” Gil checked the charge on his pistol, making sure it was set to non-lethal and, lifting it above the box he rested against, fired a few shots in the general direction of the scout.

“Didn’t I?” Kotase was doing the same thing, but with more finesse, aiming to jam open the scout’s door mechanism. “I meant to.”

“Besides,” Gil shifted position, so he was crouched tight against the nearest box of supplies, “what were we supposed to use?” He darted a quick glance around the edge, then ducked down again as a shot sizzled close to his head. “Not all tranquillisers work with all alien physiologies.”

Kotase also ducked out his head, before pulling it back in again. “Well, the door’s jammed open, and he’s still firing, so it’s likely to be an oxygen-breather like us. And he’s enthusiastic, but not very good at handling a weapon.”

“Not very good?” Gil stared at his friend. “Did you somehow miss that crate of expensive 8-rings that just got blasted to shrapnel a minute ago?”

“Lucky shot.”

Gil snorted. “We could certainly use some luck like that.”

Kotase motioned to some men with the butt of his pistol, the barrel carving tactics into the air. Several nodded and slowly fanned out, stealthily moving closer to the ship by using the surrounding boxes and barrels as cover. Soon, they had the scout encircled.

“That’s the problem when you have only one person aboard a ship,” the grizzled veteran remarked to nobody in particular, “and no eyes in the back of your head.”

“You,” Gil called out, when his men stopped firing, and silence descended. “In the ship. You can’t win. We have your scout surrounded.”

No answer.

“We don’t want to hurt you. We just want to meet you and examine your cargo.” If he was lucky, it would be something lucrative and easy to trade.

“We’re open to negotiation,” he paused, “in light of the fact that we just saved your life.”

“Saved?!”

The one word was bitten out, but Gil’s eyebrows shot upwards. A female. He knew how to handle those. A slow smile curved his lips. Disregarding Kotase’s frantic movements to keep down, he stood.

“Where do you think that tractor shear came from?” he asked at a more normal volume.

The scout’s doorway remained empty, then a figure filled it. She was tall, almost as tall as him, with a straight curtain of ebony hair framing a slim face and a pair of enormous blue eyes. Her skin was a gleaming coffee, smooth and delicious even under the stark and unforgiving illumination of the cargo bay. Her eyebrows, winged and delicate, were raised in disdain. Any doubt that she was the shooter was dispelled by the sight of a large black hand weapon hanging limply in her right hand.

“You sheared the destroyer?”

Gil shrugged, and the moment was enough to kick-start her paranoia. She raised her pistol, aiming it at him. Around him, the other members of his crew mirrored her action, but kept her in their focus instead. Calmly, Gil held her gaze, willing her to relax. “Seemed like the right thing to do at the time.”

“Why?” If she’d noticed the number of weapons pointed at her, she ignored them. The expression on her face was one of open suspicion.

“Why not?” The cargo bay of the Bank Ora was no place to discuss complex financial calculations, or the need for sudden solvency. Gil got the feeling that the woman in front of him would use such an admission to double-cross him as easily as she breathed. Speaking of which, her breathing was doing agreeable things to the clinging sleeveless top she wore. Figure hugging, and teamed with an equally tight and stretchy pair of trousers, it might be practical wear for a pilot, but was suddenly playing havoc with Gil’s libido.

He cleared his throat.

“Perhaps we should be properly introduced first. My name is Gilthen Ahn, of the Darck Banks cartel.”

Her face crumpled. “Cartel? You mean, you’re a pirate?”

“I prefer the term ‘businessman’,” he countered smoothly. His hand swept over the men who stood around her ship, just to remind her that their fingers were still on the triggers of their weapons. “And here are the rest of my associates.”

Seeing herself clearly outnumbered, she shook her head and looked down at her feet. The pistol fell to her side again. “All that work, only to come to this. A pirate. I’m not sure you’re better than the Republic.”

“I think I can assure you of that. Had the Republic got their hands on you, you’d be clamped behind a force-twelve shield and pumped full of spillers by now. On the other hand,” he stepped forward from around the box, calmly and slowly, “I can offer you the cartel’s hospitality while we negotiate the terms of your release.”

She didn’t like him. Gil could tell by the way she jerked her head up and eyed him, as if wishing he was a pile of burnt cinders on the floor. And, conversely, that made him feel more relaxed. Better some healthy dislike than fawning hypocrisy. He’d had enough of that to last a lifetime.

* * * *

He was pretty and he knew it. Even more than his words—delivered in that dark and silky voice—his body, his stance, the way he cocked that damnable eyebrow all the time, told Tera that she was facing a man supremely confident in how he dealt with people. Including women. Especially women. She saw it in the slight smile of his lips, and the studied warmth in his dark eyes.

She wasn’t too surprised by how tall he was, but was by his build, which was solid and muscular. Usually, only planet-dwellers—under the regime of an unrelenting gravity—built up such mass of muscle. Either his cartel were a bunch of part-timers, unlikely given the skill required to reel her in, or he spent some serious time working out.

Her lips tightened. Another sign of an overweening ego. As if she needed further warning. But if she thought he was the only dangerous man on the ship, she was mistaken. The shorter, but equally solid man standing behind and to one side of him, made sure of that. It was like looking at two halves of a moon—one dark, young, charming, mysterious; the other, light, old, and openly suspicious. Tera jerked her head under his gaze but said nothing.

Gilthen Ahn was obviously waiting for her to introduce herself, but Tera was not in the mood to acquiesce. It was bad enough that they would work their way through the scout, stripping everything of value from it. Then negotiate a further ransom for her safe release. Then, in all probability, push her out the cargo bay in a barely functioning, gutted vessel. If they found out who she really was, any prospect of slipping out their grasp, with at least one important asset intact, was doomed.

Under pretence of looking down again and scratching her forehead, she took a surreptitious peek to either side of her. She was still close enough to the scout to have stopped the pirates from circling her fully. That meant there were two groups loosely sandwiching her to her sides. And Gilthen Ahn and his older alter-ego were in front.

She knew she would get only one chance at this.

Pinning a coy look on her face, she looked up at the captain of the pirates.

“And what kind of terms might we—”

Pivoting, she flung herself back through the scout’s doorway, banging at the release mechanism three times before realising that it wasn’t going to work. That meant trouble further down the track—‘further down the track‘ meaning five seconds into the future—but Tera was too committed in her actions to stop now. She heard a surprised shout from Gilthen Ahn, and thought she almost felt his hot breath searing her back, before she abandoned the doorway and bolted for the cockpit, palming the door shut behind her.

Flicking the systems on, she started the engines half-hot and checked that the tractor had been well and truly cut before twisting the scout towards the closed bay doors.

The ship’s rear right side hit the floor. Tera wouldn’t like to have been one of the pirates outside when that collision happened, but there was much worse to come. Such as the plume of incinerating plasma now shooting out of the engines. There were still problems ahead of her—the question of whether she should chance ramming the doors; the potential damage to the scout; and what she was going to do in empty space with an open door—but she wasn’t going to put herself in the hands of an avaricious, immoral gang of thugs if she could help it. Even death, she thought as she swallowed nervously, was preferable.

Then, as she was about to increase thrust, a hand clamped around her wrist like a vice, pulling it away and sending her bouncing into the pilot’s chair. Dark fingers quickly powered down all the systems and the scout settled with a jarring thud back on the floor of the cargo bay.

Tera rubbed the tender skin of her left wrist and looked up. “How did you—”

“You’re fast on your feet,” he conceded grimly, “but not fast enough.”

All pretence at cordiality had vanished. His eyes were no longer warm and friendly but obsidian chips as he glared down at her.

“Do you realise what you could’ve done?” he rasped. “You may have burnt my men to death with your move. And if you’d blown a hole in the bay doors, we’d be frozen dead meat by now.”

“All I regret,” she shot back, “was not being faster on my feet.”

She thought she heard him mutter, “I don’t need this,” as he manhandled her out of the ship, and she stifled a quick grin. And he was limping too. Something even his friend, or second in command, noticed.

“I had to jam the cockpit door open with something,” Gilthen Ahn replied testily to the silent query. “All I had available was my leg.”

The man, pursing his lips, nodded sagely. “We got out of the way in time,” he said in his turn. “Could have been worse.”

Smoke drifted upwards to the high ceiling from smouldering crates and Tera saw three half-melted barrels on the floor around her, but no bodies. And no screams. She was flung into the veteran’s arms, and darted a look of venom at the tall pirate when she regained her balance. He looked unperturbed.

“Put her in some quarters. And, Kotase, make sure it’s stripped bare. I don’t want a repeat of what just happened.”

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