Fortress
by Becca Abbott
Part 3
Did it ever stop raining? Draco couldn't remember so much rain. He hunched his shoulders against it, but didn't take his eyes from the garage. Through the windows, he could see the truck's running lights go on. The son of a bitch was going to take the vehicle right through the damned door.
"Sir! He's coming out anyway!" There was panic in Simms' voice. The captain was all but tugging on Draco's arm. "You'll be run down!"
Draco turned to the paralyzed Templar soldier on his right. "Give me that!"
The man gaped at him stupidly. Swearing, Draco grabbed the pulser away from him, turning back in time to see the truck come crashing through the garage door.
Draco had bolted from his apartment expecting to find Iason Mink's raiding party engaged in a full scale attack on the Fortress. The reality had been far more disquieting. There was no raiding party, no unit of well-armed, battle-tested thugs from Ceres' underbelly. Mink's damned pet – the mongrel – had apparently broken out of his cell and, with stealth and patience, made it through the pathetic excuse for base security to the garage.
"Jupiter! He's coming right at us!" howled Simms and bolted. Draco was aware that the other Templars had taken to their heels as well. The truck hurtled forward, bearing down on him and accelerating. Lifting the pulser to his shoulder, Draco took aim and fired.
Sparks and rivulets of lightning danced over the truck's body. There were a dozen small pops and loud cracks. It veered sharply, shuddered, and not five feet from Draco, tipped over onto its side and was still.
More thunder rumbled along the coast. He could hear the sea pounding against the distant cliffs, but couldn't see it. He lowered the pulser. Warily, the men crept back.
"Nice shot, sir," the captain said, a bit shame-faced. "We can take it from here, if you like. Get in out of the rain."
Draco ignored him. He preferred to stay where he was. The rain helped cool the rage that simmered just under the surface, longing for a chance to erupt into open flame.
"We'll get the low-life out of there, sir," the captain tried again, looking embarrassed and miserable. "There's no need for you to be disturbed any further."
"Dismiss these men," said Draco flatly. Even in the wan glow of the base floodlights, he saw Simms blanch. "The identity of the prisoner is classified, remember?"
The men were useless anyway. When Draco and Simms had arrived, six of them had been staring stupidly at the garage door instead of following the prisoner inside to apprehend him. It was an unbelievable display of incompetence.
Simms strode off, shouting and waving his arms. Within minutes, the area was cleared. Then the Templar captain drew his side-arm and nervously approached the truck. He had to climb up onto the side to get to the door. Yanking it open, he thrust his gun inside. Then he looked around. "Out cold!" he shouted.
Draco nodded, having expected as much. Pulsers short-circuited human electrical systems, too. Simms reached down into the vehicle and hauled out the unconscious mongrel.
"Where do you want him, sir?" Simms asked.
"Back in his cell."
They threw the unconscious man onto the floor of Simms' truck. With Simms behind the wheel and Draco's foot firmly on the mongrel's back, they returned to the old stockhouse.
Draco had never been to the cells in the lower levels of this building. He'd only been in the Fortress once before, years ago, during his training as a Templar. Six months' training duty in this forsaken place was required of all men who entered the ranks of the elite corps. Like most cadets, he'd had no particular reason to come here.
Down they went, down a curving stair, narrow and badly-lit. At the bottom, he had to stoop, the ceiling was so low. As they made their way along the corridor, he heard a muffled shouting. Simms mumbled something. Draco, his temper already on a knife's edge, realized it was coming from the cell ahead.
The mongrel's cell.
Simms hastily punched in the security code, all the while scrupulously avoiding Draco's stony glare. The cell door flew open and Draco faced two flushed and agitated Templars, one clutching a force-whip, the other sporting a bloody nose. Their eyes darted from Draco to Simms, down to the mongrel's limp form, then back to Simms. "S-sir!" stammered the one with the whip.
"What the hell happened?" demanded Simms, fixing them both with a steely eye. "Your orders were to leave this cell alone!"
"Well – er, there was all this noise, see? So decided we'd better come have a look, sir."
"And then?"
"It's his fault," said the man with the bloody nose, glaring at the man with the whip. "He couldn't keep his fuckin' pants on!"
"Explain."
The man with the whip was looking daggers at the other, but the first man was busy covering his own ass. "Yeah – Charlie knew the prisoner was Iason Mink's pet, so he thought he'd get a piece, but the punk crushed his balls instead of licking..."
"Shut up, you son of a...!"
"Charlie, you idiot!" Simms was crimson with fury and embarrassment. "Help Rake get the mongrel inside," he snapped, jerking his chin toward the taller, thinner man.
"Give me the whip," Draco ordered, holding out his hand. The guard, Charlie, handed it over, avoiding the Elite's scowl, and hurriedly bent to help his partner drag the mongrel into the cell. Draco came in after them.
"Strip him."
"Yes, sir!" The guards scrambled to obey, ripping off the mongrel's sodden clothing and tossing it aside.
Draco said nothing. His anger was making his heart pound. The fools! These were Templars? Weaklings who disobeyed orders, who let themselves be outfought and outmaneuvered by a mongrel? Jupiter! The Committee might as well offer the creature back to Iason on a silver platter!
At Draco's terse command, the men dragged the mongrel to his feet, locking his wrists into the chains dangling overhead. The creature finally stirred, eyelashes fluttering. Charlie swore and drove his fist hard into the prisoner's belly. There was a gasp and the mongrel's dark eyes flew open, filled with shock and confusion.
"Enough!" hissed Draco, fed up.
Charlie gave him a quick, resentful glance, then moved back to stand with his partner. Draco drew his sidearm and, cold as ice, shot both guards in the head. They were dead before they hit the ground.
"What the hell?" roared Simms, staring down at the bodies. The mongrel's eyes were wide and stunned. Draco returned his gun to its holster. He faced Simm's raging glare.
"My orders were that no one was to have contact with this prisoner. The immediate and flagrant violation of that order, along with the fact that he managed to get all the way to the garage and steal a truck without being apprehended, suggests that your command here is not up to Templar standards. These are serious lapses and they demand disciplinary action. As the ranking officer, I took it. If you feel I was too lenient, by all means, say so."
Simms, white as a sheet now, shut his mouth. A muscle leapt in his square jaw, but he said nothing more. Draco turned his attention to the creature who had caused all the trouble in the first place.
He saw at once that the police holographs had not begun to do the mongrel justice. No wonder the weak fools had been tempted. The eyes that stared angrily at Draco were beautiful, indeed. Fringed by long, dark eyelashes, they were filled with a fierce intelligence. There was a promise of more trouble to come if Draco allowed it. Yet, almost as a contradiction to those eyes was the young man's mouth, soft and sensuous, hinting at a reward waiting for someone strong enough to impose his will on that fiery spirit.
The mongrel's body lived up to the promise of his face, long and lean, every muscle perfectly defined. How often did one see such perfection arise out of the random combination of genes? Like his master, however, the creature could wreak havoc without any apparent effort. In less than twenty-four hours, the dog had escaped from his cell, destroyed a truck and caused the death of two guards.
Draco switched on the whip. The mongrel lifted his dark head, dread tempering some of the anger in his handsome face. Slim fingers clenched around the chains above him. "Who are you?" he rasped. "What do you want with me?"
So – not cowed yet. Draco slid the whip's intensity control to full and struck. The filament snaked across the prisoner's smooth, bare chest, sparking. His body jerked wildly, head flying back, but he didn't make a sound. A tough one, eh? Draco waited for him to catch a breath, to get his legs back under him again. The path of the whip across his skin was marked by a clean, red line, swelling even as Draco watched.
"You'll speak when you're spoken to, scum, and not before."
For a second, it looked as though the captive would retort, he had that reckless look about him. Instead, wisely, he clamped his jaw shut. The dark eyes, however, said what his mouth did not. Draco was in no mood to tolerate even that hint of defiance. Walking around the prisoner, Draco struck again, this time leaving a crimson stripe across those taut buttocks. Still, the young man made no sound. The third blow, however, tore a soft cry from him, abruptly stifled.
Again and again Draco struck, moving around the mongrel, taking his time, methodical, drawing a vivid lattice of pain across that pale, shrinking flesh. It was not until the cries became screams and then choking gasps that he stopped and let the whip fall to his side.
Draco regarded the mongrel with grim satisfaction. The creature hung in the chains, head bowed, barely conscious. Sweat fell in glittering drops to the floor. A few of the welts oozed blood, but on the whole, Draco had avoided real damage. After all, a miracle might happen, he thought, handing Simms the whip. Mink might actually do the inconceivable and betray his friend for this piece of shit. Then Draco would be expected to return the goods in roughly the same condition he'd found them.
Seizing the mongrel's chin, the Elite major lifted his head. Face wet, eyelashes sparkling with tears, the mongrel looked back, dazed with pain. His full lower lip was bitten bloody. Fear shadowed the large eyes, but there wasn't nearly as much there as Draco had expected to see. Abruptly, the Elite released him and turned back to Simms. The major was staring at the mongrel, his color high. There was an unmistakable fullness in the front of his uniform trousers.
"I'm through," said Draco. "Now it's your turn. Make sure the door is secured when you leave and that your men stay away from now on."
He looked again at the mongrel. The battered mouth trembled and the young man turned his head away. Draco left the cell. Outside, he stood by the open door and waited, listening, until he heard a hoarse, anguished cry.
Smiling thinly, Draco made the long trek back to his new apartment.