Free WarlordsBounty by Cynthia Sax Page B

on the gun’s trigger, ready to
wreak sweet revenge on his enemy.
    The big male rolled through the open doorway, wearing black
leather warrior garments, guns in both of his hands. Tolui huddled behind the
damaged door and scanned his surroundings through the bulletproof porthole.
    Khan tensed, prepared to return fire, his muscles coiling in
anticipation. Tolui’s gaze flicked over his hiding place, no telling hesitation
as he turned his head, no glimmer of awareness lighting the warrior’s dark
eyes.
    I’m a Chamele. He should sense me. Khan frowned,
suppressing his primal instinct to engage, fight and kill. Something is
wrong, terribly wrong. He watched, studying his enemy, searching for an
explanation.
    Tolui cocked his head and tapped his ear with his index
finger, as though he waited for instructions. It was an action the rash Warlord
would never take, Berke’s previous attempts at peace talks abruptly dismissed.
    Tolui’s broad forehead creased with lines and he nodded,
staring blankly ahead of him, as though his target wasn’t standing to his left. Whom is he communicating with? Khan followed his line of sight, seeing
no one, the silver wall panels reflecting his form.
    The planet-less Warlord surveyed the otherwise empty
corridor once more, slowly, thoroughly, his guns cocked, ready for an attack.
Khan braced himself for battle, his adrenaline flowing. Tolui’s gaze swept by
the alcove, the warrior oblivious to his presence.
    He can’t sense me. Why? Khan examined his
enemy closely, searching for any visual clues. While Tolui’s angular profile
belonged to a Chamele warrior, his coloring was a faded copy, his black
hair not reflecting the light, his natural tan washed out.
    Copy. Khan stiffened, the explanation hit him harder
than a punch to his stomach. Clone. “You’re not Tolui.”
    The warrior released a barrage of shots, the bullets
peppering the panel Khan hid behind, pinging off the tough surface. Khan
pressed his body against the hidden supply chamber door, waiting for a break in
the gunfire, requiring more answers, those answers needed to protect his
people, to protect Zeta.
    “No, I’m not Tolui.” The male ripped a device out of his ear
and threw it to the floor, the metal bouncing along the wire mesh. “My name is
Seven. The master suspected this was a trick and sent me in his place.”
    “He sent a clone.” Tolui has gone too far this time,
breaking too many of our laws. Khan pressed his lips together, cloning
forbidden for all Chameles , that ruling set by his late father.
    Empty cartridges clattered to the floor as Seven quickly,
methodically reloaded, the male exhibiting a smoothness of movement gained only
through experience.
    “Not a clone,” Seven clarified, the bitterness edging his
voice surprising Khan, harsh emotions rare in manufactured beings. “I’m a clone
of a clone.”
    “Even worse.” Khan swung into the corridor, exposing half of
his body to attack, and he blasted a round of ammunition over the damaged door,
seeking merely to wound the clone, more of his questions requiring answers. The
male returned fire and bullets arced, rays of color and projectiles lighting up
the corridor.
    A thin red line etched across Seven’s cheek, the clone
warrior bleeding as readily as any other Chamele . Seven rolled, shooting
high and then low, right and then left, forcing Khan to dodge and duck at top
speed, his muscles burning and his chest heaving.
    He didn’t move fast enough, a breathtaking pain streaking
over Khan’s right shoulder. “A clone shot me,” he muttered, retreating into the
alcove to peruse his damage.
    “A clone of a clone,” Seven corrected, the male crouching
behind the door, his breathing loud and ragged. Both of them suffered from
minor wounds, their fighting abilities equal.
    Equal to a genetically weakened clone of a clone. Khan shook his head in disbelief as he prodded the wound with his fingertips,
its depth reassuringly shallow. I’ll live. He