Free The Army Of Light (Kestrel Saga) by Stephen Fender Page B

already
faltering grasp on her. In a blur that was nearly too fast to catch, Shawn
watched as she crouched down and swept her legs under the table, taking out two
of its supports before she rolled and stood to its side. The attacker looked to
her nervously as the table slowly teetered, then with a loud creek fell
forward, sending the drunk face down into the unforgiving wooden floor,
knocking him out cold.
        
Shawn rushed to her flank. “Hey, I thought I said no trouble.”
        
“It’s not my fault,” she offered defensively as she straightened her still
pristine skirt. “Besides, they accosted me and got what they deserved.”
        
“And then some,” he agreed without reservation. “By the way, remind me to never
piss you off.”
        
“I’m afraid it’s too late for that, Captain.” She then looked at his empty
hands quizzically. “Weren’t you going to get us some drinks?”
        
He was about to respond when she withdrew a cloth from her purse and, smiling
softly, dabbed off a trickle of blood from the side of his mouth. There was an
unmistaken twinkle in her eye.
        
Whatever he was about to say was cut off before it left his mouth when a voice
heavily laced with a French accent oozed from somewhere behind the two.
“Captain Kestrel, how good of you to grace my fine establishment.”
        
Shawn turned to the staircase and saw the immaculately dressed Jacques De Lorme
leering down from its top, the thin silver stripes in his pleated slacks
picking up the light from a dozen different directions like diamonds. Hell,
they probably were diamonds.
        
“If you’re through playing games with my patrons, please join me in my study,”
Jack said calmly. While he was speaking, two large and heavily armed
Temkorian’s, one with a paw around Trent’s arm, stepped up behind Shawn and
Melissa, pistols pointing squarely at their backs. “And
Captain? Please bring your enchanting companion with you.”

Chapter
4
        
 
        
If the bar’s lower floor was considered comfortable, than Jack’s second floor
office could best be described as opulent. There were burning brass torches,
glistening new metal furnishings, several full length mirrors, a holographic
pool table, and an ornately carved and well-stocked private bar in the back.
All this was centered on an enormous blue and white Framalian tiger skin rug in
the middle of the floor, complete with still lethal poisoned tipped fangs.
While Trent and Melissa had taken to the overstuffed leather chairs opposite
Jack’s desk, Shawn was more than comfortable standing between the two.
        
“It’s good to see that you’ve made it here safely, Captain,” Jacques De Lorme
slithered, his voice heavily laced with a native French accent. His suit, black
with purple and silver accents, was well tailored and looked exceedingly
expensive. The shine from his studded cuff links was like staring into small super-nova’s as the Frenchman relaxed comfortably behind his
desk.
        
Shawn’s brow unconsciously furrowed. Whatever Jack was trying to say, it had
nothing to do with his implied distress over the captain’s wellbeing. “What
exactly is that supposed to mean?”
        
Jack looked genuinely shocked at Shawn’s words, which the captian knew was far from the truth—a testament to how truly insidious he knew De Lorme
to actually be. “I’m merely talking about the reliability of your quaint little
skimmer. I would have detested hearing that you could have become stranded in
the waters off of my island… with no way of getting back to your own small
corner of the world.”
        
Shawn didn’t attempt to restrain the look of contempt on his face. “I
appreciate your unheard-of concern, Jack.”
        
De Lorme lit a long cigar, inhaling deeply and exhaling the smoke slowly in
Shawn’s direction. “Think nothing of it, Captain.” His words were slow and
cold.
        
“I need the engine