Page 64 of Journey to the Forbidden Zone
Because of Carmen fucking Díaz and her goddamned flying scrapheap crewed by rejects and failures.
A fresh wave of cold fury washed over him, so intense his vision momentarily grayed at the edges. He slammed his fist down on the polished metal surface of the desk. The impact jarred up his arm, but the dense material didn’t even scratch. It just absorbed the blow, silent and impassive. Like the universe itself, mocking him.
He pushed himself up. He needed to move. To pace. To dosomethingbesides stare at the glowing proof of his humiliation.
His quarters, usually a haven of sleek, intimidating luxury – dark metals, deep crimson accents, trophies from a dozen successful raids – now felt like a cage. The air tasted stale, tinged with the faint scent of burned insulation that had seeped in from the damaged sections. Emergency lighting strips along the baseboards cast long, distorted shadows, making the room feel cavernous and hostile.
He stalked to the large viewport that dominated one wall. Outside was nothing but black space and stars – a void profound enough to drown every sorrow. It offered no solace, no distraction. Only the reminder that they were nowhere. That they were running.
Running.
Him. Nick Corso. The terror of the Belt. Reduced to fleeing from an enemy he hadn’t evenseenuntil it was carving chunks out of his ship.
His reflection stared back from the plexisteel – pale, eyes shadowed, a smear of soot or maybe dried blood on his cheek he hadn’t bothered to clean. The image of a man bested.
The thought ignited the fury again, hotter this time. He spun away from the view, unable to bear the sight.
The movement brought him face-to-face with the desk again, the damage report still glowing accusingly. His gaze snagged on a specific line:
Hull Breach: Decks 7-9. Containment fields: ACTIVE (marginal).
Marginal. One power surge, one unlucky micrometeorite hit near the patch job, and whole sections of his ship would decompress. Crew lost. Cargo lost. Prestige lost.
All because Díaz had somehow fucked up a simple pickup so spectacularly that it had drawn extermination.
He resumed pacing, the click of his boots doing nothing to drown out the rage coiling in his gut. Every scrape of metal from the ship’s strained systems, every flicker of the lights, felt like a personal insult.
Díaz. Always Díaz. Standing in his way. Mocking him. Defying him. Even when she wasn’t there, her shadow hung over him, costing him his ship, his dignity, maybe his entire operation.
The memory slammed into him then, unbidden and vivid as a plasma burst. Not the recent ambush. An older wound. Deeper.
The acrid tang of weapons-fire still hung in the air ofThe Buccaneer, mixed with the coppery stink of blood. Old Man W’Ooshlee lay sprawled near the navigation console, sightless eyes staring at the ceiling, a neat, smoldering hole in his chest.
Power. Sweet, intoxicating power thrummed through him. It was done. The ship was his.
He swaggered across the deck, stepping over the bodies of the few loyalists stupid enough to stand with W’Ooshlee. Thecrew – Nick’s crew now – watched him, a mix of awe, fear, and raw hunger in their eyes. All except one.
Carmen Díaz stood near the shattered viewscreen, back straight, shoulders squared, her dark eyes blazing not with fear, but with pure, unadulterated fury. Her knuckles were white where she gripped a wrench she’d snatched from a fallen engineer. Blood – not hers, he noted – spattered her grease-stained tank top.
She looked magnificent. Ferocious. A prize worthy of the new captain. He stopped before her, radiating triumph.
“Díaz,” he drawled, his voice thick with the adrenaline rush, the sheer joy of victory. He gestured expansively at the bridge, at the ship that was now his kingdom. “Look at this. Look at what we’ve made. No more W’Ooshlee playing it safe. No more scraping by on milk runs. We take what we want now.”
He took a step closer, lowering his voice, letting the heat of his ambition, his desire, show in his eyes.
“First mate’s chair is still yours. Right hand. We run this galaxy together. We take it all.” He let his gaze travel over her, lingering on the fierce set of her jaw, the defiant fire in her eyes, the curve of her hips in the worn pants. “And maybe more. A lot more. You’ve always known you belonged with someone strong. Someone who isn’t afraid to take.
“Of course, you could choose to be marooned on an asteroid here in the Belt, rotting until your air ran out. That’s an option if you want to be stupid.
“But it would be such a shame. Especially given your talent and our … chemistry.”
He reached out, intending to brush a stray lock of dark hair from her forehead, a gesture of possession, of promise.
She didn’t flinch. Didn’t move. Just met his gaze, her own eyes like chips of obsidian. Then she spat. Not at him, but on thedeck plating between his boots. The globule landed with a wet slap.
“I wouldn’t work for a sniveling, backstabbingpendejolike you if you were the last captain in the Belt,” she snarled, her voice low and vibrating with contempt. “And I sure as hell wouldn’t fuck you.”
He stood frozen, her words echoing in the sudden silence of the bridge. The triumph curdled into something hot and shameful. Humiliation. Rage. She’d looked at him, at his victory, at his offer of power and pleasure and she’d spat on it. Chosen exile, poverty, and a slow death on some rock over him.