Agent Shield and Spaceman

“The fact is,” Gunther said. “Time has come and gone for me to move up in the organization. You’re going to be my ladder upwards.” Marcus focused on the little bits of broken glass he imagined digging into his broken ring finger. Whoever had restrained him had a done a thorough job, he could barely wiggle a finger. But even a wiggle was agony. Agony he could use. “I wouldn’t get too comfortable with the idea of me helping you,” Marcus said through gritted teeth. There was another scream from the room behind him. He thought he saw D shift in her seat. Maybe she was finally returning to consciousness. He wiggled his finger again, hearing the tiny clink of micro-bubbles striking the deck beneath him. “You are going to help me,” Gunther said. “You’re going to help me and help yourself. Don’t you see how much this helps us both?” Marcus flexed his finger and nearly had to bite his own tongue to avoid screaming out. He felt another swarm of force bubbles fall into his palms. He could also fe...

Shield sat in his chair, a French 75 in front of him, each stroke of the kick drum setting up a ripple in the center of the wide glass. The music from the Ramsey Lewis trio was not so loud it obliterated conversation, but loud enough to dissuade eavesdroppers. That was why Marcus had chosen the spot for meeting the first name on the Chief’s list. Liaison Melissa. LeHaze powerfully exemplified the advantages of ambitions and high-impact paramilitary training. Her face was strong, with a long thin jaw, a sharply slanting nose and eyes the color of November drizzle. She had a sober, measured manner and a curl to her smile that could cause stage one hypertension. “I fail to understand why we are following this lead?” her fingers quickly leafed through the mission briefing. Her rifling paused over the photo of Gunther Thulewaite, an unimpressive, sour-faced individual with a severely reduced hairline. “This man? The file says he’s a rare animal trader. What does this...