Bandits Engaged (Battlegroup Z Book 4) by Daniel Gibbs (classic literature list .txt) 📗

we’ve got a friend over at the Coalition Intelligence Service that owes us a favor, right? Agent Grant.”

Tehrani’s face blanched at the mention of the CIS external activities division operative. He’d left a bad taste in her mouth the last time they’d worked together to deal with the covert League space installations hidden deep in Terran Coalition space. “I don’t want to work with that man again. Ever.”

“Skipper—”

“He admitted to me that he’s a high-functioning sociopath. I got the distinct impression he enjoys playing with others’ lives. All part of some big game.”

Wright harrumphed and leaned back in his chair. “Ugh.” He leaned forward. “Okay, as distasteful as it may be, Grant still owes us. Either that or go back to General Yukimura and ask for some G2 support.”

“To what end, Benjamin?”

“Waiting for whoever these guys are to hit another freighter and hope we get there in time isn’t a viable strategy, ma’am.” Wright softened his expression. “Banu, you and I both know something else is going on here. Whatever it is—a larger criminal syndicate, megacorps, one of the alien empires taking advantage of the war, or the League—I promise you CIS has an entire team of people on it. We both know CIS and CDF don’t exactly play well together.”

“Well put.” I vowed never to speak to the odious Agent Grant again. “Okay, I’ll swallow my pride and send him a TS/SCI info dump on our situation.”

“Thank you, ma’am.” Wright closed his eyes for a minute. “Gah. I want some food and shuteye.”

“That sounds like a plan for me too. Join me in my mess? I’m sure the chef can whip something up. Sandwiches, at least.”

“Well, whatcha waiting for? Let’s get some grub.” Wright sprang from his chair.

Tehrani did as well and walked out the hatch first. She tried to clear her mind, but her headache didn’t seem to be going away. After we eat, I’m getting something from the doc shack.

Sokratis Papoutsis slowly sat down at his desk, which wasn’t just any desk. It was a trophy from an exceptionally well-off Galter whose ship he’d captured a few years earlier. The good old days, back when I did what I wanted when I wanted and hit the rich where they deserved it—in the keister. He stared at the tablet in front of him. It contained a list of their losses in the last twenty-four hours, all from combat against the Coalition Defense Force.

The hatch to his office swung open. “Boss, got a minute?”

“Come in, Parish,” Papoutsis growled. Ronald Parish was, in effect, his right hand man.

“The gunboat was a write-off, boss. Should probably scrap it and use what’s left for spare parts in the others.”

Papoutsis closed his eyes. “Our benefactor made clear continued support would only come from our successes.” Since debuting their new fleet, Papoutsis had been knocking off several freighters a week.

“There’s a difference between fighting cargo vessels with next to no weapons and military warships.” Parish’s voice sounded like a whine.

“I realize that, but our benefactor doesn’t. Our latest orders are to carry on our campaign as quickly as possible. The rare earth mineral–bearing ships must be eliminated.” Papoutsis had his suspicions about why—clearly, whoever was paying them wanted to hurt the Terran Coalition. The individual or, more likely, individuals behind the payments had taken extreme care to avoid leaving fingerprints. All contacts were done with cut-outs, with payments made via direct credit chip and completely untraceable.

Parish paused. “Normal payouts to the families of those killed?”

“Yeah.” Papoutsis narrowed his eyes. “What did you find out about the CDF vessel?”

“It’s a small escort carrier. No more fighters on it than we carry and less anti-ship weaponry. We could probably take her if we got them in the right place at the right time.”

“An ambush. It would have to be an ambush. If we were lucky, without the rest of their battlegroup.” They’d spotted several frigates operating around the region and engaged a destroyer. CDF vessels were tougher than anything they had, one on one.

“If you’d like, Boss, I can start working something up.”

Papoutsis nodded. “Yes. It's probably time to send an unmistakable message that we won’t be trifled with.” Even if it causes the accursed CDF to send more and larger vessels. He left off the overall plan to move out of the Jewel Box nebula area the moment they’d fulfilled the terms of their agreement to the mysterious benefactor who supplied them with credits, ships, and weapons. Papoutsis didn’t trust anyone with that knowledge.

“Got it, Boss. Anything else?”

“Did we recover any cargo pods off the Hadley?”

“Enough to make good on our losses but not much more.” Parish shrugged. “Don’t we get a bounty for sinking her, though?”

That was part of the agreement with their associates—bonus schedules for destroying ships based on tonnage along with extra payments for blowing up escape pods. Completely wiping out a vessel paid quite handsomely. Most of the time, Papoutsis tried to make a little bit more by scooping up some cargo pods. “Yes,” he replied icily. “Replace our losses, bring in some new blood, and get ready to hit another ship. We might try our hand at two at a time… see how the Terrans like that.”

“Yes, Boss.”

“Get out,” Papoutsis snarled and put his eyes back on the tablet. The hatch clanged shut, leaving him alone. There was a time when I held to the code. For as long as Papoutsis could remember, he’d dreamed of real success: being known as a privateer without peer. More than a few “freeports” in human neutral space were without large military fleets and, more importantly, free from interference from the major empires.

Something was missing, though, as he considered how far he’d come from humble beginnings on Aphendrika. Everyone is a hero in their own story. In Papoutsis’s own way, he’d wanted to be a hero that took from the rich and gave to the poor and downtrodden. When he got started, he’d sought out a ship from Cyrilgrad because it had