Page 113 of Escape Velocity

“Because I’m going to climb a nearby tree.”

“A suicide mission if he sees you,” the security chief said.

“He won’t, because you’ll keep him busy.”

Dubois looked like he was about to object. Then he took in the determination on Max’s face and shrugged. “It’s your funeral.”

“I hope not.” He held out his hand to Allan. “Give me the dog’s lead.”

Allan handed it over, and Max stuffed it into his pocket. Turning to Paul, he said, “Let’s go.”

The young man started off through the underbrush, moving stealthily and staying low. Max followed closely behind, slithering along, feeling mud and brambles tug at his clothing.

As directed, the rest of the team sporadically shot at the fugitive’s high refuge—and he returned the fire.

Max and Paul wormed their way along the boggy ground, sometimes having to backtrack to avoid a deep pool of water. Max wondered if they would ever get to the right tree. But finally, Paul pointed. “He’s in there.”

Max studied the tight-limbed broad-leafed specimen and the one next to it—the one LaTour had initially climbed. Both were sturdy, with many limbs that would provide hand- and footholds. If Max could keep the trunk between him and LaTour, he’d be protected. And hopefully, the other men would keep the bastard too busy to realize anyone was sneaking up on him.

“I’ll wait for you to move to the other side,” Max told Paul. “When you get there, start shooting. You and the others have to keep him occupied while I climb.”

As the young man slithered off, Max made sure his weapon would not discharge until he was ready. Then he took the rope from his pocket, tied the beamer up with several knots, and then hung the weapon around his neck like a huge obscene bauble.

With his preparations completed, all he could do was wait until the right time to make his move.

As the rest of the men continued to fire from time to time, he saw Paul belly crawling in a circle to the other side of the tree, his progress agonizingly slow.

Max lost sight of him in a clump of tall grass. Then the man began firing, signaling that he was in position.

As the beamer buzzed, Max dashed for the adjacent tree. The dog began to bark, and the other men started shooting, laying down more fire.

Bernard trotted over to Max. “Good boy,” he said, scratching the hound’s head as he looked up into the foliage. “Do me a big favor and don’t bark now.”

Hoping the dog would not alert LaTour, Max stretched up to reach for the lowest branch on the tree opposite the fugitive’s perch and swung himself up, half expecting an energy bolt to hit him while he dangled in the air. He scrambled onto the horizontal surface, using the trunk for as much of a shield as he could while he reached for the next handhold. Once again, he made it to the next level.

Looking up, he tried to calculate how long it would take. But that depended on too many variables. And as he repeated the process, he couldn’t help thinking that when he got to the top, he might find LaTour staring at him, weapon in hand.

Maybe Dubois was right. Maybe this was a suicide mission. But if he couldn’t take the spy down, then he could never go back to Amber.

That thought slammed into his chest like a piece of space junk whizzing through the void. He hadn’t put this mission in terms so stark before, but he knew the notion had been in the back of his mind all along. How could he face her when he’d let her down so badly?

She might not see it that way, but he did.

As he climbed, he played through his memories of her—starting with the first time he’d laid eyes on her with her face deliberately hidden by a rough hood. Then he saw himself discovering her beauty as they sat in the ship’s control room. Their first meal together. Making love for the first time. Her beguiling him and then the swamp rats with her singing. But the image that stabbed into him was himself chained to the wall—helpless—while Tudor held her in an obscene embrace, enjoying his power over his captives as his hands caressed Amber’s body.

Max was unable to banish that sick image. Gritting his teeth, he kept hoisting himself upward. One way or the other, he was going to wipe that terrible defeat from his mind.

He looked across at the next tree and finally saw LaTour. The traitor was busy shooting back at the men on the ground—men who had been his friends until today. No longer. All of them knew he had been a poison snake in their midst. And if he escaped, he might be the death of every man, woman and child in their kin group.

The Inheritors were putting on a coordinated attack, continually moving, making the bastard twist this way and that to get a shot at any of them. The man’s energy bursts were definitely getting weaker now. Obviously, he didn’t have a full charge. Or was that Max’s wishful thinking?

Finally, he reached the platform where LaTour had originally been standing. It was a nice steady perch, well-constructed from rough logs lashed together with vines.

As Max stood up, he noted that he was almost as close to LaTour as they had been the other morning—when the bastard had burst into the house in the swamp with a bunch of men who surrounded him and Rafe.

He grimaced. Another painful memory he wanted to forget.

Then the traitor had been confident that he could make his friends think Max, Amber, and Rafe had come to the camp as spies. Now Max could see the sweat beading the back of the man’s neck as he twisted to peer through the leaves, trying to get a clear shot at the attackers on the ground.

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