Hunt the Heavens: Book Two of the Shadow Warrior Trilogy Read Free

touched the trigger stud, and the gun bucked. The bolt took the gunman in the side, and he screamed, clawed at himself, and sagged, body slipping bonelessly down the stairs.
    The room was screams and motion. Cormac was beside him, his own pistol out.
    Wolfe glanced at the woman, saw dead, surprised eyes, and looked away. He went across the room, paying no attention to the hubbub, and kicked the gunman’s body over.
    He was young, no older than the woman his bad aim had killed, sallow-faced, with the wisp of a beginning goatee. Paying no mind to the blood pouring from the hole in the gunman’s side, Wolfe quickly and expertly patted the body down.
    He found no identification, but from an inner pocket took out a piece of paper that had been folded and refolded until its creases were about to wear through. He unfolded it.
    WANTED
    Joshua Wolfe …
    He passed the paper to Cormac, who scanned it. “Somebody missed the part about alive, alive-o,” the shipyard owner said. “It appears,” he went on in a near whisper, “I didn’t scrub that file as clean as I thought I had. Or else word’s gotten offplanet about you being here.”
    The room was deadly silent.
    Wolfe
felt
no threat, and his gun vanished. A moment later, a woman laughed shrilly, tightly, and the volume went back up again.
    “Let’s go,” Cormac said. “I’ll fix the local heat when we’re back at my grounds.”
    Wolfe nodded, and they moved quickly toward the exit. Wolfe opened the door for his friend, who went out and flattened against the wall. The corridor was empty.
    Joshua followed him.
    “I guess,” he said, “maybe we
do
need to talk about some … further alterations.”
    • • •
    Joshua Wolfe’s face filled all three of the large screens. He sat in a chair in the middle of them, his expression blank.
    “Are you feeling anything?”
    “No.”
    There was a hissing, and the screens clouded as gas sprayed out around Wolfe. His face turned frosty white. After a few moments, it began swelling, turning red, as if he were being systematically hammered by invisible fists.
    The other man in the white room moved away from his console and walked to Joshua’s chair. He was big, imposing, and might, years earlier, before the muscle softened, have played some kind of a contact sport. He’d said he wished to be known as Brekmaker.
    He walked around Joshua, stroking his chin, his eyes intent. Wolfe lay motionless in the chair, as he’d been ordered, but his eyes followed the man.
    “Are you experiencing much discomfort?”
    Joshua’s eyes were no more than slits as the skin puffed up around them. “Not … that much.”
    “Good. In a few moments we shall proceed. This,” Brekmaker went on, “is an interesting challenge. You certainly have a … lived-in face, my friend. Yes, I suppose that’s how I’d put it.” His tone suggested he wasn’t used to anyone contradicting his observations.
    “Now, if we had enough time, of course we could build you an entirely new face, from the bones out. Turn you into a chubby, happy-go-lucky sort. Then we could take some bone, maybe an inch or so, out of your lower legs, shorten you.
    “Do some chemical alterations of your digestive system, and poof, after a few months and a thousand meals, you’d have the body to match your face. Rolo-polo, the grinning fat boy.
    “I’ve always wanted to do a perfect job such as that,” the man went on. “But I’ve never had the time … or rather my clients haven’t. Nor have they properly understood my intent.
    “No, they all say they want to be different, but they seldom mean it. You can talk if you want to.”
    Wolfe remained silent.
    “So what I intend to do,” Brekmaker went on, without waiting more than a moment, “is to make you into the impossible man to your friends and enemies. First we’ll remove all your facial scars and marks, especially that one near your mouth. Fortunately, it’s not a keloid, so removal will be quite simple.
    “In the