Strength and Honor Read Free

Gypsy.
    “Good bet,” Farragut agreed. “He’ll hear me coming. But that’s okay. He likes to pretend I don’t exist.”
    Augustus never stood up when the captain entered his compartment. Most times Augustus did not even bother to look at him at all.
    “I’ll be right back.” Farragut moved out fast. He did not try to soften his footsteps. He needed to sound normal.
    This task had to be done. He saw the wisdom and necessity of it. And he knew how to kill—and not just at a distance. Farragut had beheaded the Roman Captain Sejanus on the command deck of his own ship with a sword. He knew how to do this.
    This was just another Roman.
    The most abrasive, off-pissing, caustic, sadistic son of a Roman bitch he had ever known. The most loyal. With a courage beyond question. He was having a son of a hard time with this one. Farragut would get only one shot, if that. He would not be able to say anything. No regrets. No good-bye. He could not even look him in the eyes. Augustus could read Farragut’s eyes. And Augustus was extremely fast.
    No one outdraws a patterner. Just shoot him. A shot in the back if Augustus’ back presented first. A prickle like fear stung his mouth. He tried to blank out his thoughts. Stop thinking and just move.
    Sounds of his ship around him were all normal. Booted footsteps on eight decks. Voices through thin partitions— fewer voices at this hour of the mid watch. The steady low hum of six mammoth engines. The sharp thunk of rubber balls in the squash court. Air rushing in the vents. Water moving through conduits. Hiss of hydraulics. Clicking of a dog that needed its nails cut.
    His ship was an industrial beauty. Spare. Utilitarian. Thin partitions were only in place to keep things from passing compartment to compartment. Any equipment that might be tucked within walls on a passenger ship— conduits, pipes, struts—was all on view here. There were no ceilings, only the undersides of the upper decks along with more of the ship’s inner workings clustered up there in the overhead. You could see what this ship was made of. Except for things dangerous, secret, private, or requiring heavy containment, Merrimack was right there for you to see.
    Farragut slid down the ladder to the corridor that accessed the torpedo rack room. At six foot eight in height, Augustus was difficult to billet. A torpedo rack was the only place he could fit horizontally.
    Farragut made a conscious effort not to slow his stride. He wondered if Augustus could read deadly intent in a man’s footsteps.
    He hoped Augustus would not look when the hatch opened. He couldn’t remember a time when Augustus ever did look. Augustus’ pattern of disdain for Farragut’s authority would serve now.
    The patterner slept most of the day and all the mid watch. There was a good chance Farragut would catch him sleeping. He was probably going to murder Augustus in his rack.
    Farragut kept his right hand in his pocket, gripping the sidearm.
    Don’t even show the piece, he decided. Just point and shoot through his pocket. The interior space beyond the hatch was tight. The instant that hatch opened, Farragut would be very close to his target. Point-blank, in fact.
    His throat tightened up as he neared the hatch. He fought off the personal reaction. To hell with it.
    Big breath. Hold it.
    His left arm was supposed to be reaching to pull the hatch open, but he suddenly could not move it. He hadn’t heard a thing. Two invincible, cable-reinforced arms had locked around him from behind, pinning his left arm across his chest, his right arm locked against his side. A large hand closed over Farragut’s right hand, the one gripping the sidearm inside his pocket.
    Squeezed.
    The weapon discharged.
    The bullet lodged in Farragut’s deck boot. The head did not detonate.
    The shot itself had made barely a pop. No one was going to come running to investigate.
    The rough cheek pressing hard against Farragut’s temple pushed his head to an unnatural