Steel Coyote

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Discover more Amara titles… Red Zone

  Breakout

  Escape Velocity

  Shifter Planet

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2019 by Beth Williamson. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.

  Entangled Publishing, LLC

  2614 South Timberline Road

  Suite 105, PMB 159

  Fort Collins, CO 80525

  rights@entangledpublishing.com

  Amara is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC.

  Edited by Robin Haseltine

  Cover design by Bree Archer

  Cover photography by Neostock

  Pobytov and Rastan/GettyImages

  freestyle images/Shutterstock

  ISBN 978-1-64063-840-2

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  First Edition July 2019

  Dear Reader,

  Thank you for supporting a small publisher! Entangled prides itself on bringing you the highest quality romance you’ve come to expect, and we couldn’t do it without your continued support. We love romance, and we hope this book leaves you with a smile on your face and joy in your heart.

  xoxo

  Liz Pelletier, Publisher

  To my grandmother, Betty, who spent her life writing and always encouraged me to do the same. Thanks for everything, Grandma. Miss you every day.

  Chapter One

  The quadrant was, for all intents and purposes, a galactic tug of war. Every planet, every moon, every outpost, every waystation, every speck of dust upon which a sentient being could live was claimed by either the Corporation or the Great Family.

  Neither was any more desirable than the other.

  The Corporation ruled through military force. The iron fist it wielded was fed by the wealthy and elite, those who had much and shared with no one. They stood on the backs of the people who paid taxes and tariffs to support the very military that kept them subdued and subjugated. Yet the same force that kept them in check also protected them. With the Corporation came order and regimen. Some thrived. Others rebelled and set off on their own to lawless moons and waystations of questionable reputation, living beneath the radar of the Corporation’s mighty military. They did not, however, escape notice from the Great Family.

  No one was sure how the Family came into power. Rumors swirled, but the Rasmussens were a tight-lipped group. They rewarded loyalty with rich trade routes and bountiful opportunities. The Great Family ruled with a velvet fist, strong but softer than the rigid military of the Corporation.

  Simple people who desired a simple existence flocked to the lure of seeming self-rule under the auspices of the Great Family. Remington Hawthorne was far from simple. She had to walk the tightrope in a quadrant where a battle raged every day. Gunnar, her late father, had warned her to steer completely clear of the Great Family, because only their rules existed in their domain.

  There was something to be said for taking control of one’s own fate, unless of course it was an illusion. When you floated between the two titans of the galaxy, one lived on the razor’s edge of one power or the other. It was a dangerous place to be.

  Remy’s boots pounded down the metal steps from the bridge and into the main hull of the ship. She had thirty minutes to get her ass to the Metalheads Bar on Station Twenty. No time to think over what she was about to do…she had to move, move, move like her life depended on it. A black sphere hovered above the thoroughfare but she tried not to glance at it, knowing it was the Corporation’s way of tracking everyone everywhere.

  Station Twenty was a lonely outpost on a small planet that had been terraformed, and a haven for all the ships that frequented the trade routes from one side to the other. The Steel Coyote could have called Twenty home for all the times it had been docked there. This time, they’d barely made it into port using the remaining fuel in the tanks. They needed this job and the money it brought in, or they wouldn’t be able to leave the outpost.

  Remy didn’t know Cooper, but she’d agreed to meet him on the space station on the outer rim of the quadrant. He’d insisted on a public place with multiple exits. It meant he wanted to use her to smuggle something, but she didn’t care. She didn’t have that luxury. The Steel Coyote needed cargo, and Remy was desperate enough to not ask questions.

  She’d done pretty well for herself at first, and then the last three months all their work had dried up. The usual jobs disappeared like wisps of smoke. Someone was sabotaging her, and she didn’t know who or why.

  Her heart beat a steady tattoo as she raced down the loading platform and onto the dock. Gunnar had taught her to smash those softer emotions beneath the surface. No matter what the situation, Remy kept her armor in place—even if she was terrified of failing. This job was too important. She swallowed the lump in her throat and turned right toward Metalheads.

  Nighttime was louder than a parade on Twenty. Hookers, hangers, and tweakers were everywhere, looking for whatever they could get. Remy ran past them all. These were the “have nots.” People who lived hand to mouth. The sad fact was the Corporation only helped those who fit into their mold of good citizens and swept out the refuse to the outer planets. The Great Family took ahold of that refuse and controlled it using any means necessary.

  It would take thirty minutes at a normal pace, and she wanted to be there at least five minutes early and make sure she got a drink down before the meeting. Hopefully there was some of that good bourbon, because she sure as hell needed a double. With only three of them left on the Steel Coyote, she didn’t want to call herself desperate, but she was. Since Gunnar died, things had gone from bad to worse, and now she was hanging on by her fingernails.

  Her father always used to say the universe was made of “haves” and “have nots.” The “haves” were the people who lived within the Corporation’s regime in pretty houses, with servants and anything credits could buy. Work was limited to choosing what to serve for their dinner party or what shoes to wear to the cotillion on a neighboring planet.

  The “have nots” lived within the Great Family’s regime, where people would fight, steal, or kill to survive. They didn’t have the luxury ships, interstellar travel, or even electricity the “haves” took for granted. The “have nots” grew their own food, hunted for meat, rode horses, and used wagons. They knew the value of bartering and never left their home world.

  Then there were those who drifted between the two. People like Gunnar and his crew of the Steel Coyote. A cargo ship that moved within the quadrant, delivering and picking up goods from the “haves” and “have nots.”

  Remy had learned how to maintain the delicate balance of existing between the two halves of the quadrant. She’d watched and discovered what it meant to fly through it all. She’d thought she knew everything she needed to.

  When Gunnar died, and Remy took over the ship, she’d assumed the crew would accept her as captain. They’d do what she wanted them to; it would be business as usual.

  She’d been wrong.

  Lucky for her, she had Katie. The engineer was her best friend, alb
eit a character in her own right. Then there was Foley, one of her father’s oldest friends who could barely do any chores, but his heart was bigger than the entire ship. They were a team of three against the universe.

  As she moved through Station Twenty, most folks let her by without a word. Her ponytail bobbed madly, slapping against her back as she walked the last five minutes to cool down. The near run had heated her up, which meant her face was flushed and sweat glistened on her pale skin. She hated the fact she resembled a tall glass of milk with big boobs and a wide ass, but she’d learned to use the height to her advantage and never back down.

  As she passed the handyman’s shed, a woman stepped forward from the shadows. She was tall, elegantly dressed on a station where most people sported layers of dirt. The woman wore a scarf over her head that covered her hair and most of her face. She held up one hand, and Remy spotted the purple crescent tattoo on the woman’s wrist.

  The Great Family.

  Icy tendrils of fear slid down her back. Her father had told her repeatedly to give the Great Family respect and stay out of their way. He’d known the matriarch, Victoria Rasmussen, when they were younger but never introduced her.

  Remy kept moving forward without responding. There would be no reason for them to seek out Remy. And if there was, she didn’t want to know about it—she had to focus on the here and now. Meeting Cooper and getting the job.

  She was taking a risk trying to make a sketchy deal with a sketchy man. The good thing about Metalheads was that it was a bar she’d been going into since she could sit on a stool. She knew the layout and the way out, not to mention Royal Chadwick, the crazy ex-pilot who owned the place.

  As Remy crossed the threshold into Metalheads, she straightened her shoulders and put her chin up. It was time to be the captain she knew she was.

  Max Fletcher saw the blonde walk into the bar and couldn’t help but stare. She was tall—really tall—with nice tits, a wide mouth, and a gun looking mighty comfortable on her hip. Her long-legged stride led her straight to the bar where she chatted with the hairy guy working there as if she knew him. They shook hands, and he reached beneath the bar to pour her something that looked like blue bourbon.

  Even more interesting. High-end booze for the lady.

  Who the hell was she?

  “How may I be of service?” The familiar voice of his Moral Compass interrupted his perusal of the very fine-looking lady.

  He growled at the foot-tall hologram of the man who appeared on the table. Most people thought him a fool for carrying around what amounted to a conscience, but he hadn’t had much in his life that was a constant. Except the Moral Compass. Saint was a pain in the ass, but Max had worn the device for more than ten years. A record in his life.

  “Fuck off. I’m just watching.”

  Saint’s eyes twinkled with amusement. “Of course you are.”

  Max swirled the shitty rotgut in his glass and watched as she downed the clear blue liquid in one quick motion. Lady knew how to drink, too. He was more than intrigued. There weren’t many women in Station Twenty like her. Hell, it had been a dog’s age since a woman had done much to spark an interest in him.

  Women on most of the planets were scrambling to get by and had no interest in doing anything but having a good fuck. Life was hard enough without pleasure where a man could grab it. He accommodated them, and they accommodated him.

  He was a lover, not a fighter.

  “Your vital signs reflect arousal.” Saint was always so helpful. “She does appear to be a strong female.”

  “She is.” Max couldn’t take his eyes off the woman at the bar.

  “You have an appointment to keep with the cruise ship company.” Saint thought it was his job to keep Max’s calendar and not just be his conscience. “You must not be late.”

  “I won’t be. For God’s sake, I need the paycheck. And stop sticking your nose in my business.”

  Saint shrugged. “I cannot change my programming.”

  After the bartender poured the blonde another drink, she nodded and finally turned to look around the bar. Metalheads was a dive in an outpost full of dives. It had dark spots, scarred metal tables, and dented chairs. Up the stairs were bedrooms of questionable use; Max had personally had a threesome up there a few years earlier.

  The one good thing he could say about the bar was that there were few fights. The hairy bartender, Royal, was big and ugly enough to keep the peace with the rough crowd who frequented Station Twenty. Max wasn’t a regular, but he’d been there on and off the last few years. He’d never seen the blonde before, though. He would have remembered her.

  “Do you know her?” Saint turned toward the woman.

  “Not yet.”

  She pointed to a table at the back of the bar, one near the tank of robotic jellyfish that floated aimlessly in green tinted water and fake plants. To get there, she had to walk past him. His dick jumped at the opportunity to see her up close—or as close as he was going to get. He didn’t fuck with armed women, especially one who looked like she could take care of herself. He wasn’t an idiot.

  But he was intrigued.

  “Evening, ma’am.” He tipped an imaginary hat.

  She didn’t even spare him a glance.

  He wasn’t insulted. She obviously hadn’t heard him. As she breezed past him, he tried again.

  “I said, good evening, ma’am.”

  “I heard you. Fuck off, mister.” She continued to one of the darkest corners of the room and sat down with barely a whisper of her booted feet.

  He told himself she didn’t want to talk. The woman obviously had something on her mind, and it wasn’t speaking to him.

  Max had an hour before he needed to be at the interview with Captain Ross. As the best pilot in the quadrant, he had no doubt he’d get the job. Confidence in his abilities wasn’t arrogance—it simply was.

  “Smooth.” Saint continued to be helpful.

  He poked his finger at the hologram’s chest. “I thought I told you to fuck off, too.” Max turned away and angled his chair to watch the woman. Curiosity niggled at him.

  A man as big as an asteroid walked out of the shadows and approached her table. Max sat up straighter and kept his ear tuned to the conversation.

  She got to her feet and pressed her palms together at the middle of her chest. “Blessings be upon you.” She utilized the formal, respectful address. Max was impressed.

  The big man pushed his own meaty hands together for less than a second. “And hale be thou. You Hawthorne?” The behemoth pulled a chair out with a loud scrape on the floor and lowered his bulk into the metal frame. It was a wonder it didn’t fold under the pressure.

  “Captain Hawthorne.” She sounded hard, without an inch of femininity. “And you’re Cooper.”

  “A’course I am. I got a job to get done. I heard tell you’re looking to get hired.”

  She nodded. “You heard right.”

  “This ain’t a job for a captain like you. You done maybe ten jobs?” He snorted. “I ain’t hiring you.”

  A pregnant pause. “Why not?”

  “I only showed up because I knew Gunnar and respected the man. That’s the only reason I’m here now. I don’t know you, and I don’t trust you. I sure as hell ain’t trusting a ship with a small crew of three that includes an old man who can’t even find his dick with both hands.” The stranger pulled out a silver cigarillo and snapped the end to light it. The tip glowed blue in the shadows as he puffed on it. “You ain’t got enough experience.”

  “My crew is capable of transporting any cargo. It shouldn’t matter if there are only three of us. We’ve delivered every cargo successfully since I took over the ship. If you’ve investigated me, you already know that.” She sounded tough, but Max heard something beneath the words—anger and what might be desperation.

  “It does to me. I don’t trust no one without a record as a ship’s captain. And you ain’t got one.”

  “That’s bullshit. I’ve been ru
nning cargo since I was a babe, by myself since Gunnar died. I’ve never lost a load, and I’ve never missed a deadline.” She kept her voice steady although he could hear the frustration.

  “It ain’t enough.”

  “You were ready to make a deal when we talked on the comm a couple days ago. What changed?”

  The big man shrugged. “I ain’t gotta tell you nothin’. If I don’t wanna hire you, then I don’t.”

  The silence stretched on. Max told himself to mind his own business, to leave the girl alone. Her business was hers to mind, not his.

  “What can I do to convince you?” She spoke low and tight, her words clipped. Max hoped she wasn’t going to offer herself to get the job.

  “Not a damn thing.” The chair squealed as he pushed himself back.

  “Do not interfere,” Saint spoke softly.

  Ignoring his conscience, Max was on his feet before he could talk himself out of doing something stupid. Saint disappeared, and he was on his own. It was too late to reconsider his impulse. He’d decided without thinking, and he was quite good at that. Those decisions usually involved a woman.

  “Well met, good sir, good lady.” He swaggered over to the table, hiding his surprise at the sheer size of Cooper up close. How had the man even fit through the door? “You were right, Hawthorne.”

  “Who the hell are you?” The big man’s brows slammed together.

  “I’m her new pilot, Max Fletcher. She wanted to get your business without pulling me into it.” He winked at her, ignoring the angry flush in her cheeks and sheer murder in her eyes.

  The man scowled harder. “I heard of you. Ain’t you the one they found banging a girl while you docked a ship?”

  Max maintained a smile although he could feel the burn of the woman’s disapproving gaze, not to mention Saint’s invisible censure, even if he was safely tucked away at the moment. “That’s me.”

  “I heard you crashed into the docking clamps.”

  Max shrugged. “Barely dinged the hull. Banged it out with a hammer and a couple welds.” His reputation had been exaggerated to epic proportions. No need for his ladyship owner to know the real truth.