When Luck Is Not Enough - Second Edition: Paladin Shadows, #2

By Aidan Red

Shara's sanctuary, her home, the valley, was suddenly flooded with fear and anxiety. The rumors and innuendoes about her friends and then herself quickly became terrifyingly physical, personal, and she knew that to survive when the slavers came after her, she would need more than luck.

 

The voices and the night and day-mares stole Shara's thoughts as if at the whimsy of some dark deity. She struggled with dark truths placed before her to make her judge, to color her biases and to change her alliances, yet somehow, from somewhere she dug down and grabbed the strength she needed to take the next step, to defy what she was shown, to seek and prove what she knew.

The dark world around her threatened to swallow her up, throwing her another curve; attacked by four men sent to drag her into the rituals and ownership of the slave traders, their mission was barely thwarted by an etherial sameritan. Then her hopes were again dashed; her friend Greg disappeared in the fiery wreck of her sports car.

With her best friend Jill's help, Shara pulled herself up out of her dispair and prayed for enough luck to confront the darkness and to find the real truth behind the missing people, the rumors of slave traders, of Greg's mysterious past and of things called Shadows. But Shara's luck would not be enough for the truth that awaited.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Red's Ink and Quill
• Release date: Oct 26, 2021
• ISBN: 9781946039538

Book preview

WHEN LUCK IS NOT ENOUGH

Terran Assignment Part 2

Second Edition

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PALADIN SHADOWS SERIES, BOOK 2

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A Novel by Aidan Red

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Copyright

Paladin Shadows Series Book 2:

Terran Assignment Part 2, When luck is not enough...

Second Edition

Copyright © 2021 by Aidan Red

All Rights Reserved

Second Edition Release Date 10/04/21

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This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form without permission from the publisher.

This novel is a work of fiction. The characters, names, incidents, dialogue, locations, events and plots are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance of characters to actual persons, alive or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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Published by Red’s Ink and Quill, Wichita, KS

For information on other works by Aidan Red, Science Fiction and Fiction, published or forthcoming, visit RedsInkandQuill.com or AidanRedBooks.com

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Softcover ISBN: 978-1-946039-54-5

eBook ISBN: 978-1-946039-53-8

✦

My many thanks to my

Second Edition editors:

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Content Editing by Trenda London,

http://ItsYourStoryContentEditing.com

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Copy Editing by Amy Jackson,

Copy Editing and Proof Reading, http://AmyJacksonEditing.com

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Cover by

Aidan Red

WHEN LUCK IS NOT ENOUGH...

The voices and the night- and day-mares stole Shara’s thoughts as if at the whimsy of some dark deity. She struggled with dark truths placed before her to make her judge, to color her biases and to change her alliances, yet somehow, from somewhere, she dug down and grabbed the strength she needed to take the next step, to defy what she was shown, and to seek and prove what she knew to be true in her heart.

The dark world around her threatened to swallow her up, throwing her one curve after another. Then her hopes were again dashed; her friend Greg disappeared in the fiery wreck of her sports car. But she pulled herself up out of her despair and prayed for enough luck to confront the darkness, and to find the real truth behind the missing people, of Greg’s mysterious past, and of the mysterious kidnappings. But Shara’s luck was not enough for the truth that awaited.

Contents

Prologue

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Glossary

Preview

Books by Aidan Red

About the Author

Prologue

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When Sheriff Black came to the college administration building, unsuccessfully looking for information on Greg Malone, he remembered that Greg had been seen with Shara Smallwood. Without success with the enrollment office, he sought out Shara in the data entry office, but having been warned of his coming by hearing his loud, colorful demands, she quietly eluded him, quickly slipping out through a side door.

Bracing the crisp evening air and finding security in the early darkness, Shara took a circuitous route to the college parking lot and her coupe, hoping to avoid any deputies that might have come with the sheriff and be lurking in the area, watching for her. Rounding the next building south, she paused behind a large tree as two patrol cars cruised past on Cleary.

Damn! she cursed. The articles Jill found concerning Greg in Pitcarthy were suddenly very personal.

She hurried around the student union, then north past the library to the north side parking lot on Cedar, thankful now that someone had rudely taken her assigned spot in front of the admin building and forced her to park elsewhere. Beside her sports car, she stopped and quickly glanced around, praying no one saw her.

Backing out, she realized her red coupe was much too visible when she needed to hide. Her sense of security faltered, shifting from apprehensive to frightened.

She drove up Ester Street, and past the hospital to River. Okay, Greg, wherever you are, we’re going to have a talk. I’ve had about all of this I can take, and you’re going to tell me what’s going on! I’m going to find you and make you talk. She smiled. If anyone can live in a town for a couple of months and no one knows where, it has to be you, Greg Malone. But I’ll bet I see you first.

Crossing Main Street at the north bridge, she parked behind the Stop ’n Shop, in the deep shadows of the alley. Hoping the coupe would go unnoticed, she set out on foot, west along River Street.

After a few blocks, she turned onto Julia, a well-lit residential street, and walked south for many more, pausing briefly at each corner. There were more blocks than she remembered, but finally she recognized the corner at Maple where Haze angled off to the southwest. She followed Haze across Fisher’s Creek and into the darker, nearly forgotten edge of town.

Concerned that someone could be following her, she stepped into the darkness beside a row of shrubbery next to an old garage and waited. Distant voices drifted on the cold evening breeze, but no one came.

She waited longer, and when still no one came, she cautiously stepped out and walked slowly to the corner on the nondescript street before the river; even the street sign pole lacked street names. Checking again for signs of followers and seeing none, she put on a casual air and strolled slowly across to the river side of the street. She tried to be inconspicuous as she meandered down the uneven sidewalk. When she stopped at the mouth of the driveway in front of the detached garage, she felt a rightness in the air and stepped into the shadows.

The apartment above it was dark, and nothing indicated that he was home. Quietly, she climbed the stairs and tried the knob. It resisted, locked.

With the flick of a plastic bank card, she tripped the old-style latch bolt on the second try and let herself into the dark room beyond. Her eyes quickly adjusted and she found herself in a sparsely furnished living room with sashed windows at the front and at the back. She gently separated the blinds on the front window and checked the street. A strong sense of anxiety swept over her, an urgency that frightened her, but she resisted the desire to flee. Sheriff Black’s visit to the college was more than enough to make anyone nervous, especially now.

She released the blinds and faced the dim room; a single small floor lamp in the far corner was illuminated. Noting the single couch, the end table with a lamp, and the small desk along the outside wall, she stumbled as a sudden dizziness swept over her and the memories flooded her mind, voices in the darkness, Greg walking into Hap’s, Meg and their lunchtime conversation. Meg mentioned something about a Brent.

Who’s Brent, anyway? she asked no one, mulling over the question in her mind. Brent? That name’s familiar. Brent? Bret? Bren? That’s it. Bren-something. What’d you call me? A Bren... BrenCara! Yes, Bren! But do I know what he thinks I know? Meg said Bren knew who he had his eye on, but I’m not sure she really knows. Then, thinking about the nights they had spent together, she thought, Maybe I do at that. Suddenly, she realized this was his way of saying he knew, or at least hoped, she would ask. He had left this cryptic message after she told him she knew about the articles. He knew that she would figure it out.

But that’s not the mystery. There’s something else Meg said I was supposed to know, but it hasn’t come to me yet.

Her hand brushed a loose pile of sheets stacked near the corner of the desk, and straightening the pile in the dim light, she noticed they were pictures. Debating briefly, she switched on the desk lamp and lowered its hood close to the desk, shielding the light it cast into the room. She picked up the first sheet, its material strangely thin and oily in texture.

Beneath the glossy finish were images of people, some sitting, some standing, and some simple portraits. She studied them closely. There were a few duplicates of the persons, but in different poses. She counted seventeen different individuals in all.

As she restacked the sheets, one image caught her eye and she turned it under the light. Puzzled that he would have a picture of Nick’s cousin, she glanced at the size of the stack and wondered why he was collecting pictures of all these people.

Shara shuffled through the images again and found another one she vaguely recognized, and turned the sheet over. Scribbled in a hurried hand were the person’s name, a date, and a location. She checked another. The notation for Nick’s cousin was near the Jordans’ ranch, while the first was near Clay.

Rummaging deeper, she saw a third, a name from the list she had made in her library research, another of the missing persons. She stared at the stack! Nick’s cousin is missing. They are all missing. She questioned why he would have a file listing them, and suddenly a cold foreboding shook her.

Damn you, Greg Malone! Are you connected with these disappearances? Or...are you why they’re disappearing? Cold fingers of fear gripped her shoulders again. She picked up the images and checked the drawers. If you want these back, you’ll have to come to me to get them. Then maybe I can get some answers.

‘I don’t see her,’ a man’s voice said, and she jumped.

He sounded like he was standing next to her, but there was no one else in the room. She was sure no one had slipped in, but the voice sounded so close—God? What’s happening to me?

‘Me either,’ another disembodied voice said, and her panic grew. ‘Try farther down.’

Her stomach knotted and she heard the crunch of a car slowly passing down the street and its sounds fading away. Suddenly, remembering the stadium, she felt too long in one place, the wrong place, but realized everywhere was the wrong place.

She pulled a wrinkled piece of paper from her pocket, flattened it the best she could, and jotted a quick note, hoping he would see it—and if not, that it was cryptic enough that if someone else saw it first they would not understand. In a rush, she switched off the lamp, picked up her bundle, and hurried to the door. Peeking out and seeing no one, she hurried onto the landing and dashed down the stairs

Fourteen

Friday, October 7

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Dr. James Holiday was Chief of the SS QuickSilver Computer Systems Section and the lead engineer in developing the S ⁴ computer systems for the space station. Called planet-side early in the week to review the imagery data from the QuickSilver Events, as they had been nicknamed, he was glad to be away from the strains of the job and to be finally starting a long-awaited and desperately needed vacation. Over the years he had poured all his energies, his heart and his soul, into the development of QuickSilver’s systems. But slowly, the mounting opposition from the public, and now Congress, were taking their toll. He was wearying, tired of the continual arguing, defending, explaining and re-explaining. It ate away at his enthusiasm.

The whole kettle seemed to have tipped up on edge, dividing the diverse specialists in all walks and disciplines over who had done what to whom. No one knew and no one wanted to admit that they did not know, but something strange and beyond their control had taken hold of QuickSilver and the Space program like a dog shaking a rag.

He thought about General Hilston’s debriefing and how, understandably, the general had not wanted to perpetuate the unsettling truth that there were other, technologically superior beings and cultures in the nearby universe. Everyone had been uneasy since the explosion occurred, but he was completely unprepared for the message fragments Lieutenant Woods had shown him, his professional thirst instantly tantalized. The physical interception of a portion of someone else’s messages was exciting enough, but when Captain Roberts and Lieutenant Woods had taken him into that private meeting and shown him those impossible images of the freighter that nearly collided with the space station, he was reduced to an awestruck child. Though the reality of the situation had previously nibbled at the edges of his senses, he had to admit that he and Baker’s suppositions had not even been close.

Ignoring the fact that if the events had been shifted by a mere second, the station and the freighter could have been reduced to an instantaneous cloud of dust and debris, seeing an actual image of something made on another world was beyond unbelievable. And that something was a sophisticated cargo-hauling vessel, obviously manufactured to ply the vastness of space, carrying items and supplies from one market to another.

It was also staggering to realize that there were people, cultures, markets out there needing shipments of materials and supplies, and his mind quickly wondered how widespread were these markets and who managed them, who... The questions were suddenly numerous and extremely daunting. He shook his head and focused on the dark road ahead.

The rich pine forest along the winding state highway whizzed by and reminded him of another time he had felt awestruck, enchanted. That was the first time he had visited this valley, nearly ten years past, on a hunting and fishing trip. Coming had changed his life completely.

He and the others in his group had spent most of two weeks hiking, hunting, and lake fishing, and on that trip he had become irreversibly addicted to the country and its invigorating tonic. He chuckled, remembering how surprised everyone had been when they found out that he had returned home, worked out the details, and bought a twenty-acre chunk of the western valley. They were envious to the man.

The road narrowed, demanding his attention as it rose up out of the forest and snaked south through a mountainous barrier. A highway sign announcing Clay, twenty miles ahead, flashed past the window. A quick calculation and he estimated he would reach his cabin, another fifteen miles up in the foothills west of Clay, before nine that evening. He was anxious, looking forward to a quiet night without the steady thrumming of the station beneath his feet, a quiet night to relax and absorb the implications of those tantalizing images.

The lights of Clay burst into view as he crested the last pass and started down into the valley from the north. It was a small town with roots in the tourist trade, starting with the fishing and lake sports in the summer and limited skiing in the winter. But with the wilderness conservation came restrictions on the surrounding areas, and Clay’s growth had suddenly seen its peak. Its main livelihood shifted, focusing more on the small-shop products it could export and less on tourists. Wood and natural stone products were sought-after commodities and Clay had developed a solid mail-order clientele.

He liked the citified look of small-town Clay. It had grown sufficiently to support a real shopping mall and numerous restaurants, in spite of the changes. Even the small-town newspaper had grown to a reputable rag with wire-service networking, international news exclusives, and a multi-state circulation.

And the town was still young, James reminded himself, recalling that if he had purchased ten years earlier than he did, he would not have been able to stock his cabin without driving to one of the other two towns in the valley. He figured the half-hour drive into town was quite acceptable.

He enjoyed the last part of the drive out to his cabin the most. The light traffic on the state highway from Riggin was a Los Angeles traffic jam compared to the virtually nonexistent traffic on the county road west from town.

He turned north at a narrow, almost neglected lane leading into the trees. The skewed mailbox beside the overgrown pathway gave the only indication that his cabin was nearby. Eagerly, he followed the familiar, rain-washed ruts for nearly a mile before the road widened in front of a rustic stone cabin. In his headlights, the wide-railed veranda greeted him, a warm smile under the ball-cap visor of the long, sloping roof. He was rejoining a close friend after a long absence.

Parking at the end of the veranda, he switched the truck off and stepped out. The evening chill was light, but he slipped his jacket on and paused, inhaling the peaceful scent, regaling in the quiet solitude.

With a sigh, he forced himself back to reality. He had not been out to the cabin since late spring, and he knew there were things to be done before he could unpack and relax. He recalled the informal routine, grabbed his suitcase and a flashlight. He had to be sure everything was in order inside before he connected the electrical power at the meter and turned on the well and well house heater. By the time he unloaded his truck and set wood in for a fire, the water would be hot and he could take a leisurely bath before retiring. With a good night’s sleep behind him, he figured he could get an early start at some real serious relaxing.

Suitcase in one hand, flashlight tucked under his other arm, he fumbled with the key and unlocked the front door. He kicked the door closed behind him and moved through the cluster of furniture in the living room, playing the light ahead as he went.

Suddenly, strong hands grabbed him from behind, pinning his arms behind his back. The suitcase fell with a thud and the light went out with the tinkle of broken glass. He kicked and twisted, but the grip tightened and stretched him upright. He heard himself shouting.

Something moved in front of him and he kicked. A hand jerked his ankle aside and other hands squeezed his arms and held him off balance. He could not move; his mind raced, but could not focus. His shouts continued. Why don’t you answer? What do you want?

Another shadowy figure stopped in front of him and dropped a hood over his head, pulled the cinch tight around his neck. The click of a lock echoed in his ears as someone shoved him to the floor and pinned him facedown. His hands were jerked together and painfully bound.

When they released him, he waited, dazed and unsure. The longer he thought, the angrier he got. He rolled over and sat up, but he could not get to his feet. He tried fruitlessly, finally realizing that if he did, he still could not get away.

Fighting to control his anger and defiance, he listened. He hoped to hear something, to hear how many of them there were, where they might be. He yelled at them, demanding they say something, but only continued silence answered.

They let him squirm and shout, spending himself in futility until a vehicle drove up and stopped in front of the cabin. Someone jerked him upright and gruffly pushed him through the door, where he stumbled onto the veranda and down the stone steps. His shins scraped the sharp-edged steel bumper as they shoved him into the back of a utility vehicle and he fell onto the cold, bare metal floor.

He counted six as his captors entered the vehicle and settled around him. The engine revved and the door slammed shut.

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Saturday, October 8

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So! Circuit Judge Bernice Reeds stared at the white-haired Elder. What do you think of your plan now, Harry? She did not lose her job. Her stare pinned each of the four Elders as she sat, her heavy form semi-reclined in the Victorian Fireside Lounge chair, waiting for his response. She is no more obligated to choose now than she was before.

"Her situation gets worse by the day, even if