“I’m Hunter Caine.
Treasure Hunter. Soldier of Fortune. Smuggler.
I’m kind of a bad bitch, you might say.
I do what the chicken-shit Corporation, or the Holier-than-thou Collective are afraid to do.
What they don’t want to do.
And I do it anywhere.
When stuff gets ugly, and things need doin’, I get it done.
I don’t play favorites. Strictly Freelance.
But, I do it all.
And more.
You want something done? Something dirty? Something dangerous? Something distasteful?
Call Hunter. You got the cash. I got the flash.”
CHAPTER ONE
Shamblers
A form lurched out of the foggy darkness, a black and deformed body illuminated by Planet #17’s weird green moon behind it. It swayed first left, then right, each step little more than a mindless flailing of limbs. Its arms draped at its side, hands twitching and shaking. An eerie moan slid out of its hidden face.
It was too dark to tell what in the hell it was—other than human.
Well, maybe human. Maybe native.
Why in hell does this shit always happen to me?
I’d spent two days driving around this shit-hole planet looking for the hidden lab of some dude named Professor Zorsky (I took to calling him Doctor Z), before I found this crummy road. I’d spent the prior two days seeking information on the same, paying off the local gangsters for intel, holding up nasty informants at blade point, even fornicating with one loathsome three-armed guy, feeling the entire time like someone was stalking me.
And here I was.
Almost to the target, and this shit happens. Basic damn job, I’d thought. No fighting monsters or mercenaries or government men. No killing.
A thousand easy damn chits.
Yeah right.
Just when payday is right down the road, this freaky shit wanders out of the swamp. Figures. Just my damn luck.
I stepped from the old Willy’s hover jeep that I’d acquired (through nefarious channels, I might add) back in New Cape Town, and side-straddled away, sliding my Colt particle automatic from its holster on my hip. If whatever-the-shit it was decided to fight, I didn’t want any harm coming to the sexy blonde in the passenger seat. No way. That was prime tail.
And flush with Corporation cash.
I remember meeting her at the Palace Saloon in Perdition outside New Bisbee, on the edge of the Frontier. She had a job. Looking for help. She flashed her creds. I harrumphed and she laid out the story of her kidnapped scientist—taken by the damn Collectivists for some unseemly reason, no doubt. I don’t do politics. But I do cold cash. And I do blue eyes and a pretty smile.
Now, I’m no homecoming queen type, but I am stone-cold sexy, I don’t mind sayin’. The girls and boys get a bit of a rush from my hard body, tats, wicked grin and crazy dreads. Still, despite my hot-itude, I’m weak in the knees for the baby blues.
So, I took the job. Didn’t ask a single damn question, other than who, where, what, when. Didn’t care about the why. That was for more noble folks.
