Lanyon For Hire: No job is too tough to solve, no matter how many people get hurt.
They say most murders occur within families. Lanyon finds out how true that is as he steps into three family feuds that turn deadly quickly.
Lanyon awoke in the dark, flat on his back. A wave of panic rippled through him as he gathered his wits and recalled the night before. When his eyes adjusted to the surroundings, the darkness, as well as his alarm, receded, but not by much. A thin shaft of cold, white light leaked under the door of the windowless shack where the Malcosians had left him. Both small moons of Malcosia punctuated the night sky, one full, the other nearly so, and provided the meager illumination.
When he rolled onto his side, his right hip, stung by a burst of energy from a Malcosian pistol, barked in pain. He ran his hand along his belt. His rator was gone. He hoped the Malcosians hadn’t found the other rator hidden in his right boot heel or the pocketmailer in his left book heel. If they’d taken those…
He inhaled deeply to test the tenderness of his side. Annoying, but manageable. He struggled to his knees and then to his feet. After bouncing a few times to test his balance and his hip, Lanyon checked the door. Locked, of course. He felt for the two Argonian weapons—thin, blue tubes which spat hot energy—which he kept in specially designed leather sheaths on the back of his boots. Gone. The rator he hoped was still in his boot heel could not blast through the locked door. Rators affected only living flesh, and not in a good way.
He went to a knee and twisted the heel of his right boot. Relieved, he extracted his rator and set it to low stun—enough energy to render a person unconscious for an hour. Then he groped his way to the back wall of the shack. His right hip throbbed, so he sat and positioned himself to alleviate the ache. With his rator nestled in the palm of his right hand, he needed only to be patient.
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