Galactic Bounty Read Online Free Page B

laughed. "Why Sam, considering your vast wealth of personal charm, I must admit I'm surprised. Old, ah, clients perhaps?"
    McCade regarded the naval officer soberly and shook his head. "I don't think so. It takes a big bankroll to swing a level three . . . especially in the middle of a naval base. If I'd offended somebody with that kind of clout, I'd remember. No, I think it's something else, maybe connected to this Bridger thing."
    Swanson-Pierce nodded in agreement. "Our people are looking into that possibility at this very moment. It's too bad all three assassins were killed. It would have been interesting to talk with one of them." He frowned at McCade disapprovingly.
    "Yeah, that was too bad. I'll keep it in mind next time," McCade replied dryly.
    Swanson-Pierce shook his head in mock concern. "Sam, what'll I do with you?"
    "Let me go?" McCade asked hopefully.
    "That hardly seems wise right now, does it, Sam?" the other man said, his brow furrowed in apparent concern. "What with all those nasty types looking for you? Not to mention your regrettable financial situation. No, I think not. And besides . . . you did agree to undertake this little chore for Admiral Keaton."
    "Yeah," McCade said. "Let's talk about that little chore." He tapped his cigar, sending an avalanche of ash toward the expensive carpet. "First, I didn't 'agree' to take this Bridger thing on. I was forced, as you very well know. Second, I think it's about time you told me what this is all about. Since when does the navy need a bounty hunter to find their officers? Especially dead or alive. Come to think of it . . . why bother? Is there a shortage of war heroes or something?"
    Swanson-Pierce frowned as he watched the last of the cigar ash on its journey toward the carpet. "For one thing, Captain Bridger is AWOL, but you're right, if that were the only concern, we wouldn't need you. Needless to say we don't normally send bounty hunters after errant naval officers. But this is a special case." Swanson-Pierce touched a series of buttons in the armrest of his chair. The room lights dimmed as a section of wall to McCade's right slid aside to reveal a holo tank. Color swirled and coalesced into the face and upper torso of Captain Ian Bridger.
    As the sound came up it was apparent Bridger was lecturing a class at the Naval Academy. He was every inch the naval officer. He stood ramrod straight. His rugged features radiated confidence. The Imperial Battle Star hung gleaming at his throat. Rows of decorations crossed his barrel chest. And when he spoke, his voice carried the authority born of years in command, and the confidence of a man who has lived what he's teaching. In spite of himself, McCade had to admit the lecture was good. Bridger's thoughts were well organized, and delivered in a clear, distinct manner. He gave frequent examples, and skillfully extracted an occasional laugh from his audience.
    As he described the Battle of Hell, however, his commentary became increasingly heated. He grew more and more agitated. His pupils dilated.
    His eyes took on a strange look. A vein in his neck began to throb. He called the pirates "vermin and filth in the eyes of God." He described in gruesome detail how a pirate cruiser had blasted an Imperial lifeboat out of existence. A reaction shot of the audience showed hundreds of shining eyes. They believed every word.
    Picture and sound dissolved together as the room lights came up. Swanson-Pierce swiveled his chair toward McCade, and regarded him through steepled fingers. "What you just saw was a routine audit taken a few days before Bridger disappeared . . . about six weeks ago."
    "Practically yesterday," McCade said, blowing a perfect smoke ring.
    "Bridger gave himself a four-week head start by taking a month's leave," the other man replied defensively. "And unfortunately it was a week after that before his disappearance was taken seriously."
    McCade raised an eyebrow quizzically. Swanson-Pierce responded