Valentine's Rising Read Online Free Page A

Golden One known as Grey Ones, they bore brooms and dustpans, cleaning rags and wood oil. They were the last of Ahn-Kha’s team, the lucky pair who had made it all the way to Haiti and back. Not bright enough to understand Valentine’s disguise, they chattered in excitement at his familiar face. Valentine took a step back.
    â€œHell, those things give me the creeps. You got them in town?” Valentine asked, feigning fright.
    The Grogs gamboled up to him, hooting. Valentine put a long table between him and the excited pair.
    â€œMust be the smell of pigs,” the temporary commander mused. He pushed the Grogs off.
    â€œDon’t let ’em touch me,” Valentine said. The fear in his voice was real enough. If the officer decided to point the shotgun and start asking questions, there wasn’t much he could do.
    â€œWhat’s all d’excitement?” a musical voice asked, coming from the hallway behind the Grogs.
    Valentine looked down at Narcisse. She was uninjured—assuming one didn’t count the missing legs and left hand, old souvenirs of her escape attempts on Santo Domingo—and dressed in her customary colorful rags and bandannas. She “walked” by swinging her body on her handless arm, using the limb as a crutch. An accomplished cook was welcome in any army, and she’d been put to work, judging from the aluminum dish gripped in her good hand. Valentine’s sensitive nose detected the aromas of hot peppers and thyme in the steaming mixture of pork and rice. Narcisse looked once at Valentine, and then turned to the officer, pivoting on her left arm like a ballet dancer on pointe.
    The Grogs forgot Valentine at the smell of food.
    â€œYou ready to eat, Cap’n? Extra spicy, just like you asked.”
    The older man’s nostrils widened. “Sure am.” He picked up a yellowed piece of blank paper and a pencil, and handed them to Valentine. “Get lost, boy. Write down your complaint, then give it back to me.”
    â€œThis isn’t official; it doesn’t have a seal,” Valentine said.
    â€œThere’s enough for your friend, Cap’n. He looks hungry.”
    He glowered down on Narcisse. “You’re supposed to feed officers first, then the men, and the prisoners long way last. He can try for a meal at the church hall.”
    â€œYes, Cap’n. Sorry, mister, I just do what I’m told. Thank you, Cap’n.”
    Valentine picked up the pencil. “Can I write this in here where there’s light?”
    â€œAs long as you shut up and stay out of my way, you can do what you like.”
    Narcisse filled the officer’s plate, and brought out a plastic water jug with a cup rattling on the nozzle. “You want me to take some to the boys in the tower, Cap’n?”
    â€œNo, they’re on duty. We’re short men with the Visor out with the riders.”
    â€œYes, Cap’n. Apple cider?” For someone with only one hand, Narcisse acted the part of a servant with skill.
    â€œThere’s some left? Sure. This is some fine spicy. I’m from Dallas, and I’ll tell you that this is good cooking.”
    â€œThank you, Cap’n.”
    The officer, who never corrected her when she called him “Cap’n,” even ate with the shotgun in his lap. Valentine looked at the service pips on his sleeve, wondering why a man with so many years was just a lieutenant, and a junior one at that. Valentine wrote out his phony story in scraggly block capitals. The wall above him was festooned with wanted posters and poorly reproduced photos, perhaps a hundred in all. “Terrorism” and “Sabotage” looked to be the two most common crimes, though “Speculation” appeared on some. He recognized one face: Brostoff, a hard-drinking lieutenant he had served with six years ago when he ran with the Wolves of Zulu Company. There was a four-year bounty on him. Just beneath Brostoff