Angela Knight: Unbound

“Enforcer” is dedicated to my son, Anthony, who proved his courage and determination to achieve good health when he had gastric bypass surgery on November 5, 2012. I want to thank his surgeon, Dr. Paul Ross, and the nurses and medical professionals of Spartanburg Regional Healthcare System’s Surgical Weight Loss Unit. Their kindness, dedication, and professionalism made a procedure that could have been agonizing and dangerous much less painful and far safer. As Anthony’s neurotic mother, I can’t thank them enough.

I would also like to thank Cindy Hwang, my editor, for her understanding and unfailing support. She and my agent, Jessica Faust, have been both helpful and patient as I dealt with a number of health issues while writing this book. (Even when Hurricane Sandy plunged Jessica into darkness and closed the Penguin offices.)

I want to congratulate Leis Pederson, Cindy’s assistant, on her promotion to editor. Leis has held my hand and saved my bacon on many occasions, so I was delighted to learn of her new job. It’s well deserved.

Then there’s my talented team of beta readers, all fabulous authors themselves: Shelby Morgen, Kate Douglas, Diane Whiteside, Camille Anthony, Eileen Gormley, and Marteeka Karland. The only one of the group who isn’t a writer is Virginia Ettel, my dear Bookdragon, who never hesitates to kick my butt when needed. (I’m afraid butt-kicking is often warranted—yet it’s always greatly appreciated.)

Most of all I want to thank my own personal romance hero, my husband of twenty-eight years, Michael Woodcock. It’s a huge comfort to know that a six-foot, three-inch cop always has my back. Alerio has nothin’ on you, babe.

And thanks to you , my reader. I deeply appreciate those who have patiently waited for the climax of the Time Hunters series. If you’re not familiar with my work, I have attempted to write “Enforcer” in such a way that new readers won’t be lost. Either way, thank you for buying Unbound. I hope you enjoy the story of Alerio and Dona as much as I loved writing it.

The dark, narrow stairway stank of murder. The reek seemed to coat her tongue with rot and terror, turning each breath into a bloody assault. Dona Astryr ignored the nauseating taste. She was too busy listening for the killers who’d butchered everyone in the house.

In the crowded town square beyond the house’s neat white shutters, a crier read the American Declaration of Independence in a rolling baritone. The Philadelphia crowd hooted and stomped for the more inflammatory lines, bellowing support for the Continental Congress. If there were any Tories among them, they had the good sense to keep their snarls to themselves.

A fist-sized evidence bot zipped past Dona, riding the blue glow of an anti-grav cushion as it searched for murder victims. She snatched the bot out of the air in a blur of cyborg speed. If there was a killer on the second floor, she didn’t want the device giving her away. The bot lit up, about to beep a protest, but Dona thumbed a button to mute it. Bot in one hand, shard pistol in the other, she cocked her head and scanned with every sensor implant she had.

Just below the roar of the crowd, a female voice whimpered pitifully in despair and pain.

Somebody’s still alive. Dona thumbed off the shard pistol’s safety. And they’re damned well going to stay that way .

Had to be Lolai Hardin. According to her dossier, the temporal guide owned this house, using it as a hostel for the time-traveling tourists who hired her to show them life at the time the Declaration was signed. The United States was considered the direct ancestor of the Galactic Union, and its historic milestones were major tourist attractions.

Hardin’s latest tour group had gotten a hell of a lot more than they bargained for. A vicious attack by forces unknown had left thirteen people dead or injured. Hardin’s two twenty-third-century employees were among them. Only Lolai herself was unaccounted for—a bit surprising, since she’d been the one to send the courier bot that had alerted the Enforcers that her tour group was under attack. She’d suffered at least one minor wound before she sent the bot; a bloody thumbprint had marred its smooth, white surface. Hardin’s fingerprint.

Damn, I wish we could have gotten here before the bastards attacked. Unfortunately, nobody had ever managed to prevent this kind of massacre—and plenty of people had tried. You just couldn’t change history no matter what you did.

Of course, Lolai could have been working with the attackers. Could have been bought off or intimidated into cooperating. She could have been the killer. But that whimper suggested otherwise.

Maybe Dona could save her. Victim’s condition? Dona started up the stairs in a padding rush, soundless as a ghost.

Extremely serious, replied the computer implanted in her brain. Sensors detect multiple stab wounds and extensive blood loss. She must have medical attention in the next 3.2 minutes, or she will die .

Which wouldn’t necessarily end the poor woman’s life. If Dona could get Lolai into regen at the Outpost infirmary within seven minutes of the time her heart stopped beating, she could be brought back. After that, brain death would be too extensive for regeneration, and she really would be dead.

Victim’s location? Reaching the top step, Dona paused for another scan.

First bedroom on the left.

Any sign of the attackers?

No.

That meant nothing. The killer or killers could be sensor-shielded, invisible to both Dona’s eyes and implants.

The evidence bot jerked in her hand, trying to escape. She stuffed it into one of the pouches on her armored belt and padded silently toward the bedroom door. Damn, I wish I had backup.

Unfortunately, every other Enforcer on the ten-agent team was either busy searching the house’s first floor or dealing with the two critically injured victims.

So I go in hard and pray I won’t find some bastard waiting to play “Let’s Kill the Time Cop.” Dona braced herself a meter from the bedroom’s locked entrance, lifted her shard pistol, and slammed an armored boot against the thick oak door. Propelled by cyborg muscle, the door crashed open and banged against the wall. “Temporal Enforcer!” She shot through the opening, crouched low, weapon ready.

Oh, fuck.

An arc of bright scarlet splatter marked the wall on her right. A small round rug squelched under her boots, bleeding streams of red across the polished wooden floor.

To her left, a naked woman lay spread eagle on a canopied bed, wrists and ankles bound to its tall cherry posts. Dozens of wounds marked her breasts, belly, and thighs, drooling blood like witless red mouths. Her attacker had been particularly vicious with her face, cutting off her nose, slashing her cheeks and lips. It would take a DNA scan to identify her with any certainty, but Dona was willing to bet it was Hardin. Weight and height were right, anyway.

Send a message to Dr. Chogan, Dona told her implant as she padded toward the bed. Her feet left bloody footprints across the polished pine. We’ve got another survivor confirmed, condition critical.

One of Lolai’s eyes opened, rolling with terror until it fixed on Dona. The other appeared glued shut by dried blood. A tear spilled as her crusted lips moved soundlessly.

“I’m Temporal Enforcement agent Dona Astryr,” Dona told her, giving the room another quick, wary scan. Bed, armoire, washstand with china bowl and pitcher wreathed in painted roses. No attacker—or at least none visible. “I’m going to get you into regen.” Bad as her injuries were, a few hours of regeneration would heal everything but Lolai’s memories.