Operation: Marauder

Stories

### Chapter 1: Chapter 1

BOOK 1 || an Arthonian novel ||

Zoey Adams is a head-strong, veracious mechanic at a local car shop, who just wants to listen to her metal bands and work in peace--before a sexy new client walks into her office, that is. Little does she know, he's from another planet.

Rowan didn't come to Earth by choice. He has no interest in the human race, except for how quickly they could help his crew leave this rock. Until he meets a petite pilot, who is also a mechanic, and wants to see the stars.

Now he'll fight to defend humanity from the same alien race that has threatened his people for centuries.

Complete Chapters 27

Rating 4.8 ( 37 reviews ) Age Rating mature

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Prologue

A year ago today a small military spacecraft was shot out of hyperspace.

The five crew members had just completed a mission with two other squads, successfully retaking a cargo ship that had been raided by the Wraythe, a species that thrived off the blood of others. Their favourite species being Arthonian' rich, blue blood. The two species have been at war for centuries. A fight for survival. The Arthonians were winning, slowly but surely, which meant the Wraythe were getting desperate. Such as cutting off their food supplies. With a planet as heavily populated as Arthos, they needed to bring their food in from other planets across the galaxy or they would starve to death, leaving the citizens exposed for the Wraythe to pillage. This cargo ship was the third one this month they had taken, drinking the crew dry and throwing their food out of the airlocks, impossible to recover.

The takeover had been an easy mission for Rowan and his team. Get in, kill some Wraythe, free what was left of the crew, get out.

Except nobody saw the escort ship hiding on an asteroid. By then it was too late. The three squads and cargo ship had already jumped into hyperspace, coordinates set for Arthos. The escort ship managed to hop into their hyperspace tail before it could close behind them. Once in hyperspace it was impossible to maneuver. No way for Rowan's craft to evade the torpedo targeting one of their engines. As soon as it hit, they were thrown out of hyperspace, but not before colliding into the Wraythe escort ship right behind them, dragging the ship with them. Both ships' systems were offline, crews scrambling to get life support--if nothing else--running again.

With a final grunt, Maliki, the Arthonian's crew mechanic, whacked a gear back into place with his wrench. The main lights flashed on, the familiar whirr of the engine filling the dead silence that had surrounded them.

"Back online!" Maliki called from the back. Wiping his hands of grease, he wiggled through all the pipes, wires, and cables hidden in the belly of the ship then pulled himself up onto the main deck. Rowan was there to give him a hand, slapping his back with a weary smile. He'll take whatever victory they could get at this point.

"Good work, Maliki." Rowan meant it. He hand picked his crew for a reason and every mission they reminded him that all the ass-kissing and favours he called in to make it happen was worthwhile. With one crisis averted, he moved on to the next in the cockpit. "How are we looking, Mave?"

The disgruntled pilot dragged his hands down his face in an attempt to not go batshit on the crew. "We're alive."

Rowan gripped his shoulder, forcing the Arthonian to focus. They didn't have time to lose it. "Give me more than that, brother."

Mave swiped his hand away with a growl; in the same motion, he gestured to the flashing lights and alarms going off all over the console. "Hyperdrive gone. Cloaking gone. Weapons gone. We only have one engine. Barely. We're running on our backup generator. Shields are at thirty percent. We're clinging to navigation by a thread. It'll be a miracle if we can land on that planet without being torn to pieces in the atmosphere." He thrust a finger at the holographic map of the solar system they had found themselves in. There was only one habitable planet; the third one from the sun.

Rowan only saw a hint of the planet, of what they faced, before the hologram sputtered out. "Mave, put it back on. We need to know everything we can about this planet before we land on it."

He sneered at Rowan, which he did not appreciate, but tension was high right now, so he let it slide. "By a thread-- I told you. That was it. Nav is gone now. I'll be flying manually from here on."

A pit formed in Rowan's stomach. He had never flown manually in his life. There was always some form of system to make the flight run smoothly. "How long until we're grounded?"

"With one engine? Thirty-six hours. At best. I could probably do it faster if I had a co-pilot to help with navigation--but someone forgot to request one for this crew."

Rowan hadn't forgotten. No one could fly like Mave. Let's see anyone else weave between the Arthon Asteroid Belt by himself. No shields. No sensors. Just skill. Rowan had to call in a lot of favours--more so than the others--to have Mave part of his crew. Besides, they were all trained to fly one of these little squad crafts; if he really needed the help, he had four people he could ask for it.

Cas came back from the med bay, smearing the dark blue blood from one of their own across his forehead unknowingly as he wiped the sweat away. He let out a long sigh. "Knox will be out for a bit, but he'll be fine. Just a minor stab wound."

All eyes turned to Maliki, who had stupidly left out his kit. When they had been hit, tools went flying, one screwdriver in particular wedging itself into Knox's side.

Maliki threw his hands up, clearly thinking he wasn't in the wrong. "How was I supposed to know we'd get knocked out of hyperspace?"

Deciding it wasn't worth the argument for now, Rowan glanced out the window to the escort ship floating half a mile away. "Any idea how they're fairing?"

Mave dismissed them with a small wave then went back to plotting their course. "Before our scanners died, they were only on life support. The stupid buggers got hit harder than us. It'll be a while before they're up and running."

"Hopefully we'll have landed and set up a solid perimeter before they come after us." There wasn't a doubt in Rowan's mind that they would. If it was going to take them thirty-six hours to reach the planet, it'll take the Wraythes even longer. And they'll be hungry.

Mave spun in his pilot's chair and looked at him levelly. "Those Wraythe will be the least of our concerns. That planet is inhabited by a Class One civilization. We'll have to hope they don't shoot us out of their atmosphere and find a way to blend in if we do land."

"Do they have that kind of technology?" Cas asked, collapsing into his seat by the kitchenette. Class One civilizations were advanced enough to use all of the resources on their planet, but hadn't reached the technological capabilities to go beyond their atmo. They might have dabbled with a few spacecraft prototypes by now, but nothing close to the craft they flew in. It was very unlikely they had discovered species from other systems, let alone galaxies.

"Without our shields, they can knock us out of the sky with one lucky shot." To add onto Rowan's stresses, Mave did a nice little demonstration with his hands of their ship crashing and burning if they got hit.

Rowan gave him a dull look, unimpressed by his pilot's theatrics. "You said our shields were at thirty."

"They won't be once we pass through atmo."

Growling, Rowan raked a hand through his hair and looked back at his crew. They had enough rations to last them a week. The ship was slowly falling apart. It was unlikely they would be rescued by their people without comms to tell them they were alive and send them coordinates. If they continued to stay put, it might give the Wraythe enough time to get their systems back online and board their ship.

Needless to say, their options were limited.

Rowan sat down and buckled up. "All right, take us to. . . What's the name of this planet?"

"Plot us a course, Mave. We're going to Earth."

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### Chapter 2: Chapter 2

Zoey Adams paused in the middle of putting the finishing touches on her client’s vehicle. There were only a few wires left for her to connect the underglow kit she was installing then she could rid herself of the pretentious douche bag who kept calling in to see when his Porsche 911 would be done--even though she told him it would take a few weeks for the get the kit in. She swore she heard someone in her garage, but when all she was met with was Rob Zombie’s voice, she shrugged and went back to work.

" Zoey !” The speaker cut Rob off in the middle of “Living Dead Girl.” “Fuck’s sake, Zoey, if you’re going to blast something, let it be something decent.”

Zoey slid out from underneath the Porsche on her roller and glared at the portly man who paid her bills. He wore a red flannel shirt and grease-stained jeans, which matched the dark smudges on his fingertips. “Hey, don’t be talking smack about Rob, Carlisle, or we’re going to have a problem.” She waved her wrench at him for emphasis.

Grunting, he reached down for her and hauled her up to her feet. She came up to his chin when standing at her full height; her short stature didn’t stop her from giving him a death glare. “I’ll talk smack about Rob and New Years Eve-”

“Day. New Years Day ,” she corrected him sharply. She tossed her black braid over her shoulder in case he didn’t know she meant business. Everyone in the shop knew to just let her do her work--and don’t complain about her music. Only Carlisle got away with it because, well, you know, he’s the one who gave her this job when no other shop in town would. “Don’t tell me you came to my garage to tell me to turn down the music?” She had her own garage in the back where she could do her custom designs in peace while the mechanics in the front dealt with the boring, everyday repairs. She had put her own money into adding some insulation into it so people in the front couldn’t hear it. It was either that or no music. Something about breaking bylaws. She would rather shoot her own foot than to work without her music.

“No.” He gestured to the front door with pudgy fingers. “I’ve got a client for you. Interesting fellow.”

“Oh?” She liked interesting. She went over to her tool table, grabbing a towel, and wiping her hands of grease and grime. “Do tell.”

A fat grin split his face in two; his eyes held a mischievous glimmer, making him look ten years younger. “You’ll see.”

Intrigued, Zoey couldn’t do anything but follow her boss to the front shop. It was an overcast day, a promise of rain in the air. Zoey was quick to follow Carlisle along the gravel path that took her to the back door of the shop; she didn’t mind a little rain, but she liked it more when she was inside.

Her fellow mechanics were working away on the immediate right as soon as they entered the shop. No music. Only the sound of power tools whirring and clunking. On the other side of the counter, waiting in the shop’s lobby, was a mountain of a man. Like, he was easily ten inches taller than Zoey, maybe more. His shoulders were broad, but not in a bulging way, more lean and tailored, complimenting his tapered waist and fine legs. It was too bad he was going to be a client or she’d be asking him if he was single. Which he totally wouldn’t be. That was just her luck with men. The good ones were taken, leaving assholes for all the other unfortunate women. Zoey being one of them.

The man had been watching the cars drive by on the street in front but turned around as they approached the counter. His unique gray eyes--in the shitty white lighting of the shop, there was a touch of purple around his iris--drank her in, head to toe. If he was surprised to find a woman was going to be working on his vehicle, he didn’t show it. He offered a pleased, charming smile. “You are Adams, I presume.” His accent was faint, hardly distinguishable, but it made her toes curl in delight all the same; she was always a sucker for foreign men.

“You presume correctly, but you can call me Zoey.” She shook his firm hand and smiled back. “Let’s go to my office and talk shop.”

Her office was just off to the left, beside Carlisle’s. Her client closed the door softly behind him and sat in the chair, back straight, shoulders back. Her brother’s hardcore army buddies came to mind; every movement they made was so rigid, all serious, no play. Jack swore they were a fun bunch, but whenever Zoey went to the bar with them, they were as dull as bricks.

She dropped into her cheap leather chair and leaned forward onto her desk. “Okay, Mister. . .”

It wasn’t a name she heard often. It suited him. “Okay, Rowan, what can I do for you?”

He handed her a sheet of paper with a long list of modifications and blueprints he’d like done to his vehicle. Zoey had to reread it a few times, the list was. . . unique. Most people came in asking for body mods, a new speaker system, or a light set up. Rowan wanted bullet proof windows and siding, puncture free-tires, tinted glass. . . and the list went on and on. She was particularly fascinated by the blueprints he provided her; it looked like he wanted her to add some kind of device. It was cylindrical in nature, almost as big as a boat engine. She couldn’t imagine what it was designed to do, but he wanted it to be a part of the console. Finally, she couldn’t stop the chuckle. She set the paper down and leveled with him. “You would have been better off buying a tank.”

He nodded in agreement with a slight pout; he had a look about him similar to a child who was told he couldn’t have the toy he had wanted for months. “Apparently they’re not road legal ?” He seemed unsure of the terminology, frowning as if he doubted the words that came out of his mouth.

She laughed, shaking her head. Carlisle was right: he was an odd one. “No, they’re not. But I can make your vehicle as tanky as you want and you can still drive it on the highway.”

All traces of the pout was gone when he flashed her with a toothy grin. “That’s why I’m here. I was told this is the best garage in Connaville.”

Zoey beamed with pride. After struggling to find a garage that would take her in for so long, she had begun to doubt if she was as good as she thought she was. Just when she was about to give up and try something else, Carlisle took a chance on her and now his business was busier than ever. People were lining up to have her mod their vehicle. All he had to do was let her do her thing.

She took another look at the list, making another for the materials she’ll need to get the job done. She wrote up a quick quote for him and handed it to him. He barely looked at it before agreeing to the price. It took some effort to hide her surprise. Most clients knew the costs of the mods and labour they were asking for and didn’t balk much at the price--though, there was always a haggler--but when the numbers hit the five digit mark, they usually put some thought into it.