Sirian Summer (Nick Walker, U.F. Marshal Book 2)

by John Bowers

  “Okay, Trooper Tatum, let me think about your offer. Call me back in ten minutes.”

  Chapter 31

  “You’ve all seen Yancy West face down the bad guys at high noon. Well, grow up! Real life isn’t like that.”

  —Professor Milligan, U.F. Marshal Academy

  To his consternation, Sheriff Roy Blake watched six men emerge from between several buildings across from him and walk into the middle of the street. A moment later another dozen appeared out of the blowing dust from the west and merged with the first group, strolling down the center of the street toward the Vega. All were armed, most wore police uniforms from various agencies. Blake stared in disbelief as he realized these were men of the dreaded KK, an organization so secret that most people actually thought it was a myth.

  Blake was alone, his only backup a radio link to Nick Walker, and vastly outnumbered. Having never had the opportunity to prove it to himself, he’d often wondered if he was truly a brave man. The last few hours had answered that question, at least in his own mind—he was not a coward. But the idea of facing this mob alone went far beyond bravery, into the realm of foolhardiness.

  He was no fool, either.

  “Nick, are you there?”

  “Right here, Roy. What’s up?”

  “Two dozen men, maybe more, heading your way. Right down the middle of Main Street. They’re all armed. Looks like a lynch mob.”

  “Okay, thanks. Keep your head down. Don’t shoot unless you have to.”

  “Right. I’ll keep you posted.”

  Blake disconnected. After about a minute the mob vanished in the dust, and the street appeared empty again.

  Then he heard voices.

  * * *

  Gerald Graves strapped on a gunbelt Joel had found in Blake’s desk while searching for a key and pushed open the door. The street was empty except for the blowing sand, and both father and son walked out into the dirt and the heat. They glanced in both directions, then Joel pointed.

  “I parked behind the Marshal’s office,” he said. “I got enough fuel to get back to Texiana.”

  “You go ahead,” Graves told his son. “I’ve got business here.”

  Joel grabbed his father’s arm, alarm in his eyes.

  “What the hell are you talking about, Dad! Let’s get out of here! Let the KK take care of Walker.”

  “I want to see it,” his dad told him. “That bastard humiliated me, I want to see him pay.”

  “Goddammit, Dad!”

  “Hey!”

  They both jerked around and looked up. Roy Blake stood facing them from the rooftop of the adjoining building, his rifle aimed.

  “Who let you out of jail, Gerald?” he demanded.

  Gerald Graves bared his teeth in a parody of a smile.

  “Fuck you, Roy! Your boy marshal is going down, and without him there’s no one to press charges!”

  “I’ll press charges, Gerald! I’m the sheriff, after all.”

  “What the fuck you talking about! You never gave a shit before!”

  “I always gave a shit. I just chose to look the other way.”

  “So keep looking the other way. Nothing is gonna change and you know it. In a year or two it’ll all be completely legal.”

  “I’ll worry about that in a year or two. Now drop your gunbelt.”

  “Not gonna happen, Roy. You aren’t going to shoot an old friend and we both know it.”

  “Times change, Gerald. People change.”

  “That’s true, but not this time. You’re too old to change. I know you better than that.”

  “Joel, you’re under arrest for kidnapping and rape.”

  “What!”

  “And conspiracy to traffic in human slaves.”

  “Fuck you, old man!” Joel shouted. “You ain’t no U.F. Marshal!”

  Blake fired a bolt into the dirt at their feet.

  “Last warning to you both! Drop your weapons or I’ll put one through your foot!”

  Father and son glanced at each other for a moment. Gerald Graves slowly began to unbuckle his gunbelt. As he let it fall, Joel’s arm shot up and he fired four quick rounds in Blake’s direction, the pistol popping loudly. One round caught Blake in the collarbone, but he still had time to return fire before he fell. His first shot took Joel Graves in the forehead, killing him instantly.

  * * *

  “They’ll kill you, Nick!” Suzanne had come out of the basement and overheard part of Nick’s conversation with Daniel Tatum. “It’s a trick to get you outside. They’ll kill you the same way they killed Ron Gates.”

  “We’re pretty well stuck here, Suzanne. I’m running out of options.”

  “You can’t surrender to them, Nick! You can’t!”

  Nick saw a look of desperation in her lovely green eyes. He leaned over and kissed her briefly.

  “If I don’t, and they come in here, the rest of you could easily get killed.”

  “And you think we’ll be safe if you give up? Nick, the night my parents were killed, my dad tried to resist those cowboys. But they held a knife to my mother’s throat and threatened to kill her. So he put down his gun, and the minute he did they shot him. Then they killed my mother anyway, and almost killed me. You can’t give in to people like that.”

  They heard Nathan coming down the stairs. A moment later he stopped beside them.

  “All secure upstairs,” he said. “But I saw eight or nine men on the roof across the alley.”

  At that moment they saw movement through the front windows of the Vega, and sixteen men came to a halt, lined up in front of the building. Every single one of them held a weapon of some kind. Gerald Graves stood in the center of the mob.

  “Jesus Christ!” Nathan whispered.

  “Downstairs!” Suzanne urged. “Force them to come in after us! It’ll be easier to kill them that way.”

  “I don’t think so,” Nick said. “They can just burn the place down around us, or blow it up.”

  A rock sailed through the front window, bringing down most of the glass in a cascade of crystal.

  “Come out, Marshal!” Gerald Graves shouted. “If we have to come in, we kill everybody!”

  Nick pushed Suzanne and Nathan back into the kitchen, and took cover behind the bar, peering out.

  “Since when are you giving the orders, Graves? Where’s Tatum?”

  “Tatum’s not here! He’s up in Texiana, directing the operation by satellite!”

  “How’d you get out of jail, Graves? You’re not even part of this group.”

  “Roy Blake is dead!” Graves shouted. “My son came to let me out and Blake killed him, so I killed Blake. Now I want you!”

  “You better talk to Tatum first,” Nick shouted. “If you fuck up his operation, he’s going to want your hide.”

  “I’ll worry about Tatum. You just get your ass out here!”

  Nick was silent a moment, thinking. He came to a decision.

  “Let me talk to Tatum first, then I’ll come out.”

  “I told you, Tatum’s not here! Get out here, goddammit!” Even through the dust, Nick could see the fury on Graves’s face.

  “Tatum is going to call me any minute. After he does, I’ll come out.”

  One of the men in the street put a phone to his ear. Twenty seconds later, Nick’s porta-phone rang.

  “Tatum?”

  “I’m here, Marshal. Have you made a decision?”

  “We have a new development, Tatum. Gerald Graves thinks he’s calling the shots now. Does he speak for you?”

  “No one speaks for me,” Tatum said. “What is Graves proposing?”

  “Pretty much the same thing you did, except it’s pretty clear that he intends to kill me. Before you respond to that, let me say that I’m willing to go out, but not on his terms.”

  “What kind of terms do you want?”

  “I’ll go out and face him, one on one, and if he wins, he wins. But if I win, you pull your people out and leave this town alone. Can you live w
ith those terms?”

  Tatum was silent a moment.

  “What do you mean ‘face him’?” he asked.

  “We face off in the street at ten yards, just like the Ancient West. A real old-fashioned gunfight, face to face. No seconds.”

  “That’s an intriguing idea. And what if you lose?”

  “Then you bury me, but you leave my friends alone. No recriminations, no retaliation. The women are not sold as slaves and no one rapes them. Will you agree to that?”

  “Would you believe me if I did?” Tatum sounded amused.

  “I don’t know. Does honor mean anything to you?”

  “I consider myself a Sirian gentleman,” Tatum said.

  “Well that’s nice, but I don’t know what that means.”

  “It means I admire your courage and your spirit, even if you are a shortsighted fool. I find your proposal to be fair and even sporting. I agree to your terms.”

  “You talk to Gerald Graves and call me back.”

  “You’ll hear from me shortly.”

  Nick went down to the basement and let Dr. Taylor bandage his hand, then conferred with Nathan and Dennis Green in the kitchen. He explained what was going on, and handed Nathan several stun grenades.

  “You know how to use these?” he asked.

  Nathan shook his head, but his dad nodded.

  “I was in the Star Marines before Nathan was born,” he said. “I’ve used them.”

  “Good. Use them only as a last resort. If that mob gets out of control, then do whatever you have to do.”

  “This is a bad idea, Nick,” Nathan said. “I wish you wouldn’t go out there.”

  “I can think of several things I’d rather do, but I think this might be our only chance.”

  “Your hand is broken!”

  “I have another one.”

  The porta-phone rang. Nick answered it.

  “Okay, Marshal. Graves didn’t much like the terms, but he’s plenty mad at you, so he’s willing to go along.”

  “Anything to get a shot at me, eh?”

  “That’s about it.”

  “All right, Tatum. Maybe I’ll be talking to you.”

  He heard Tatum laughing. “I wouldn’t be a bit surprised. Good luck, Marshal.”

  * * *

  The wind howled down Main Street as Nick stepped out of the Vega, dust and sand flying like tiny shrapnel. Sirius B was directly overhead, hammering the planet with triple digits. Nick squinted against the elements and surveyed the situation. Fifteen KK men had now moved out of the street, lining the sidewalk directly across from the Vega, leaving only Gerald Graves standing in the street. Graves was wearing a gunbelt and his face was seething with rage. Nick walked slowly into the street and turned to face him, just as he’d seen Yancy West do in a hundred holo-vids.

  Nick had shifted his .44 to the left-hand holster. His right hand was wrapped in a white bandage, and he caught Graves glancing at it.

  “Before we start,” Nick said over the gusting wind, “you should know that I’m wearing a laser vest. I suppose you want me to take it off?”

  Graves nodded, grinding his teeth. Nick slowly unbuttoned his shirt and peeled it off, then unsnapped the laser vest and tossed it aside. Flying grit stung his naked back like tiny needles in the eye.

  “Okay if I put my shirt back on?”

  “Goddammit, hurry up!”

  Nick picked up the shirt, shook the worst of the dust out of it, and shrugged into it. He took his time with the buttons, then tucked the tail into his belt. The whole operation took more than a minute. He glanced up at Graves, now shifting impatiently from foot to foot. Nick nodded.

  “Okay, I think I’m ready. Anything you want to say before we start?”

  “No, except I’m looking forward to this. If you hadn’t come here and fucked everything up, my son would still be alive!”

  “I didn’t kill him. That’s on your own head. You should have taught him respect for human rights.”

  “Fuck you!”

  Nick smiled, then glanced to his left, at the fifteen KK men who stood watching, as if this were some kind of sporting contest.

  “Yew boys all set?” Nick drawled in a parody of their Texiana accent. Several nodded, and one laughed.

  Nick turned back to Graves.

  “It’s your move,” he said.

  For just a second, Graves seemed uncertain what to do. Then he went for his gun, jerked it out of the holster, and opened fire.

  Nick went for the .44 with his left hand, his weakest play, and Graves fired first. But the moment Graves raised his weapon Nick hit the ground and rolled to his right, letting the shot pass over him. Graves fired three more shots, trying to follow Nick’s roll, but each one missed by a few inches, giving Nick time to roll upright and get the heavy .44 level. His left hand was his weak hand, and the arm had been wounded the day before; agony stabbed through it as he raised the heavy pistol, but he ground his teeth and took aim—too slow. Graves fired again, but hurried his shot; the bullet skinned Nick's shoulder—barely a scratch, but enough to deflect his aim. The .44 boomed like a cannon but the shot missed. Sweat slid into Nick's eyes as he thumbed the hammer again, but he was staring into the black hole of Graves's .45. There was no more time...the grin on Graves's face told the whole story.

  Nick dived headfirst into the ground as the .45 roared—he felt the wind as the bullet passed over his head and ripped the leather heel off his cowboy boot. His left arm was still extended, the Ru-Hawk weighing a ton. The arm screamed with pain and the muscles didn’t have enough lift to get the barrel on target. Panting in desperation, Nick rolled onto his right side, the arm still extended, and the circular motion swung the pistol in an arc. As the barrel swung across the target, Nick pulled the trigger. The .44 boomed again, the gun jumping six inches with the recoil, and Gerald Graves catapulted backward as the heavy slug punched through the center of his chest.

  For five dumb seconds after Graves hit the ground, nobody moved. In that moment Nick thought he heard the approaching roar of turbines, but couldn’t be sure. He placed his injured hand on the ground, wincing with the pain, and pushed himself to his knees.

  “You motherfucker!”

  A solitary figure darted off the sidewalk and raced into the street, screaming obscenities. He drew a pistol and took aim, but found himself staring into the hollow tunnel of Nick’s .44. Nicholas Peloni stood there sweating in the wind, shaking like a leaf, but it was a stalemate.

  “Put it down, Nicholas,” Nick told him. “You might kill me, but I promise there won’t be enough of your head left for your mother to identify!”

  A hovercar screamed into view from the north, turbines bellowing, fans blowing sand, and ten seconds later another approached from the west, right down the middle of Main Street. Armed men, mostly Spanic, poured out of them, and the KK men suddenly found themselves flanked. Peloni looked around with widening eyes, and slowly lowered his weapon. Nick walked toward him and took the gun out of his hand.

  “Gooseberry smugglers,” he said. “They’re a real problem around here.”

  Epilog

  “All’s well that ends well…but there are no truly happy endings. The good guy doesn’t really ride off into the supernova.”

  --Professor Milligan, U.F. Marshal Academy

  The Vega’s dining room floor crunched with shattered glass, but that didn’t deter the eleven men who poured through the front door and lined up along the bar. Suzanne and Kristina poured beer for all of them, and Nick raised his own glass in tribute.

  “¡Salud!” he toasted.

  “¡Salud!” they shouted back, and happy chatter filled the dining room.

  Nick turned to Willis Kline, who stood a few feet away with his own beer.

  “And here’s to you,” he said.

  Kline grinned. “Sorry we didn’t get here sooner,” he said.

  “How did you know what was going down?”

  “My brother called me. Said you were expecting troubl
e and he was getting those girls out of town. He was really worried, so I figured I better get some men together just in case. I tried to round up some cowboys but most of them were either home with their families or out in the fields. So I grabbed this bunch of serfs and handed them rifles. It took longer than I hoped, but—”

  “You couldn’t have timed it better.”

  Willis grinned and downed some beer. Kristina refilled him and he put an arm around her neck, kissing her on the forehead.

  “You okay, little sister?”

  “I’m okay. Thanks for saving Nick’s life.”

  Willis looked at Nick thoughtfully.

  “I guess I’ve been an asshole,” he said. “It was never personal.”

  “No hard feelings,” Nick agreed.

  Nathan Green came out of the kitchen and handed Nick a stack of stun grenades.

  “I guess we don’t need these anymore,” he said.

  “Thanks. I’ll give them back to Sheriff Blake.”

  “How’s Roy doing?” Kline asked.

  “He’s okay. Graves said he killed him, but he lied. Blake said it was Joel who shot him. He’s got a hole in his collarbone but it’s a minor injury. He and your dad are over at Dr. Taylor’s. She expects them both to recover.”

  Willis Kline turned his gaze to Nathan Green, who eyed him a little skeptically. Nathan’s face still showed signs of Friday night’s beating, the darker bruises fading to green around the edges.

  “Nathan…” Kline took a deep breath and sighed. “Marshal Walker told me what you did today. That took guts. And what you did the other night took even more guts. I guess I owe you an apology.”

  “You guess?”

  Nathan didn’t smile. Kline laughed.

  “Okay, I do owe you an apology.” He offered his hand. “It takes some of us a little longer to grow up than others, you know? You just got there before I did.”

  Nathan looked at his hand, then took it almost reluctantly.

  “Okay. But if I ever see you hurting Kristina, I’ll do the same thing again.”

  “Fair enough.” Willis clapped him on the shoulder and upended his beer. “I got to get this crew back to work.” He set the beer down. “¡Vámanos, muchachos! ¡Tenemos que trabajar!”