by Hondo Jinx
Leering down at Brawley, the towering figure bared a smile full of fangs.
“Look what I found,” the gigantic tiger man growled. “The power mage.”
30
Brawley’s survival instincts fired with everything they had, overriding his pain and fatigue and even his injuries. He pitched himself sideways, landed on his shoulder, drew the Peacemaker, and fired.
But the tiger was too fast.
Even as the Peacemaker boomed, the tiger rushed forward in a black-and-orange blur and batted Brawley’s hand, knocking the exploding revolver away.
The tiger man rolled Brawley roughly onto his back, pinned his arms to the stone, and settled his great weight onto Brawley’s hips, crushing them against the ground. Cruel green eyes stared down, as vivid and unforgiving as a steaming jungle. The huge mouth, slathered in blood, spread wide. Its breath was a nightmare of heat and death. The great fangs dripped gore onto Brawley’s face.
“You’re the power mage?” the tiger man chuckled, his voice burbling with dark incredulity.
“Yeah,” Brawley said, registering the tiger man’s fur, which was black and orange not the black and white of an albino tiger, “but you’re not.”
The massive head shook back and forth. “No, I’m not. But that doesn’t matter now, does it? You got your dumb ass killed by a bunch of fuggles.”
This wasn’t the Tiger Mage. This was another of Blanton Cherry’s hirelings. The son of a bitch who’d killed Pa’s steer. A garden-variety Beastie, plain and simple.
But as the asshole had said, that didn’t matter now, did it?
No.
Because Brawley was broken and bleeding out, disarmed and fucked up to a colossal degree, pinned to stone that was canceling his psionics. Whatever he had been, he wasn’t a power mage in this instant. Hell, even a barn cat with a bad attitude could take him out now.
The tiger man’s massive head leaned close. “One little bite, and I’d boost my psi strength through the fucking roof. One quick snap of my jaws.”
“But you won’t do it,” a familiar voice spoke up, and Blanton Cherry entered the room, beaming like a beauty queen, “because I pay you too damn well. Nice work. And yes, before you ask, you do get the entire bonus all to yourself since everybody else is dead. Is he disarmed?”
The tiger man growled and batted nearby weapons across the floor. Then he lifted off Brawley and started patting him down.
Brawley swung with all his might, slamming a punch into the big, furry head.
The tiger man just laughed and kept searching his pockets.
“A knife,” the tiger man said, handing Brawley’s Gerber to Cherry. Extra mags, some cash, a big-ass key. These items clattered to the floor beside Brawley. “He’s clean, boss. No weapons.”
“Good,” Blanton Cherry said. “Now, if you will kindly step to one side, I would very much like to have a brief and pointed conversation with our esteemed neighbor, Mr. Brawley Hayes, power mage extraordinaire.
Brawley ached to wipe the shit-eating grin from Cherry’s face, but he was weak as a half-drowned kitten, all busted up, and shot to hell. The toughest thing he could do was lay there with his teeth chattering.
Cherry stood over him, smiling down politely, the tan cowboy hat tilted back on his pale forehead. “You should’ve taken the money, son. Now look at you. They brought me that cloaked drone, and I wondered, what in tarnation was going on here? I thought maybe you’d shacked up with a Gearhead and a Seeker or bought their services, as I have been wont to do over the course of my less-than-meritorious career in the delivery and hospitality industries. But my oh my, son, what a shock you gave me when you came running out of the night, cloaked like Merlin himself. And so fast! And your opening barrage was a telekinetic blast?”
“Drag me outside, and I’ll show you again,” Brawley said.
Cherry laughed ripely. “I’ll bet you would, son, I’ll bet you would. But quit interrupting my story. I had no sooner made myself scarce than my head filled with notions that I felt mightily compelled to Seek. And lo and behold, my gut said yes. Then, as I was making my way here to the processing shed—this is where we hold new girls on arrival, you understand, and new clients, too, until we’re sure they’re on the up and up—you unleashed the herd. Nice touch there, son. Ironic, even, what with my neglecting the cattle and all.
“Then I knew for sure. You were the power mage everybody has been talking about.” Cherry shook his head in amused disbelief. “It’s like I won the lottery. Not that I can turn you in for the bounty. Talk about a payday! I suppose I could sell you to the Cartel for a few million, maybe even several million, but taking a good look at you, I have to say you don’t look like you could last long enough to even cross the border.”
Brawley couldn’t argue with the man. He was dying. No two ways about it. But sometimes, the mind of a dying man sharpens in a final flourish of survival instincts, looking for a way to cheat death.
Cherry flicked open the Gerber and tested the blade against his thumb. “No, you’re fading fast. And while I’m not averse to risk, I try not to be a fool. So I’ll just hedge my bets, finish you off with this knife, and render your redneck ass for the boost of a lifetime.”
And then Brawley’s racing mind latched onto a plan. He knew what he had to do. He just needed to get his body to cooperate before he ran out of time.
Cherry whistled long and low. “Hell, with a big boost like that, I’ll make up the lost bounty in no time.”
“Good for you,” Brawley growled, patting the rough floor with his fingertips.
Blanton Cherry leaned down. The blade flashed, catching the overhead lights. “You were so damn cocky, weren’t you? I gotta ask. How does it feel, Texan, to know you’ve been outsmarted by a Californian?”
Cherry laughed. “Don’t mess with Texas? Bullshit.”
Brawley kept sweeping his hand back and forth.
Cherry spat in Brawley’s face. “Fuck you, and fuck Texas.”
Brawley’s fingers closed around the metal barrel of the thing he’d been hunting.
Cherry drew back the knife and finally let his mask slip, revealing a mouth twisted with rage and the fiery eyes of a sociopathic Seeker consumed by greed and a lust for power. “What do you say about that, Tex?”
“Welcome home, son,” Brawley whispered.
“Huh?” Cherry said. “What did you say?”
“He’s delirious, boss,” the tiger man said. “Kill him before he bleeds out.”
“To Red Haven,” Brawley finished.
And the world disappeared.
31
Then Brawley was lying on a hardwood floor, staring up at the exposed beams of the cabin in Red Haven. His strands opened wide, releasing a flood of psionic energy that washed away his pain and fatigue, healing his wounds in a rapid and euphoric return to power.
But even as his wounds were healing, a feminine shriek cut the air.
Brawley jumped to his feet and saw the mysterious woman backpedaling and raising hands that suddenly glowed an even brighter green than her cloak, the hood of which still obscured her, save for those glowing hands, a spill of red locks, and the suggestion of a body worth seeing underneath.
Brawley laughed. Not because he had startled the woman but because he had escaped certain death and unthinkable agony and frustration and now stood, fully healed and thrumming with power.
Power he unfortunately could not use, however, if he returned to the shed, where Cherry and his Beastie would still be registering Brawley’s disappearance, given Red Haven’s dilation of time.
But that wasn’t quite right, either. Brawley might not be able to tap his strands atop the pink stone, but that didn’t mean he was powerless.
“You’re him,” the red-haired mystery woman gasped, and her outstretched hands quit glowing. “You’re the power mage.”
“Howdy,” Brawley said with a nod and set to work.
“Hi,” the woman said, dropping her hands to her sides. “I’m
incredibly pleased to meet you. I’ve been waiting for so long, and—you’re all covered in blood. What happened to you?”
Moving with Carnal speed, Brawley tore off his shirt, shucked his boots, and peeled away his socks.
“What are you doing?” the woman said, and when Brawley unfastened his golden buckle and whipped down his jeans, he saw her mouth drop wide open within the shadowy confines of her hood.
“I got business to take care of, darlin,” he said. He rapidly drew up a snapshot of his final second back in the shed, calculated angles, and opened his Bestial strand wide. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
An instant later, he crouched to avoid banging his great, horned head against the ceiling. Sweeping the key into his massive fist, he grumbled, “Be brave, Son, and come back soon.”
32
As the world faded, Brawley launched his attack, thrusting his fist forward and lashing backward with a tremendous kick.
Within the shed, time had barely budged.
Blanton Cherry was still sputtering over Brawley’s disappearance, and the tiger man was standing there, gawking like an idiot.
Brawley’s punch caught Cherry just above the beltline, blasting his potbelly, driving the key into his guts, and knocking him off his feet.
His powerful kick lashed out behind him, slamming into the tiger man’s torso.
Here, upon this mysterious cobble, Brawley couldn’t finish his enemies with telekinetic blasts or bedazzle them with Seeker juice; but he was fully healed, had the initiative, and now, by God, they were going to pay for their fucking transgressions. Because he was no longer a broken cowboy at their mercy; he was a fifteen-foot-tall minotaur primed to kill.
As Cherry clutched his gut, spewing undignified whimpers, Brawley spun to face the Beastie.
The tiger sprang at him, mouth open wide.
Brawley dipped under the attack, twisting his neck as the tiger soared over him, and lifted the tip of his horn, which slashed across the black-and-orange underbelly, unzipping the tiger’s abdomen, spilling bowels.
The tiger man crashed to the floor and shot to his feet, which tangled in his own viscera. His bright green eyes flared with terror, and he broke for the door, stumbling awkwardly, woven as he was in the greasy intestines sagging from his ruined midsection.
Letting him go would be Brawley’s simplest reaction. The Beastie was high on fear and cared only for escape. If Brawley let him run, the stupid son of a bitch would drop dead before even pausing to weigh his options.
But Brawley was not in a merciful mood, not by a long shot. He charged forward, covering a third of the shed in a single bound, and rammed the fleeing tiger man, crashing hard into the small of his furry back just above the tail.
Bones cracked. The tiger man went down with a wild a squeal of pain and terror that Brawley ended a second later, slamming his hoof down on the tiger’s head, epically shattering the skull and killing his striped ass instantly.
Then he turned on Cherry, who still whimpered, tugging with his blood-slick fingers, trying and failing to dislodge the key Brawley had shoved deep into his cowardly guts.
Brawley strode forward, savoring the terror in Cherry’s eyes. He paused directly in front of the man who had meant to render him, stretching up to his full height within this lofty equipment shed.
Cherry’s eyes bulged as if he’d seen an angel or a demon… or perhaps both.
“Wait,” Cherry pleaded, and then took a second to whimper and wince. “Don’t do it. I have powerful friends. People you don’t want to piss off. The Cartel, my clients. They… uhn.”
Cherry shook his head as if trying to clear it. What little color he had previously owned drained away, leaving him white as an albino ghost.
A sickly smile lifted those pale features. “I’m rich. You can have everything. All these ranches and fifteen million dollars. All yours. The girls, too. Prettiest little bitches you’ve ever seen. Never cracked their strands. You can fuck them all, open your missing strands, go full power mage.” Cherry laughed nastily. “Hell, you can even kill them after, go for the double boost.”
Brawley shot out a big hand and grabbed Cherry by the throat, silencing the twisted fucker, then hoisted him, kicking, into the air. The scent of urine filled Brawley’s nostrils, and looking down, he saw the dark patch spreading across Cherry’s lap.
Brawley shook his huge head in disgust. “Now you see?” he growled, his inhuman voice impossibly deep and devoid of mercy. “Now you understand?”
Cherry struggled to nod, the pitiful little bitch desperate to latch onto anything that might spare his shitty life. Trouble was, there was nothing to latch onto, nothing in the universe or beyond, that could save him now.
Because Brawley would have vengeance.
“The saying holds,” Brawley said. “Don’t. Mess. With. Texas.”
He whipped his head forward and at the same time jerked his arm toward him. His stony forehead smashed into Cherry’s panicked face, smashing the skull like a soft-boiled egg.
Cherry’s body gave one, epic spasm and sagged, plump and limp as a fresh-killed quail.
Brawley tossed the deceased asshole away and strode out of the makeshift slaughterhouse.
As soon as he stepped outside, his body thrummed to full life, his biological circuitry once more lighting up with Carnal force. And a fraction of an instant later, that circuitry pulsed even brighter as the kill-boosts lifted his psionic power to new heights.
222 per strand, 1110 in total.
Hell yeah.
The night was curiously silent.
Releasing a squeeze of Seeker juice, he wondered about his wives and family. From both directions, he sensed no loss, no immediate peril, just tension.
He set off, running uphill, eating great distances with every stride. He needed to hurry back to Red Haven, where the mysterious woman, his key to everything, waited.
But first, he must finish this.
Reaching the quarry, he learned that the girls had kicked ass. Big time. Only half a dozen fuggle riflemen remained. He charged them directly, and seconds later, while their lifeblood was still watering the desert, Brawley charged off to hunt the deserters.
Out there among the sage and sand, the last thing his enemies saw was a massive figure hurtling from the darkness, a fifteen-foot-tall minotaur with the blunt, brutal head of an enormous bison and the wide, curved rack of a Texas longhorn.
A few snapped off desperate shots. But most barely managed to scream before a horn or hoof or stony fist ended them ingloriously beneath the apathetic eye of the distant moon.
Washed in that cold moonlight, Brawley finished his enemies without flourish, moving from kill to kill with businesslike efficiency. These men were liabilities. And they died, one after another, in a collage of nightmare scenes out on the range.
When the killing was over, Brawley headed downhill to rally with his women.
33
Passing the quarry, he wondered about the pink stone. He understood what it did, if not why. How much had Cherry quarried? To whom had he shipped the stone? For what purpose, and at what profit? Most importantly, how would these customers react when the shipments ended?
Quick on the heels of these questions came a notion. Perhaps his having been raised here, upon this anti-psionic bedrock, had been more than coincidence.
As he approached the ranch house, Sage strode out to meet him.
Smiling up at Brawley, the beautiful Seeker squinched her glasses up the bridge of her nose. Her left sleeve had been ripped away, and bloody gauze encased her upper arm.
“Husband,” Sage said cheerfully, “congratulations on vanquishing your enemies. I sense that you have eliminated all remaining threats.”
Brawley nodded his heavy head. “They’re dead. But this won’t go unnoticed.”
“You are correct,” Sage said. “Trucks will arrive soon, looking to load stone.”
“They might arrive, but they won’t leave. If they fight, kill them. Ot
herwise, we’ll wipe their minds.”
“With Hazel’s help, I believe that we might use these drivers to our advantage,” Sage said, “but of course, Blanton Cherry was trafficking more than stone.”
“The trailers,” Brawley said.
“Yes,” Sage said, “as Jamaal suspected, Blanton Cherry was working with the Psionic Cartel, smuggling—”
“Hey, handsome,” Remi said, swaggering out of the farmhouse with three bulging, black duffle bags thrown over each shoulder. She dropped the bags heavily on the ground at his hooves.
He didn’t ask what was in the bags because he reckoned he already knew, and only fools and conmen ask questions when they already know the answers.
“Who says crime doesn’t pay?” Remi said, and yanked a zipper, opening one of the bags. Money cascaded out in bound stacks of crisp twenty-dollar bills.
“That’s a lot of money,” Brawley said.
“One million dollars per duffle bag,” Sage said.
“There are a bunch more inside,” Remi said, smiling devilishly.
Brawley grunted with approval. Money might not buy happiness, but it sure would buy a lot of ammo.
“After my initial investigations,” Sage said, “I am also certain that Mr. Cherry had numerous assets beyond this cash. I am preparing a comprehensive list and a recommended course of action but will need to consult Frankie on technological matters.”
“I gotta talk to her, too,” Brawley said. “We need a security system pronto. People will be gunning for us, and we have a lot of ground to watch.”
His thrumming Gearhead mind filled with possibilities. Drones, motion detectors, psi sensors, FPI psionic detectors… everything tied into a central supercomputer that would analyze input and ping them with trouble. But that was a conversation to have with Frankie later. Right now, he had more pressing business.
“33,612 contiguous acres in total, husband,” Sage said, “including your parents’ ranch but not including Cherry’s out-of-state holdings. I detect that the acreage, save for your parents’ land, remains cloaked. I believe that Cherry was using a combination of Seeker and Cosmic force combined with Gearhead technology to create domes of concealment.”