by James Axler
"I'm listening, Strasser."
He jumped as the bald man slapped himself noisily on the thigh. "Fuck'n blood! You've changed, old man! Be pleasurable to break you all the way back down again, wouldn't it?" Doc didn't reply. "But for now you just tell me where One-Eye and the others are, and when they're due back."
Once again Doc knew that Strasser could easily torture the information from any poor innocent off the wag train, so there was no point in lying.
"Scouting. Due back after dawn."
Strasser rose and stretched, eyes locked to Doc Tanner's face. "Sounds possible. Course, I'll ask around to make sure. But that probably means Ryan's already here in the ville. Come first light we'll have us a hunt. Thanks, Dr. Tanner. Ten out of ten." He turned to the guards. "Put him with the rest and keep him real careful. Old fucker's priceless."
Chapter Twenty-Three
RYAN HAD SPENT some of his waking hours trying to look ahead and guess how Cort Strasser might react. The former sec boss would have Doc by now. He might have chilled the old man, but Ryan didn't see that as a likely possibility. Doc alive was far more valuable than Doc dead, and Strasser had always been strong on values.
Mildred was a different matter. There was still a chance that the black woman remained safe, hidden by the sheer numbers of the settlers on the wag train—until someone saw the value of betraying her. Ryan's choice for that role was Elder Vare.
By now it was more than a possibility that Strasser was aware that Ryan and the others were somewhere out there. Skullface's mind worked in simple ways: I have Doc Tanner, he'll know where Ryan Cawdor is, I'll torture him to find out. Or rather: I'll torture someone else in front of kindhearted Doc Tanner and then he'll tell me where Ryan Cawdor is.
So, Strasser would try to take them. That was one area where there wasn't any doubt at all. Forgiving and forgetting didn't feature in Cort Strasser's mind.
Stay or run?
To run was a tempting option. With the horses tethered back up the hill, they could put a lot of distance between themselves and Salvation, loop around south toward the Grandee and carry on like before.
"Like nothing happened," Ryan whispered to himself, sitting by the back door of the ruined house, watching the first tendrils of light from the false dawn creeping across the sky.
He shook his head. No. At least not yet. Despite what his tactical brain told him, there was no way he could just walk away from Doc and Mildred. Not until all the other options had totally disappeared.
If they were dead he'd probably try to pick off Strasser with the G-12 and then run. As long as he knew they were both alive he'd do what he could.
J.B. appeared out of the dim half-light at his shoulder, wiping smears of condensation from his glasses. The night had been cool.
"We staying, Ryan?" he asked.
"Yeah. For a while. That okay with you?"
The slight figure nodded. "Sure. Hell, I knew that all along, Ryan."
None of the prisoners were fed that morning. Strasser and his force were too busy for that kind of consideration.
A caldron of creek water was carried in, and the settlers straggled up to dip their cupped hands in it and drink.
When Doc had been returned to the others, he'd made a deliberate attempt to keep away from Mildred, knowing that Strasser was wily enough to watch him and see if he had any special friends among the group.
The black woman had caught his warning signal and had stayed away, waiting until Doc joined the line for water. Then she managed to push in alongside him in the gloomy confines of the engine shed, glancing around to make sure none of the armed guards were paying them any special attention. "You all right?" she whispered. "Thank you, ma'am, the agony has somewhat abated now."
"What?" Mildred wondered if Doc had really slithered back over the edge.
"A small jest. They know about Ryan and the others."
"How? You tell them, Doc?" She was unable to keep the reproach from her voice.
"Oh, there was a choice, Dr. Wyeth," he hissed. "I could have simply sat in that luxurious coach and watched as Strasser popped children's eyes from their sockets."
"Oh, shit. I'm sorry, Doc. Truly."
"He knows Ryan and the others are somewhere out there, but he doesn't know where. He'll try to hunt them down this morning."
The old man received a slap across the upper arm from a guard who'd stepped in close. "Shut youse fuckin' mouth, dog's prick!"
Doc kept quiet.
KRYSTY HAD FOUND an old photograph, its glass cracked, fallen behind the shell of one of the beds. It showed three children, two boys and a girl, squinting at the camera in a placid, sun-drenched afternoon, before sky-dark and the mega-cull. Someone had written the names of the three children very neatly beneath the picture. Though it had faded, it was still legible: Cathy, Feroze And Randall—The Three Immortals.
Ryan read the inscription and laid the photo back on the floor, in a corner.
"Immortals," he said sadly.
Jak broke into his thoughts, calling in a low urgent voice from by the rotted screen of the front door.
"Company."
Ryan and J.B. had talked through their plans, though it was totally flexible, depending on what Strasser did.
With about thirty men and women under his control, the ex-Mocsin sec boss wasn't likely to commit them all to a dangerous chase. He also had about a hundred prisoners, which would require at least a dozen guards. Salvation was a small ville, but the buildings were well spread and largely overgrown.
"What if chance chill fuckers?" Jak asked, coming into the living room.
"Good question."
Ryan glanced at J.B. "We stay hid and Strasser might figure we're long gone. Could relax."
The Armorer bit his lip. "You figure that, Ryan?"
"No. Guess not. Too much iron and blood between us. He'll know we'll come back. So, if you get a safe chance to take one of them out, do it."
Major Ward stood to one side, hands hooked in his belt. "I was never that good at close-in fighting."
"That's fair," Ryan agreed. "Man says he can do what he can't can screw up everything. Just keep with us, and keep quiet. That's the main thing. Quiet. And keep watching for any signal. Worst comes to it and you have to start shooting, make all the bullets count. All right?"
The wag master tugged at his neat silver mustache. "Sure, sure." He had a clear note of hesitation and doubt in his voice.
"What?" Ryan probed.
"Never shot a man before."
"Good time to think about starting," Krysty told him.
STRASSER DID IT the way that Ryan would have done it—two men each side of the township, covering any possible break from the buildings, the rest in a skirmish line, moving through the ville and trying to check out every house, store and garage.
But the derelict home that Ryan and the others had chosen was off the main drag, near the edge of the ville, some way off from the railroad terminal.
And searching for armed killers is a very slow and nerve-racking business. There could be a blaster behind every door and window, in every loft and cellar, under every shrub and clump of mesquite.
Strasser's gang were ice-heart killers, but they weren't a disciplined sec force. Within an hour there were complaints, and the line was beginning to straggle and break up.
Jak sneaked out, Magnum in his belt and one of his lethal throwing knives clenched in his teeth. He reappeared in a half hour, a feral grin showing his teeth, eyes glittering like bright rubies.
"Lost it," he said, glancing back over his shoulders, toward the enveloping yew hedge.
"They still coming?" J.B. asked.
"Sure. Some given up. Some one house, some others. Hot. Tired. Fuck-useless."
Ryan glanced out of the back window. There was a fresh temptation to leave the house and head for the dry creek bed, try to work around beyond the deteriorating line of hunters. But he resisted, knowing that the best cards would still lie in his hand if they all kept
together and waited.
Their own water supply was shrinking fast, but the afternoon was well on, and once dark came it would be relatively simple to creep around to the river.
The house also protected Ryan and the others from the worst of the day's heat. It was very warm and sultry, with insects humming busily through the low-ceilinged rooms. But the pitiless power of the brazen sun was kept outside.
Each of them took a quadrant, waiting below the level of the windows, every now and again risking a quick glance. Ryan kept moving around, pausing and listening by the front and rear doors.
Every now and then he could hear sounds from the advancing searchers, an odd yell or the shrill blast of a whistle. Once there was a shot and a lot of shouting, but that had been over an hour ago.
Jak offered to go out again for a recce, and after some thought Ryan agreed. The more they knew about Strasser's plans against them, the better they might combat them. This time the albino boy was back in less than ten minutes.
"Close. Got three now on hill, far side creek, watching. Some gone back. All split up. Not alert. Strasser's far side street."
"How many houses away, Jak?" J.B. asked, drawing his Tekna knife with its distinctive, serrated back edge.
"Three."
"Time to get ourselves ready, friends," Ryan announced, drawing his own heavy-bladed panga and spitting lightly on the steel.
Rather than bunch together it had been agreed that they would split up and hide themselves separately amongst the lush vegetation of the garden.
Ryan picked a huge clump of brilliantly flowering hedgehog cactus, sliding in behind it, his back against the impenetrable wall of yew.
Outside in the later afternoon sunshine he could now hear Strasser's hunters drawing closer. He slowed his breath and waited.
Chapter Twenty-Four
STRASSER HAD TAKEN UP a position on the western side of the main street, keeping himself in the spreading pools of shade as much as possible. As the abortive search dragged on, he was beginning to regret his decision to scour the ville.
His men were tiring, and it had been necessary to flog one of them into bloody unconsciousness to prevent a direct challenge to his authority. He tried to put himself into Ryan's mind, struggling to guess what the one-eyed man might be planning. All he could hold to was the certainty that Ryan wouldn't have left the ville while the old cretin Tanner was still in his hands. But where? They'd already combed through nearly three-quarters of Salvation, and there hadn't been the least sign of them.
He saw his lieutenant go across one of the side streets, still twirling the nunchaku sticks.
"Rafe?"
"Yeah, boss?"
"Keep 'em at it."
"Sure."
"The one who finds them gets the pick of any five of the prisoners. For anything they want. Tell them that."
Rafe held up his right hand, bringing finger and thumb together. As he half turned away again, Strasser called again to him.
"Tell 'em to watch out."
PEERING AROUND the spikes of the cactus, Ryan was able to see the corner of the house and part of the wall near the broken front door, watching as Strasser's patrol finally reached them.
"Tired and careless," Ryan breathed.
There were four—three men, and a woman in torn pants. All carried M-16s, and all looked as if they came from somewhere close to the Grandee.
They were only going through the motions, and if Ryan and the others had been hiding inside the house, all four would have died almost immediately. Two waited outside, either side of the door, while the other pair ran halfheartedly inside.
After a muffled shout, the four were inside and Ryan could glimpse them through the dulled glass of the side window, moving around the rooms.
Using the baffle silencer on the SIG-Sauer, Ryan was tempted to ghost in after the four thugs and chill them. But he figured that Strasser would probably have ordered some sort of backup patrol following to check any attempt to slip out the back door from the searchers.
The four came out again, barely bothering to take even a cursory glance around the wilderness that had once been a trig and trim garden. Three of them lighted cigarettes and stood together talking quietly. One of the men, short and plump, had allowed his right hand to creep around the back of the woman, fondling her buttocks, slipping his fingers through one of the ragged tears in her pants and caressing her high between the thighs. She, in turn, pressed her hip against his, turning to smile at him.
Ryan felt a trickle of sweat running down his chest, across the flat, muscular wall of his stomach. Moving with infinite slowness he switched the panga into his other hand, wiping sweat from his fingers on the thigh of his breeches. Waiting.
There they were. The backup that he'd predicted Strasser would have ordered. But he guessed that Jordan Teague's old sec boss wouldn't have been pleased to see the languid way his men were now operating, late in the tedious, sweltering day.
They had their rifles slung across their backs, and they sauntered into the garden, hands in pockets. Both were smoking and greeted the other four with a negligent shout.
They all hung around, chatting, and Ryan realized that these six must be the lingering rearguard, with nobody else following behind. If they were going to deplete Strasser's forces, this could be the time to think about it. But it had to be done quietly.
One yell and they could have another fifteen or more armed killers surrounding them.
Two of the original four started to move off, leaving behind the pair of newcomers and their own comrades. The man and the woman.
It was the woman who said something to the tail-gaters, getting a muted guffaw of bawdy laughter. It became obvious to Ryan what she'd been saying as she turned and slid down the zipper on the plump man's pants, inserting her hand in an utterly unmistakable gesture.
The two of them started to pick their way through the garden toward Ryan's hiding place, making him draw his hand blaster. But they veered to the right, behind one of the yuccas, and he could hear them pushing through some long, dry grass.
The last two of Strasser's men lay back in the door of the house, dozing in the late-afternoon sunshine. Away toward the street side of the garden, Ryan thought he heard the faint sound of a scuffle, but he strained and heard nothing more.
The only sound now in the garden was a woman giggling and then the sound of a slap, followed by laughter. One of the men by the house pushed his cap back off his eyes and joined in the laughter, calling out some words of encouragement to his comrade in what Ryan guessed was Mexican.
Bringing more laughter.
Now the noises that Ryan could hear from his right were unmistakable—a rhythmic, thrusting sound, the dry grass crackling as it was crushed down. The voice of the woman reached him, muttering in a guttural monotone, the words keeping time with the movements.
Ryan squinted again past the cactus, noticing that the pair of Strasser's men by the house's faded walls were both dozing, eyes closed. To his right was a clump of heavily scented mountain laurel, covered with violet flowers. Behind it was a narrow gap to the thick hedge of dark green yew.
Cautiously, and totally without any sound, Ryan eased himself from behind the cactus, along past the glossy leaves of the laurel, hearing the panting of the couple growing louder and more insistent.
The smooth hilt of the panga was snug in his right hand, and he'd slowed his breathing, maintaining full control over himself, knowing that the next minute or so could alter the lives of everyone in the garden.
EDUARDO MENGELE was drawing close to the gates of paradise. Maria Holt had been Rafe's woman. Then, when the lieutenant of Skullface became tired of her incessant demands, she had shifted to Raul. On to Iago Compostella and then…then Eduardo couldn't remember. But he'd begun to think that Maria would never look in his direction at all.
The news they were to hunt the township for a man with one eye, a woman with hair like living fire and a boy whose hair was like the cold snow on the hi
gh peaks beyond the Grandee had been painful at first. Then he had found himself allocated to a foursome with Maria—Thunderthighs as she was known around the campfires.
She'd smiled at him, taken the cigarettes he'd offered her and laughed at his joke about the mutie and the two handfuls of buffalo chips even though he'd gotten the ending a little wrong. As the day and the heat wore on, Eduardo had felt his need for her growing as he watched the chubby segments of dusty thigh that peeked through her ripped pants.
Now Boss Strasser had called them in, said they'd start again in the morning. Eventually they'd catch these enemies. Then there'd been pleasure in watching how the boss dealt with them. Eduardo Mengele knew about pain, and he'd never seen anyone so skilled as the black-clothed man in administering it.
Now, he was thrusting his way toward the gates of paradise.
Ryan was conscious of the strong smell of old dry dust as he pushed his way quietly past the sharp leaves of the yew hedge, moving with an infinity of caution until he could see the interlocked figures ahead of him.
The man was on his back in the small, trampled clearing, pants hoicked down to his plump ankles. The woman's torn trousers were in the grass and she squatted on top of the man, bracing herself with hands on his hairy chest, head thrown back. The guttural panting was jerked from between her clenched teeth as she neared her own climax.
Ryan edged around until he was directly behind her, out of sight of the moaning man, whose boots were now pushing hard against the sandy soil, pressing himself onward and upward.
It was a scene frozen in a wilderness. Apart from the thrashing couple and their silent watcher, nothing else existed. They could all have been a thousand miles away from another human being.
Ryan, crouching, stepped from cover, the panga in his hand.
EDUARDO WAS locked tight in a living daydream. His eyes were squeezed shut and his nails gouged into the yellow earth beneath him. All that had been said about Maria was true. She was truly giving him two downs for every up, her hips sucking him deep into the warm, moist core of her body. Her nails were raking at his chest, but the pain was a tiny and insignificant thing.