And yet, he couldn’t bring himself to pull the trigger. The man was just standing there.
Ian walked over, plucked the gun from Michael’s hand, aimed and shot the man three times in the chest. The telepath slid down the wall, clutching his wounds, eyes blinking in surprise. Ian was about to plant a bullet in his skull when Michael stopped him.
“That’s enough. Keep it under control.”
Grimacing, Ian held off. They ran to Fran’s side. Michael tore off fabric from the hem of her costume, then used it to wrap the wound.
“Come on,” Ian said. “We’ll take care of her in the car.”
“Can you walk?” Michael said.
Fran nodded. She smiled when Sally Woodhouse entered the hallway. “They got you, too? Good.”
“Come on, girl,” Sally said, helping her up.
Ian led the way, gripping the pistol with both hands, sweeping each corridor they entered. The Palace was empty now. Discarded cigarette butts still smoked on the floor. Soon, there might be a fire in here for real.
“Where’s the back door?” Ian said.
“Here,” Sally said.
They made their way through the exit, Ian and Michael holding Fran upright. She was on the verge of losing consciousness.
“Come on, sweetie,” Sally said, lightly smacking her cheeks. “Stay with me now.”
An idea came to Michael. Despite his growing headache, he could still feel the power coursing through him from before, when he had stopped the enemy telepath from shooting. This had to work.
“Wake up,” he told Fran. Instantly, her eyes flew open. “You can’t feel the pain.”
Her posture straightened. A determined expression hardened her face. She was ready to go. Ian stared at Michael, too stunned to speak.
Outside, wrapped in cool currents of night air, they made their way through the maze of streets. They cut across a long-abandoned industrial yard, left to rust and collect weeds. Michael expected snipers to rise in the windows and shoot at them. A quick scan told him there was no one inside.
That same scan told him that Peter, Eli, and the others were ahead. Reggie was on top of a building at the city’s edge, overlooking the rendezvous spot, most likely providing cover with his scoped hunting rifle.
“We’re safe,” Michael said.
“My scan tells me the same,” Ian said from his side. “By the way, good work with that smoke.”
“I just used the trick you taught me. Thanks for taking care of that guy, whoever he was.”
Michael caught a glimpse of Ian’s face in the moonlight. His features were hard, emotionless.
“No problem,” Ian said. “That’s what we do, right?”
“When you boys are finished patting each other on the back,” Sally said, “how about we get the hell out of here?”
“We have a truck outside the city,” Michael said. “Come on.”
He led the way, running, until Michael stopped short. Ian and Sally crashed into his back. Spots had appeared; tiny grey shapes in the distance that he could see with his mind’s roaming eyes.
“We’ve got company.”
An old, boxy utility vehicle emerged from the blackness of the surrounding desert, bouncing along pot holes and rubble with wheels that had been fitted for off-road travel. Two men with rifles were standing on the backseat, leaning against built-in metal support rails.
“Over there,” one man shouted.
The vehicle turned toward them, its dust-coated headlamps dull and yellow.
“Decoys,” Ian said.
“Got it,” Michael said, reaching up to press two fingers to his right temple. The gesture helped anchor him to the present moment, if only momentarily. Plus, it looked cool.
He closed his eyes. With Ian’s support, phantoms sprang from their minds and ran across the yard.
The men in the rough terrain vehicle saw four people sprint across the industrial yard and turn into a street between two buildings. They took shots, but the bullets seemed to have no effect. The RTV bore down on the fleeing trespassers, though at high speeds, the bouncing made aiming the rifles difficult.
“Faster,” screamed one of the gunmen.
The driver slammed the pedal, sending the vehicle barreling forward. They launched onto the road perpendicular to the one they wanted, where the four intruders were about to disappear into the shadows. The RTV turned with a screech.
The men standing in the back took aim, licking their cracked lips in anticipation. They sighted along the barrels, trying to keep from bouncing too much from all the cracks and potholes in the pavement.
Then, the street disappeared. There was no passage, no space between the two buildings whatsoever. They barely had time to scream before the RTV crashed headfirst into a brick wall.
“Now.”
On Michael’s command, they dashed around the corner and made for the edge of town.
Here, Dominic sent, along with a nudge to guide them in the right direction.
Shots rang out behind them. Glancing over his shoulder, Michael spotted two men crawling out of the hole in the brick wall made by the vehicle, their pistols aimed at the group.
Michael stopped, turned, and raised his fingers to his right temple. He wasn’t even sure which command to use. The men had gotten down on one knee to take aim. Suddenly, they were blown back as if by a fierce wind, not Michael’s doing at all.
One man’s head jerked with such force it appeared as though he’d been punched by an invisible fist. The other man clutched his left eye, blood seeping through his fingers. They fell against what was left of the utility vehicle before sliding to the ground.
Reggie slipped out of the shadows nearby, clutching a scoped rifle. He’d gotten down here fast.
“Nice shot,” Ian said.
Michael was still catching his breath.
“What were you going to do?” Reggie said, raising an eyebrow at Michael. “Blast them with your winning smile?” He smacked him lightly on the shoulder, then glanced over at Fran and Sally. “Howdy, girls.”
“Reggie,” Sally said. “Nice to see you’re still alive.”
“You’ve lost weight,” Fran said, face pale and haggard.
Reggie studied Fran’s wound, then spoke soberly. “We’ll get you out of here alive. I promise.”
She gave him a weak smile. “Always the charmer.”
“Come on then.” Reggie led the way.
They hurried into the truck, then took off at full speed. Two utility vehicles spotted their headlights and tailed them out of the city, taking potshots.
“Figures,” Reggie said. “Try to take out the shooters first.”
Reggie and the boys fired as Dominic drove. The women huddled in the center of the truck’s bed while the boys shot out the sides. Occasionally, Fran let out a sharp moan as the truck pitched over the terrain. Rocio and Sally held her steady and comforted her.
The only shots that seemed to be doing any good were Reggie’s. He fired and reloaded his rifle with the speed of a man doling out playing cards in a casino. The boys alternated between shooting the enemy and studying his technique. In a matter of minutes, the utility vehicles disappeared in the darkness for good.
When the shooting stopped, Michael sat clutching his head and groaning. The migraine was like a dirty bomb had gone off in his skull, its radioactive poison melting his brain.
The others kept silent except to offer him water, which he waved away. Finally, under Dominic’s guidance, the boys collectively used their power to will Michael to fall asleep.
Drifting away, he’d never felt more grateful in his life.
Chapter 11
Gulch was dark except for a few misty window lights at the center of town. Sunrise was an hour away. Michael awoke as they were pulling in, the pain reduced to an aching throb.
Midas took Fran Baker away for treatment. After he removed the bullet, he allowed her family to come see her. Word spread quickly that day. By lunchtime, everyone in town had heard a v
ersion of the previous night’s events. John Meacham and his men were nowhere in sight.
Michael wasn’t there for the reunions between the women and their families and friends. He went straight to Silo Street, collapsed into his bed, and slept for twelve hours straight.
The first evening after their return, the boys showed up outside the jail where Louis Blake was still being detained. They were met by Warren, Elkin, a man with a port-wine birthmark on his face—a new addition to their team apparently, this one just as mean-looking as the rest—and two others who worked full-time at the jail, answering directly to John Meacham. The glares they gave Michael were an obvious challenge.
“He’s a free man now,” Michael said. “That was the deal.”
“I don’t remember no deal,” Warren said, pulling a revolver out of a holster attached to his belt. Like he was a cowboy from the old stories.
Peter smirked at the men, and Eli was in a staring contest with the one with the birthmark. Ian stepped forward and spoke to Warren directly, his shoulders more squared than usual. Michael got ready to step between them should Ian, or his fists, get any ideas.
Eli cut in. “His father, your boss”—indicating Ian—“said he would release Blake if we came back. John Meacham’s a man of his word. How would he like it if he found out you were making him look like a liar?”
One of the jailers spit by their feet. Ian turned murderous eyes on him.
Warren spoke, thumbing the hammer of his revolver, which Michael thought looked overly large and clunky, like an antique. “What if I told you to piss off?”
“We killed men in Praetoria,” Ian said. “We didn’t even need guns.”
“You threatening us?” Warren said.
Elkin curled his lips, exposing the brown edges around his teeth. “Your father gon’ hear about this.”
Ian was about to speak again when a truck skidded to a halt in the street alongside the jail. John Meacham opened the door and stepped out, his face pink. Angrier than usual, he was mumbling to the two men who emerged from the backseat after him. Michael already knew what it was about.
Joe Bigg and Gerald Kepplinger were missing. And Meacham had his theories as to what had become of them. Of course, he couldn’t speak up about it without implicating himself. If the people found out the dead ministers had been spending town funds—Reggie’s theory, anyway—to buy and torture a slave woman—one of their own, no less—it would be the end for him.
“All right,” Meacham said, seeing them gathered in front of the jail. “The major goes free, like I said. You boys did a service to the community.” Stopping in front of his son, he reached out a hand. “Your mother would be proud.”
Ian turned toward his motorcycle.
“Hey,” his father shouted. “Getcher ass back here.”
Michael put up a hand to stop Meacham from going after him.
“No more,” Michael said, gazing into the man’s squinty brown eyes. “He’s one of us now.”
John Meacham said nothing. He stared at Michael for a moment, his neck breaking out in red patches, then he turned, motioned for Warren to open up the jail, and got back in his truck.
They celebrated at the Cold War Café, late into the night.
Michael wasn’t much of a dancer, but he enjoyed watching everyone else. Eli had a strange way of kicking up his knees and hammering the air as if caught up in some sort of warrior dance a bunch of natives might perform around a bonfire. Peter spent most of his time flirting with Rocio, stroking her arm and laughing. Ian spent his time with Sally, talking quietly in a corner booth. He seemed more relaxed, more talkative than usual.
The town’s lights were kept on for the sake of the celebration. By the end of the night, most everyone in town was drunk and happy. Peter swung Rocio Martinez around the dance floor, his eyes drinking in the sight of her. He didn’t look away from her all night. Eli, drunker than usual, slouched in a chair against the wall and used a handkerchief to mop sweat from his brow and neck, eyes dull with pleasure.
Louis Blake, Dominic, and Reggie had stayed in Blake’s office to go over the details of the mission. Michael thought about joining them—he wanted to discuss the telepath they’d encountered—when Arielle appeared from the café’s back door with two jugs of hard cider. She set them on a table, grabbed Michael, and pulled him into the middle of the room.
“No way,” he told her. “I don’t dance.”
“Come onnn,” she whined.
“Uh-uh. Sorry.”
She seemed genuinely displeased as she turned her attention back to the drinks. Michael wondered about this as he sat next to Eli.
“You think she likes me?” Michael asked him.
“I like you,” Eli said, groggily facing him. “Come on, pumpkin. Lemme give you a smooch.”
Grabbing Michael’s head, he planted a sloppy kiss on his cheek. Michael pulled away, laughing and wiping at the slobber.
Toward the end of the night, he left the music and laughter of the café for the rasping of the frogs and crickets outside. Ian was there, standing by the front door. He leaned against the wall, smoking a cigarette.
“Hey, Mike.”
“Hey. I didn’t know you smoked.”
Ian shrugged. “I don’t.”
He took another drag off his cigarette, head tilted up at the stars.
“I never killed anyone,” Michael said abruptly, as if they were in the middle of a different conversation. “I mean, not in cold blood. While I was in control.”
Glancing at him, Ian let out a low chuckle. Then he went back to smoking and stargazing. “It haunts you afterward, like a nightmare. I killed those ministers, Bigg and Kepplinger, in cold blood. I didn’t have to, I guess. It seemed right at the time.”
“Does anyone else know?”
Ian shrugged. “I don’t care.”
“We’ll keep that between us, then. Or your dad—”
“My dad can go to hell,” Ian said, dropping the cigarette and grinding it with the heel of his boot.
“You going back inside?”
Ian shook his head. “Nope. Walking back to Silo Street. I’m not much for parties.”
“You want me to go with you?”
Ian raised an eyebrow. “Depends. You gonna hold my hand?”
“Only if you ask me nicely.”
They both chuckled at this. Ian walked down the road, a slouching silhouette in the dark. Then he turned to face Michael.
“She likes you,” he said. “You should go for it.”
Michael frowned. “Who does?”
“Dumbass,” Ian said, shaking his head as he continued. He strolled with his hands in his pockets, shaved head tilted slightly to face the stars.
“Arielle,” Michael said in a whisper. “You mean Arielle, don’t you?”
People were still singing and dancing inside the café. The lights were on, probably wired to the generator at this point. He considered going back inside, but it was late, and he was tired of the noise.
He waited ten minutes to give Ian some space, then began the walk toward Silo Street. He had barely started when he heard the door to the café open and close. A female voice called after him.
“Michael, wait.”
He turned, hoping to see Arielle. Instead, Sally Woodhouse bounded up to him, covered in a light sheen of sweat from dancing. Her beauty and upbeat nature seemed untouched by the horrors she had endured in Praetoria. She possessed a kind of strength Michael would never understand.
“Hi, Sally,” he said.
She frowned. “Leaving already? This is your night.”
“I’m beat.”
She crossed her arms over her chest. “I don’t understand you men sometimes. You’re perfectly willing to rush into battle and face death, even take a life if need be, but when it comes to approaching a woman, you’re just—you turn into kitty cats.”
Michael held up his hands to slow her down.
“Sally, hold on. You’re very pretty, and I would totally
—I mean… For one thing…”
She made a tsk sound, rolling her eyes. “Not me, stupid. Arielle. She was just asking about you. Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed.”
Michael’s attention drifted over Sally’s shoulder to the Cold War Café, where he could see figures moving beyond the windows, embracing and wishing each other a good night. Arielle was probably in there right now, cleaning up after the revelry.
Maybe he should offer to help? And once everyone else was gone, maybe he could pull her aside and speak the words he’d been imagining sharing with her since they first met. Those three words: I…
“I just can’t,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m not meant to stay here long. I have to go to New Dallas at some point. It’s been the plan all along.”
Deep disappointment settled over Sally’s features.
“I’m sorry to hear that, Michael. You’ll be missed.”
He shrugged. “It’s still six or eight months away, maybe longer.”
“And you can’t possibly spend that time with her?”
Michael felt a thrill quiver inside his chest, as if a string connecting his heart and stomach had been plucked.
“If I did that, I don’t know if I could leave afterward.”
“Then don’t leave.”
“What?”
“Then. Don’t. Leave. Who’s forcing you?”
He focused on the darkened buildings of Gulch, the rooftops a watery, peaceful shade of blue in the moon’s light. He felt safe here, comfortable. Suddenly, the thought of leaving brought a sour taste to his mouth. His reasons had something to do with his parents and Benny—bringing justice to the men who had killed them—and Blake’s suggestion Michael join the New Dallas Republic’s army so he’d be able to defend himself against Harris Kole’s men. Against men like that telepath he’d seen in Praetoria.
With Arielle’s face in mind, none of that seemed to matter anymore.
“Can I tell you something personal, Mike?”
Bloodcrier: The Complete Two-Book Series Page 30