This was where I half-expected Millen to call out something like, “You men are in violation of the town’s firearms ban. Drop your weapons and raise your hands.” Hell, knowing Millen, he might say, “Howdy, men. I see you’re just in from driving that herd north. You’re welcome in Tombstone, or Dodge City, as long as you don’t raise a ruckus.”
There were other things Millen could have said. But he didn’t say any of them, just fired his shotgun.
The man who’d first spotted Millen took enough buckshot to fling him against two other men, one of whom spun from a few hits to his right side.
I’d known we were in for a fight, although I’d supposed there was a thread of hope we could talk our way out of it. I was also uneasy about shooting people in broad daylight on a town’s street when they hadn’t yet done anything. However, acting even if you’re uneasy trumps freezing once the shooting starts. Whether Millen was justified or not was moot.
The three unwounded men hadn’t noticed me standing only twenty meters away on the same side of the street. I aimed at the narrow distance between two of the men, figuring the buckshot cone would hit both. It might have been too ambitious because both men were reacting to Millen. I saw multiple hits on one man’s torso, but the other man had faster reflexes and dove toward the garage opening. I thought he’d taken one or more shotgun pellets, but it couldn’t have been serious because he moved so fast.
Millen fired a second time, catching in the back the man he’d spun around with the first shot. His flight forward and the spray of blood left no doubt he was permanently indisposed. My second shot caught the man I’d wounded before he disappeared into the shop. A significant part of his head separated from his body. I wasn’t pleased because I’d aimed at his back.
After his second shot, Millen dove into the building behind him. He must have already opened the door because he barreled in without touching the doorknob. A fraction of a second later, a meter-wide section of the building’s wood exterior—right where Millen had been standing—turned into blackened, flying pieces of burning charcoal. Cherkoff’s men had a laser a hell of a lot more powerful than a handheld model. If Millen hadn’t moved fast, he’d have been only the lower half of Millen.
Gunfire followed immediately, peppering the building’s front.
“They don’t realize where you are,” Millen said in my earpiece. “There must be a rear entrance. Tell me what you find. I’ll keep their attention.”
I was in front of a bakery with a hand-made “Closed” sign in a window filled with either mockups of cakes and pastries or the real things. In one of those inane ideas that happened at the oddest times, I thought that if the displays were real, they must be stale and hard as rocks. The thought vanished as I kicked in the door, not bothering to see if it was unlocked. I ran from the sales area into the kitchen. Two women huddled together in a corner next to a large double oven whose open lower door had a tray of browned rolls stuck halfway out. Both women had flour smudges and looked like they thought I was about to shoot them.
“God damn it! What are you two still doing in this part of Justice? Weren’t you told to evacuate? Stay there!” I ordered and kept going through a storeroom to a back door. I put an ear to the door but only heard one of the women behind me whimpering and more gunfire on the street. Cracking the door, I could see down an alley in the direction of the cycle shop but not in the other direction. The shop extended farther from the street than the bakery and the adjoining building, but it looked like the alley turned left and ran alongside the cycle shop.
It wasn’t likely any of Cherkoff’s men were in the alley in the other direction but making assumptions could get you dead. I opened the bakery’s back door enough to spin to one knee facing the other direction, shotgun ready. The alley was empty. I raced to the corner where the alley turned alongside the cycle shop and peered around the corner. A featureless outer wall ran another thirty or forty meters—no windows or doors. By the time I got to the next corner, I heard more gunfire.
“Getting a little hotter in here,” said Millen in my ear. “I’m moving to the next building. Have to breach an opening into the next shop. Tell me when you’re ready, and I’ll put an RPG into the garage.”
We had only a couple of the rocket-propelled grenades. They were a small model that could be fired from the rifle attachment. It might not demolish the building like larger versions, but it would definitely get the attention of Cherkoff’s men when it came sailing through the open garage door.
As for moving, I assumed he meant he was going to blast an opening in the wall to the adjacent building. That would give him a more direct line into the garage. Both of us carried a single breaching charge. The type we had wasn’t the safest to carry around and use, but it had the advantage of being quick. Two chemicals with long names mixed as they exited from a small spray can. We had only four of the cans, and they were one-shot usage. You supposedly had six seconds from when you started to spray to ducking after you threw the can in the opposite direction. The “supposedly” part always bothered me.
The back of the building had disposal containers in various stages of fullness, empty boxes and strewn trash, a rollup door large enough for good-sized vehicles, and a regular door. Three men burst out of the latter and raced in the other direction. I took aim, but they were around the far corner before I could fire.
“Three men out the back. Probably going to try and come around behind you.”
I tried the door. It either had locked itself or was locked by someone inside after the three men exited.
“I’m at the back door. I’ll have to breach.”
“Tell me when you spray.”
“Okay.”
I waited. A minute later, I heard a muffled thump over the gunfire of Cherkoff’s men. Another minute passed until Millen sent, “I’m in position.”
I assumed Millen had used his breaching charge to create a hole into the adjoining shop. I’d used similar breaching equipment before and hated it. No matter what the instructions said about how much time you had, the sight of the explosive liquid coating a surface within reach couldn’t help but make you wonder if this batch knew what the instructions said.
I keyed my comm. “Here it goes. Starting the breach.”
The black can’s lid came off with a hard but careful twist. As idiotic as it sounds, I knew of a case where a man had accidentally sprayed himself, with terminal consequences. I’d always wondered what he thought about in those last seconds.
In this model, the nozzle pointing perpendicular to the axis of the can had a thumb switch safety that I flicked off. I stepped back as far as I could, while still holding the can within a few centimeters of the door. I shifted my feet, ready to run. I sprayed circles around the doorknob and the three hinges, quickly threw the can as hard as I could to the left, then ran three steps right before hitting the ground.
My eyes were closed, and I lay on the ground pointed away from the door. Still, a flash hit my retinas, as the ground shook and something walloped the bottom of one boot. A fraction of a second later, another explosion shook the ground. From experience, I knew the second blast was the remainder of the can’s contents going off. A small amount of mixture had been left on the nozzle, which then ignited the rest of the contents. I sat up and saw the door missing and a hole in a building on the other side of the alley, where my throw had landed. I jumped up, as an explosion indicated that Millen had fired his RPG into Wakefield’s garage.
Time was critical. The shock of the explosions would wear off quickly. I didn’t need to take time to consider the next move. I jumped up and charged through the gap where the door had been. The charge had ripped the door from its lock and hinges.
I was in a workshop full of cycles, a disassembled electric cart, and pieces of equipment on benches, racks, and the floor, at least some of the latter put there by my breach. Smoke and dust obscured a man lying on the floor near a door leading somewhere. I only noticed him when he fired. What felt like a clu
b hit me in the abdomen, knocking me backward and emptying the air in my lungs. The Dynaflex’s reactive layer buffered the impact, but enough of the kinetic energy transferred to me that I wasn’t standing anymore when the man shot again at where I had been. Having the man located, I fired sitting on my ass from five meters away. I didn’t need to check on him after that.
Breath returned, and I could hear yelling and firing elsewhere in the building.
“Coming in!” Millen yelled into my ear, and I heard his shotgun fire twice.
I got to my feet, rushed through the open door, and landed in a kneeling position, shotgun tracking for a target. A dead body lay halfway to the front of the store, draped across a jumble of cycles toppled by Millen’s grenade. Millen came through the garage door and jumped behind a metal desk. Automatic machine pistol fire stitched a path following him, but it didn’t quite catch up before he was out of sight. The man holding the short-barreled, magazine-fed weapon didn’t have time to turn to me before my last shotgun cartridge took off one of his arms and the other hand and shattered the ceramic machine pistol into a dozen pieces.
I would have to practice with the shotgun. I wasn’t used to the feel and had aimed for his body, the third time my aim was off with the weapon. However, its purpose was served—he was out of action. I ignored his screams as they tailed off. There had to be more men left somewhere in the building.
I hugged the back wall of the room, crouched, reloaded, and moved slowly toward an open door. It led to an office in one corner of a large showroom. Even with smoke and dust, I could see newer cycles between the office and the shop’s front, with older cycles, probably for sale or rent, taking up the long side of the room.
“Hold up until I get to that little room’s other side,” said Millen.
I couldn’t tell whether Millen saw a blank wall or windows into the office.
No more than ten seconds passed before a voice called out from the office.
“Don’t shoot! We give up!”
Not shooting is always a good option for all parties, and I called back, “Throw out any weapons, and come out with hands in the air where we can see them. Don’t do anything dumb.” I hadn’t forgotten the men who had turned weapons toward me, even though I had the drop on them.
Millen called out pretty much the same message. It didn’t hurt to let whoever was thinking of surrendering know there was more than one of us and in different positions. A rifle was flung out the office door and bounced among the cycles before ending up between decorative spokes of a wheel. I winced. Depending on the firearm, it could have seated another round or fired off one already chambered.
“Just slide the damn things out on the floor!” I yelled.
Two pistols followed, and then another rifle and a shotgun. This time all four pieces slid a meter or more into the showroom.
“Now walk out with hands up, and don’t even think about making a move toward your guns,” commanded Millen.
The first man was in his thirties, average height and build, with two-days’ growth of beard and darting eyes as he licked his lips. “Don’t shoot! We give up! Don’t shoot!”
“Yeah, we heard you,” I said, as two more men came out. One man had only his left hand up because his right arm hung to his side, blood soaking his shirtsleeve and dripping behind him. He looked like he was going to collapse, and I wanted them both farther from the guns before he did.
“Keep moving to the middle of the room. You. Second guy. Help your friend.”
The second man put an arm around the wounded one, and they walked slowly together away from the office.
“Anybody else in the office or this room?” asked Millen. Both of us were still crouched behind the protection of cycles or furniture.
“No,” said the first man. “Three went out the back. I don’t know where they are now.”
“Probably trying to work around you,” I said to Millen. “That would make twelve accounted for in this group. The estimate was eleven each for the other two groups.”
“Close enough, considering we didn’t get word and have the drone up before this group was already inside Wakefield’s.”
“That’s probably all of them in this group,” said Millen. “Normally, we’d want to confirm and deal with the three you saw go out the back, but we’ve the other two groups to worry about. How are you?”
“One hit in the gut. The suit took care of it. Might leave a bruise.” Usually, major bruises developed only where a round hit near a bone, which limited soft tissue from absorbing the kinetic energy. I’d had my share, and the bruises could be brutal from a high-powered weapon. But, hey, bruises meant the round hadn’t penetrated the suit.
“How about you?”
“Also one hit. Not as lucky. Pistol round at my kneecap. I’ll be limping for a week or more, but it won’t slow me down unless it swells in a few hours. Frisk these three while I watch. I’ll comm the groups the status and remind them to stay put until we tell them to move.”
Millen spoke quietly into his comm, pistol pointed at our three prisoners, while I searched them. Nothing lethal on them, but I took their comms. I had them lie face-down, then huddled with Millen five meters from the men.
“I talked with Ostell,” Millen whispered. “Jason Nazar was busy watching Cherkoff’s men. Ostell says they exchanged a few shots, then Cherkoff’s men backed off. He doesn’t know where they went. It could be any of three directions: back to the main roadblock, north to arrive at the main part of Justice from the east, or toward us. All three of Cherkoff’s groups had to have been in comm contact, so they know pretty much what happened here. If nothing else, the three men you saw go out the back must have reported in. I also checked with Ashraf. He heard the shooting, too, but says the western group of Cherkoff’s men is continuing in their direction using Cedar Street. Ashraf has a man shadowing them on a parallel street.”
“We need to move,” I said. “The shooting identified where we’re at. What do we do about the three we’re missing?”
“Let ’em be for now. Just be aware they’re around. They might lay for us, but I’d bet they’re either trying to get back to the hovercraft or joining one of the other groups.”
“None of those looked like Cherkoff,” I said, “and he’s not one of these three on the floor.”
“Yeah, I’m beginning to think he’s not along for this rodeo.”
Millen walked over to hold the barrel of his pistol against an unwounded man’s head. “Who’s ramrodding this drive?”
“Huh?”
“Maybe he doesn’t speak any Western dialect,” I suggested.
Millen put more pressure on the gun. “Who’s in charge of today’s raid on Justice?”
“Osterman,” the man answered, gesturing toward the body draped over the cycles. I nodded toward Millen with satisfaction. This wasn’t a trained military force with a hierarchical structure. Taking out the leader would confuse the rest.
“Are you in contact with Cherkoff?” I asked.
“I know Osterman was. I don’t know about anybody else.”
Millen came back to me and lowered his voice. “East or west?”
I knew he’d referred to the other two groups of Cherkoff’s men. “We don’t know the Nazar brothers, and I have the impression Ostell may be committed but is not normally a man of action. Also, if Ostell’s right and the group they saw has moved, we don’t know their exact location or direction of movement. We’d have to search for them. Ashraf is the more certain leader to work with, and he’s got an eye on the western group. I’d go with Ashraf and see if we can catch the western group between us. But what are we going to do with these three? Tie them up?” I asked. “Can’t let the unwounded ones run back to the hovercraft and pass word about the direction we headed.”
I eyed Millen. “And we can’t just kill them once they surrendered.” Always good to let the man know where I stood before he acted without my input. Killing during a fight was one thing, but there was a limit to where I
’d go.
“No problem,” said Millen and walked back to the two unwounded men on the floor. His hand blurred, as he drew his pistol and shot both of them in a calf.
“Ach!!” yelled one of the men, the other one hissing, “Pizdet!” which sounded Russian. Both of them clutched their lower legs and rolled on the floor.
“Why’d you do that?!” cried one man.
“Don’t want to bother locking you up, and my friend here doesn’t want to kill you. It was a compromise. The three of you get yourselves back to the hovercraft sitting at the town’s outskirts. I suggest you get tended to, then leave the Justice area permanently.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t have shot those two,” I said. “They were already going to be slow, helping the guy missing an arm.”
“I doubt that’s going to happen,” said Millen. “I think the one you shot bled out.”
I checked. Millen was right.
Millen used his comm to take face pictures. “These will be posted, and everyone will be told to shoot on sight if you’re ever seen in or around Justice again. You may wonder about other citizens doing it, but I assume you’re confident Mr. Cole and I will not hesitate.”
I walked toward the garage opening, then stopped. Near the door was the source of the laser beam that could have incinerated Millen.
“Damn!” I exclaimed. “Where the hell did they get an anti-air laser?” The two-meter-long housing was mounted on a powered cart with a one-meter--square battery and capacitor towed behind. “I don’t know the model, but I’d guess it was originally meant to be part of an armored vehicle of some kind. How did it get to Astrild, unless it came from the manufactory?”
Millen joined me in examining a weapon heavier than anything we’d expected. “We can look into that later,” he said. “Let’s hope this is Cherkoff’s only one.”
I just shook my head and peered out the garage opening to check the street.
“No sign of anyone,” I said. “Whichever way we go, we’ll be exposed if the three who went out the back are waiting for us.”
A Tangled Road to Justice Page 23