McVie scratched at his chin, screwing up his eyes as he thought. "Guess there must be, 'cause we must have planned the patrols somehow. But it's been such a while that I can't…just used to doing it from memory," he added.

 

 Jak said nothing, but it crossed his mind that the sec patrols had been taking the same routes for so long that they had grown stale, maybe not so attentive to change. That would make them soft, and easy prey for the saboteurs.

 

 "Tell you what," McVie said finally, "come with me."

 

 Jak followed the sec man across the camp, past the area where the radio shack was erected, and to the back of the blockhouse where the food for the camp was prepared and served.

 

 "In here," McVie said, beckoning Jak to follow him through a door that led past the kitchens and into a small office area. It was a room barely big enough for the table and chair that stood in it, and the table was bare on top, with two drawers beneath. "Myall keeps our patrol schedules and routes in here," he said as he opened one of the drawers. "I don't know what's what, seeing as how I don't read, but I guess there must be a map of some kind here as we had to know where we were going in the first place, right?"

 

 The stocky sec man took a bundle of papers from the table drawer and placed them on the top. He spread some of them out, looking for something that was a drawing rather than covered in—to him—incomprehensible writing. There were several drawn maps, and although all of them were labeled, he was unable to work out which ones mapped out which areas.

 

 "Hell, I sure hope you can make something out of all this." He shrugged, stepping back to let Jak come near. The albino had limited reading skills, but he knew enough and had enough intelligence to work out which of the maps were of the camp area, and which of the well and refinery. He picked out two maps that folded out to nearly the area of the table, and put the rest of the papers back in the drawer, closing it.

 

 "Tell Myall have these," he remarked to McVie.

 

 "Yeah, sure," the stocky sec man replied. "Wanna tell me why you got them, just so I can tell him?"

 

 Jak studied the sec man's face, his red eyes piercing over his thin, hawklike nose. McVie felt a shiver of fear pass over him at the cold way Jak regarded him, like an eagle about to stoop on its prey. For his part, Jak was trying to decide whether McVie was asking the question from anything other than an idle curiosity.

 

 Finally, he replied, "Just say Ryan need." He walked past McVie and out of the office, leaving the stocky sec man with the feeling that he had come close to buying the farm, without being able to explain why he had that feeling.

 

 When Jak arrived back at the companions' quarters with the maps, Ryan and J.B. spread them out across the long dining table. The two maps joined together to form a long diagram of the work camp, the refinery, the well and the area in between.

 

 "Look at this," J.B. said as he indicated the area between. "In the dark night there are blind spots where even the most alert of sec patrols could be avoided."

 

 "Even if the saboteurs used wags like the one we saw the other night? Surely the sound would carry across the desert and alert us," Dean said.

 

 "Yeah, but any wag could outrun those horses, so the speed would beat the noise factor hands down," Mildred pointed out.

 

 "That's true," Ryan agreed. "If we leave the work camp to Myall and his men, to keep it sealed at night, that still leaves us a lot of ground to cover with just the seven of us."

 

 "Then may I suggest, my dear Ryan," Doc said as he removed one of the maps and let it fall to the floor with a gentle flutter, "that we completely forget about the area between there and here, and concentrate instead on the work sites themselves."

 

 "Problem there is that we've got the pipeline between to cover," Krysty said, running her index finger along the line on the map that represented the pipe system linking the well to the refinery and the storage tanks.

 

 Ryan examined the map closely. It was a relatively large area, and an extremely awkward shape to cover from all angles.

 

 "J.B., what do you reckon?" Ryan asked his old friend. The Armorer had a mind like a steel trap when it came to sec matters.

 

 "My opinion?" J.B. pushed his spectacles up the bridge of his nose. "I don't think we can actually cover the whole area completely with just the seven of us. And I don't think we can trust the sec here to help us. Not," he added hurriedly as he saw Crow's expression, "because they aren't any good, or might be behind this, but because they're not used to being with us, and it'd be more difficult to manage if they were just running around out there trying to second-guess what we were doing."

 

 "You'd have the radios," Crow said simply.

 

 "Yeah, but we know how to fight together. They'd get in the way and make it hard. They could end up getting hurt. More important, they could stop us getting at whoever is behind this," Ryan interjected.

 

 Returning his attention to J.B. he asked, "So how do we quarter this up?"

 

 The Armorer felt in one of his pockets and produced a stub of pencil with which he drew a series of lines swift and straight across the map. "Way I see it, there are twelve points on here where they could stage an attack that would take out the site and cause a lot of damage." He marked twelve points: two at the storage tanks, three along the pipeline, two at the well and five at the refinery buildings, including the pipes that ran between them. "We need to keep a constant watch on those twelve."

 

 "Except there are only seven of us," Krysty added.

 

 Ryan nodded. "So the best thing we can do is take seven of those points on each watch, keep on them for four hours, then move around to another seven points for the next four."

 

 "That keeps the night watch busy, and covers all points, but leaves five points unprotected for half the night."

 

 "Not much we can do about that," Ryan said, "except mebbe to keep those uncovered points staggered so that no two of them are close together, and to stagger them on each night so no one can work out a pattern."

 

 "Sounds good." Crow spoke softly but firmly. "Baron Silas will approve."

 

 "Baron Silas doesn't have any choice," Ryan answered shortly. "Now pass me that pencil, J.B., and let's get the first night's route planned right now."

 

 BARON SILAS WAS SEATED at the head of the long dining table in his dining hall, surrounded by his pre-dark antiques. He was brooding darkly on the situation regarding his well and refinery, getting slowly drunk on moonshine brewed on the far side of the walled ville, in a quarter that was allegedly under scrutiny from his sec force. In fact, it was the home of an illicit still that he kept from being closed down because it supplied the best moonshine in this or any other ville. He had a large pitcher in front of him, and it was almost empty.

 

 "Girl!" he yelled, his voice echoing in the empty hall. The double doors at the far end opened, and one of the redheaded maids he kept as his personal fetish slid into the room.

 

 "Yes, sir?" she asked in a honeyed drawl, her dark eyes and Hispanic coloring betraying the nature of her hair. "What can I do for you, Baron."

 

 "Plenty, mebbe…mebbe later," he mumbled, before adding in a louder, clearer tone, "Get me more of this hooch, girl, and look lively about it." With which he drained the jug and sent it spinning down the table toward her. She took it smoothly and turned without a word, exiting the room silently.

 

 "Gaudy slut," he mumbled under his breath. "Think I don't know what y'all say about me when I'm not around? Think I can't hear in this house?" he added in a shout, knowing that the cameras would pick him up. "Shit, just give me a sign," he added inconsequentially.

 

 He had just drained his glass when the door opened, and instead of the maid he was expecting, Crow entered with the jug of moonshine.

 

 "Hellfire and damnation," Baron Silas breathed, "I do believe sometimes that my old daddy was right, and there truly is a greater force."

 

 "That's as may be," Crow replied even though he knew it hadn't been directed at him, "but my people could have told you that a long time ago."

 

 "There's a lot of things your people could tell me if I choose to listen," Silas snapped back. "But I'm only interested in listening to you right now. What's been going on?"

 

 "Plenty. The usual fighting among the workers and their families—"

 

 "Shit, what do we expect? They all hate each other from a distance, let alone when they're real uptight and close. It's a wonder they ain't all chilled each other already. Fuck 'em, as long as enough stay alive to open up the well."

 

 Crow bit hard on his tongue. To see these people's hatred had a greater effect on him than on the cold-heart baron.

 

 "Any of 'em tried to blow the well and got caught?" the baron asked.

 

 "No, but there was an attempt to blow part of the refinery a few nights back."

 

 "What?" Baron Silas sat forward, knocking a dirty plate off the table as his feet clattered to the floor. "Why didn't Myall tell me of this?"

 

 " 'Cause he didn't know. Cawdor and his people stumbled on the attempt and chased off the saboteur. Didn't get him 'cause he was using a wag. Mean bastard of a bomb he left, too. But J.B. managed to defuse it. Brave man, smart with it. Ran a check on the plas-ex used, and it didn't come from works stocks. He reckons that mebbe it isn't any of the workers."

 

 "So why didn't they bring Myall in?" "Oh, they told him eventually, and he left it to me to report 'cause he knew I was headed here. But they had to check him and the rest of sec out first."

 

 "Shit, they didn't trust him?"

 

 "Isn't that why you hired them? To trust no one?"

 

  Baron Silas thought about it, then nodded soberly. "Yeah, of course. So what do they plan to do about it?"

 

 "It's an interesting kind of plan," Crow said, drawing a map from his vest pocket. "I stopped off downstairs and got this map of the site from your study. Got me a pencil, as well," he added as he produced a finely sharpened writing utensil. He spread the map out on the table and took an empty glass, then lifted the jug. "May I?" he asked. "This could take some time to explain."

 

 "You take all the time you need," Baron Silas replied, indicating that Crow should pour some moonshine.

 

 The Native American poured himself a glass and took a sip, feeling the burning spirit coruscate down his throat before warming his chest and the pit of his belly.

 

 He took a deep breath, then started to draw lines on the map, marking in the twelve points J.B. had identified as being weak spots, and explaining the way that Ryan intended to cover the ground with only seven people. It took him almost an hour and several glasses of moonshine to explain fully the way in which Ryan and his companions had been operating at the work site and camp, and the way in which they intended to operate.

 

 Eventually, he stood back from the table, the marked up map in front of him.

 

 "So that's it," Baron Silas said flatly.

 

 Crow nodded. "And they reckon that the sabotage isn't from the camp at all, but from an outside source?" Again the Native American merely nodded. Baron Silas whistled softly. "This is gonna be more difficult than I ever thought."

 

  

 

 Chapter Sixteen

 

  

 

 The night was still and silent. Dean exhaled, his breath misting on the cold air and mingling with the mist created by the breath of his horse, forming a cloud around them.

 

 He looked at his wrist chron. It was only halfway through his watch, and he tugged gently on the mane of his mount to turn it slightly to the left, giving him a better view down the pipeline toward the storage tanks. There was nowhere for him to huddle, no recess to provide even the slightest touch of closed-in warmth. He shivered under his heavy coat. So far there had been nothing. If it stayed that way, then it would be a wasted night.

 

 But it didn't stay that way. As he turned his horse the other way, to survey the opposite direction, he heard the distant rumble of a wag engine across the desert. It came from behind him…no, from the direction he was facing…but then again.

 

 "Hot pipe!" Dean muttered to himself. "Three of the bastards."

 

 JAK AND KRYSTY HAD BEEN the first to know they were coming. Krysty's mutie sense of danger and threat, and Jak's acute hearing, attuned through generations of hunters, had given them the indication before the others would have any clue. Jak was out by the derrick, and he could tell immediately that there were three wags. One was headed for the storage tanks, one for the refinery area and one toward him. He wheeled his horse around so that he could ride to the blind side of the derrick and see across the still and flat land beyond. His sense of direction told him that the wag nearest to him was circling around to come his way, the pitch of the engine changing as it moved behind dunes and hummocks of dry earth.

 

 Krysty felt her hair tighten on her scalp before she had the opportunity to register the sound. The Titian-red curls drew in close to her skin, winding around her neck. She stilled her breathing so that she could hear better. Although not as sharp as Jak's, she had sensitive hearing, and could tell that one of the wags was headed for the refinery area, which was where she was stationed. Krysty had been assigned first watch on the two pump houses joined by the covered walkway, leaving the farthest refinery building unattended for the watch. It was also the building that faced out onto the desert, and although she had questioned Ryan as to whether it would be better to cover that and so keep the unprotected side of the entire refinery covered, she had accepted his reasoning that this way they could keep more of the actual machinery covered.

 

 It had been a gamble where the cards were falling badly.

 

 The wags were now approaching at speed, and were audible to every member of the party.

 

 Dean spoke into his radio. "Three wags. Looks like one of them is headed for the storage tanks."

 

 "Check. One is going for the outlying refinery block," Krysty's voice crackled over the handset.

 

 "Fireblast!" Ryan yelled into his radio. "Anyone get a direction on the third?"

 

 "Around back to wellhead," Jak snapped into his radio. "I take it."

 

 "I'm nearest you," J.B. returned quickly. "I'll ride over. Doc, Mildred—you're nearest Krysty, so you head that way."

 

 "Good," Ryan snapped back. "Dean, I'm nearest you, so I'll come to you. Head for the tanks. What I want to know is how the hell they knew those were unprotected points."

 

 "Mebbe just luck," J.B. said.

 

 "A whole shit load of luck if it is," Ryan said sourly. "Let's get moving."

 

 THE QUESTION OF HOW the three wags knew to head for areas that weren't under watch was something that had crossed the minds of all of the companions, but right now there were more important matters to attend to. The wags were closing in fast, and although the distances involved weren't that great, the horses the companions were using weren't the fastest creatures any of them had ever seen. It was a race against time when there was no time. Jak turned his mount and started to drum his heels against the beast's flanks, spurring it into action and heading it toward the far side of the derrick. As he gripped the mane of the horse with one hand, his other drew the Colt Python and readied the blaster for action. Firing from a moving animal was harder than from a wag, but Jak had sure instincts and this should compensate if need be. Besides which, he knew the Armorer would be close behind.

 

 J.B. was also whipping his mount to as much speed as it could muster, galloping it across the dry, sandy earth toward the derrick that stood upright against the clear night sky. The sound of the wag approaching from the blind side was now clearly distinguishable from the other wag noises. The Armorer reached behind him with his free hand and pulled the Smith & Wesson M-4000 checking that it was loaded and chambered. The blaster was loaded with its deadly cargo of barbed metal flechettes that would spread across a wide area, the jagged metal inflicting a maximum amount of damage to whoever was in its path.

 

 THE WAG ENGINE cut out, and over the pounding of his mount's hooves, Jak could hear two or three men moving out of the wag and around the derrick. One to the right, and two to the left. Shifting his balance to compensate, Jak held his blaster steady and also spoke into the handset.

 

 "J.B., wag had three. Two on left side, one right. I take left."

 

 "Okay," came the Armorer's cracked voice in return. "I have you in sight, about a minute behind. I'll veer right."

 

 Jak didn't bother to respond. He knew what J.B. would be doing, and he could leave that in the man's capable hands.

 

 Over the sound of his own speed, Jak could hear the faint voices of the two men. They were making no attempt to disguise their position or actions, which spoke to Jak of an overconfidence that would make them vulnerable.

 

 One of the men was placing an explosive device in the small brick pump house that housed the valves to control the derrick's flow of raw oil. He bent over the timer, lighting his actions with a small lamp.

 

 "Watch the lamp, stupe," his partner hissed nervously. "There's only one of the sec coming, all right, but why make it too easy for him? Shit, he looks like a real weirdie," he added with just a touch too much tension in his voice for the saboteur setting the bomb.

 

 "Shut the fuck up, will ya? I just need to set it for enough time for us to get out of here, and then just chill the fucker, will ya?" he finished without looking up.

 

 "Whatever you say," his partner returned with anger in his tone. He raised his blaster and took aim at Jak as he rode closer. He raised his rifle—a buttered Heckler & Koch G-12 caseless—and took a careful aim. He wanted to squeeze off one good shot and down the mutie bastard before he had a chance to return fire.

 

 The only problem for the rifleman was that the lamp used by his partner cast enough ambient light around him to highlight him clearly against the darkness of the derrick. Jak could see that the man was taking aim at him, and bit into the horse's flanks alternately with his left and right boots. The movements made the horse respond by zigzagging, taking Jak on a suddenly erratic course.

 

 "Jeez, the bastard's moving," the rifleman hissed to his partner, who was still absorbed in setting the bomb's timer.

 

 "Just shoot, stupe," he responded angrily.

 

 The rifleman tried to take aim, but Jak was moving too quickly and was outside of the light. He was a difficult target. The rifleman loosed a shot from the Heckler & Koch, but even with such a good blaster the shot whistled well wide of the onrushing albino.

 

 If Jak presented a difficult target, then there was no such problem for the albino. The rifleman was static, only the upper part of his body swaying slightly as he attempted to follow the line of Jak's course. He was also standing in a pool of light that made him stand out clearly against the background. Jak was able to draw a bead on the rifleman with ease, and he squeezed the trigger of the Colt Python, a heavy .357 shell leaving the barrel of the blaster with deadly intent.

 

 The round hit the rifleman in the chest, exploding beneath his raised arms as he tried to draw another bead on the rider. The entry wound was small, but had enough impact to lift him up onto his toes and fling him backward. He made no noise, any vocal exclamation of pain or shock being stilled by the waves of pain that swept through him as the soft lead of the slug expanded on its path through his body. It spread out, causing a ripple of damage that spread along his whole torso, ending only when the now distorted slug exited his body, taking half of his spine and ribs with it, the flesh exploding against his shirt, soaking it in his own blood. By the time that happened he had almost hit the ground, and the blood-soaked fabric started to spread its lethal load onto the dirt. The rifleman was chilled before he landed on the desert earth with a wet and obscene slapping sound.

 

 "Shit, fuck, shit, shit," the bomber cursed loudly, setting the timer running and rising to his feet, drawing a long-barreled blaster of his own from the back of his belt.

 

 The fact that it was stuffed down the back of his pants for convenience when setting the device, rather in a holster, was what chilled him. The extra fractions of a second it took to reach behind enabled Jak to jump from the horse while it was still in motion, landing with poise and dipping his shoulder to roll into the earth rather than onto it, absorbing the impact and letting it work as momentum to drive him closer to the scene of the sabotage. As Jak came upright, he fell into a combat shooting stance on one knee, bringing up the Colt Python and sighting on his opponent in one smooth motion. His finger tightened on the trigger, squeezing off another shot.

 

 With one hand behind his back to pull the blaster from his pants, and the other instinctively flung out to balance himself, the bomber left his entire torso exposed. Jak's shot was swift and accurate, aimed for just above the chest area and beneath the throat, flying swift and true to between the bomber's collar bones, driving a bloody hole into the hollow beneath his Adam's apple and traveling on an upward path necessitated by the angle from which Jak fired.

 

 Almost before the man had fallen to the ground, Jak was on his feet and running toward the small brick pump house, the two chilled saboteurs lit by the light of the lamp, their blood spreading darkly into the earth around them.

 

 TO THE OTHER SIDE of the derrick, by the edges that skirted the open expanse of the desert and protected from Jak's view by the pipes that ran from the well, the third man was rigging up his own explosive device. It was more complex, and was intended to take out the generator that powered the wellhead, and also the cabling from the generator that would power the pump house. It was a more time consuming task, but the third man had that extra time because he knew he was farther away from the oncoming sec man.

 

 To stop and consider it afterward would make it obvious that the saboteurs had a complete knowledge of the positioning of the companions. But there wasn't the time to ponder on that now. For J.B. there was only the knowledge that he was arriving when the party had already started, for as he circled out to the right to come around and tackle the saboteur, he heard the first exchange of shots on the other side of the derrick.

 

 "Dark night," he swore to himself, knowing that he needed to attend to this triple fast in case Jak was hitting real trouble.

 

 The saboteur had been concentrating hard on getting the wiring of the device right, linking up the charges of plas-ex to the trigger device. So hard that he didn't notice the Armorer until it was almost too late.

 

 J.B. whipped his mount into a frenzy of speed, foam flecking from the creature's lips and spraying back onto its mane as it charged forward. With the M-4000 ready, the Armorer wheeled it around so that he was approaching the far side of the derrick from an acute angle. He could see the lamplight by which the saboteur was working, and could see the man outlined against the dark metal of the construction as he linked the plas-ex charges together.

 

 J.B. swung his leg over the back of the horse until he had both feet on the same side, and slid from the horse and it charged forward, buckling to break his fall as the horse moved on toward the derrick. He fell a little awkwardly and hissed curses through his teeth as his body jarred on the closely packed earth. Picking himself up, he moved parallel to the horse's course, and then a little to one side, so that the saboteur would look away from him when the horse's approach attracted his attention.

 

 The saboteur ignored the sound of the approaching hooves for as long as he dared. He knew he would have to face an attack, but was fighting against time to get the multiple bomb wired up properly. So when he did finally respond to the approaching hooves and turn with his Uzi raised, he was taken aback to find the horse coming toward him with no rider on its back.

 

 Standing, frozen in shock, by the light of the lamp he was using to work, the saboteur presented J.B. with an easy target. It crossed the Armorer's mind that it would be good to take one of the saboteurs alive and question them, to find out where they were from, but to do that he would have to disable the man enough to prevent him firing back or triggering the device, and J.B. was too far away to take the chance.

 

 Too bad. The Armorer took aim and let fly with the M-4000. The weapon boomed in the night air and loosed its deadly load. The saboteur was turning at the sound of the charge as the barbed metal flechettes hit him. He went down with a scream of agony as the hot and jagged metal tore into his face and upper body, some of the shot ricocheting off the derrick behind. He died as he lay in agony, the last sound he heard being the approaching footsteps of the Armorer.

 

 J.B. checked the corpse, lest he be able to turn and shoot when the Armorer's back was turned. Seeing that his enemy had been successfully chilled, J.B. turned his attention to the device, tracing the wires from the charges of plas-ex back to the trigger device. The saboteur hadn't had time to finish wiring the bomb, and it was a simple task for J.B. to fully disarm and dismantle it.

 

 On the other side of the derrick, Jak had cleared a path through the bodies and blood to where the small brick pump house stood, with its door open. It was lit by the lamp, and he could clearly see the bomb within, and hear the ticking of the timer. Moving across to it, he could see that it was set for fifteen minutes. Although he could risk calling J.B., there wasn't really enough time for him to do anything but disconnect it himself.

 

 Jak had dismantled explosive devices before, but it was one of the few things that breached his iron nerves. There was always that chance that it had been wired incorrectly. He palmed one of his leaf-bladed knives and took the wire that should be the correct one to cut. He looped the wire around his finger, so that a small loop stood above his white fist, and cut swiftly and cleanly with one sweep of the razor-sharp blade.

 

 The wire parted. There was no explosion. Taking a deep breath, Jak repeated the procedure with the second wire. Only then, when that was done, did he breathe easily.

 

 He emerged from the pump house to find J.B. surveying the corpses.

 

 "They don't look like anyone from the camp," the Armorer said simply.

 

 "Outsiders," Jak agreed.

 

 "Pity we had to chill them all. I wonder if the others can get one alive," J.B. mused. "Then we might find out who's behind all this and stop it once and for all."

 

 DEAN AND RYAN HEADED for the storage tanks, where the squeal of tires and brakes announced that the wag had reached its destination. Both the one-eyed man and his son were some distance away, and were approaching from different angles. With the wag now silent, it was difficult to know where the saboteurs had come to rest, and both Ryan and Dean were only too well aware that they could ride full-tilt into the saboteurs before they had a chance to properly orient themselves.

 

 "Dean, where are you?" Ryan yelled into his handset.

 

 "About three minutes away, the speed this dumb creature is going. I'm to the southwest of the tanks, and I'm taking a roundabout route to try and spot them," the youngster barked down the crackling connection.

 

 "Okay. I'm in the northeast, and I'm bearing straight down. I haven't had a sign of them yet, and I'd guess they're at the back of the tanks."

 

 "Yeah, they might have left the wag there, but they'll have to come around to the other side to do whatever the hell they intend to do," Dean retorted.

 

 "If they want to take out the pipes, yeah. But mebbe they just want to blow holes in the tanks. That'd really put them out of operation."

 

 "Take a shit load of plas-ex, as well," Dean replied.

 

 "Exactly, so we need to be beyond triple red for these coldhearts until we see exactly what they're doing," Ryan ordered.

 

 The horses were now approaching the tanks from their contrasting angles, and in the pale light of the moon reflecting on the old and battered metal, Ryan could see some movement at ground level, down in the shadows. It looked like a couple of men.

 

 "Got two on my side," he snapped into the radio. "Check yours."

 

 Hearing this, Dean narrowed his eyes and concentrated hard on the approaching shadows. There was no movement.

 

 "Nothing," he returned shortly.

 

 "Okay. You take the route around the back, try and find the wag. Mebbe they've left one on guard. Then work your way around to me. I'll take these fireblasted mercies."

 

 Dean didn't even bother to reply. His father knew that he would follow this order without question. The younger Cawdor directed his mount toward the rear of the tanks, while Ryan homed straight in on the side where the two moving shadows were visible.

 

 The one-eyed man could see them pause in their task, and he knew that they had spotted him. Hell, he was hard to miss, charging in on a horse from out of the desert. He pulled the Steyr SSG-70 from where it rested across his back, and readied the trusty rifle for action.

 

 As he closed in on them, Ryan was acutely aware that the desert and dry ground behind him offered no shelter or cover, and that his silhouette had to be plainly visible from where the saboteurs stood; whereas they were little more than blobs of a different darkness, moving against the shelter of the storage tanks.

 

 The first shot whistled past his ear, and a second kicked up some dust just in front of his charging mount. Obviously, the two men were using different blasters, one of which had a lesser range. Nonetheless, he was now coming into that range, and it would be better for him to adopt whatever evasive maneuvering he could. Which, he was too well aware, wasn't enough. Gripping the horse between his thighs, he raised the Steyr with both hands, resting the stock into his shoulder and sighting as best as he could. The weaving animal beneath him was making it hard to aim, as the target area moved both from side to side and up and down with the pounding of the frightened animal's hooves on the hard ground.

 

 Shots were whistling around him with an alarming regularity now, and although the one-eyed warrior didn't flinch, he found himself hoping that a lucky strike wouldn't take him out before he had a chance to retaliate.

 

 His finger tightened on the trigger, squeezing gently and with seemingly no hurry as he sighted— as best as possible—on his enemy.

 

 DEAN HAD BROUGHT his mount to the back of the storage tanks. He could hear the shots from the other side, ringing out in the still air. From the sound of them, he knew that none of the blasters in action were his father's, and he figured that just maybe he could raise a little distraction.

 

 He pulled his mount to a halt as he reached the tanks. The animal bucked and lifted its forelegs, Dean using the momentum of the movement to slide down its back and off, using the flanks of the animal as cover as he drew his Browning Hi-Power and checked that a round was chambered and the blaster was ready for use.

 

 There was no response from the wag, which he could see sitting by the rear of one storage tank. Dean left his horse, which had calmed as suddenly as it had bucked, and was now wandering off, ignoring the noise from the other side of the tank, and made his way into the shadows.

 

 Inching his way around, he blocked out the sounds of blasterfire from the other side of the tanks, and focused his attention on the wag and surrounding area. Although he stayed on triple red, every sense alert for the slightest sound or movement, he was soon aware that the wag was standing alone.

 

 It was up to him to move quickly and provide the distraction. Moving over to the wag, which was a jeep like the wag he had seen driving away on their previous encounter, he could see that it was empty. There were no extra blasters or any plas-ex. They had obviously brought what they needed for the job and no more. That suited him fine, for what he had in mind would have entailed a whole lot more trouble if there had been plas-ex on board.

 

 Dean took a piece of material from the wag. It may have been a shirt, or it may have been a piece of cloth that the plas-ex had been wrapped in. He neither knew nor cared. What was important was that it was there.

 

 The youth unscrewed the cap on the wag's gas tank and prodded the piece of cloth down the hole, stretching it to make it as long as possible. The cloth touched the gas in the tank and began to soak it up. Dean pressed more of the cloth in, then pulled it out. One end was soaked in gas. He reversed the cloth and pressed the dry end down, repeating the action. When he pulled out the cloth, it was dripping gas, which he let drip down the side of the wag, from the open hole to the dusty earth.

 

 He then stepped back, laying the rag out to give him a short fuse, and backed off a few paces before aiming his blaster and squeezing off one shot.

 

 The rag sparked and flamed, the fire spreading up the side of the wag with a thin blue flame and down into the gas tank. Dean turned and flung himself to the ground, covering his head with his arms.

 

 The wag exploded, and Dean felt the heat and shock of the blast sweep over him, rendering him temporarily deaf and scorching his back and legs. But as soon as it had passed over him, he forced himself to his feet, ears still ringing, and was ready to face the oncoming saboteurs.

 

 Because he knew that they wouldn't be able to ignore this.

 

 RYAN WAS RIDING into the blasterfire, moving from side to side and evading the bullets, although he did feel one tug at his shirt, just above the ribs. A hot pain, like a needle through his flesh, registered momentarily, but the one-eyed man had too much adrenaline coursing through his system, and was too focused on the action ahead, for it to stay his course.

 

 He managed to squeeze off a couple of shots from the Steyr, the heavier ammo from the rifle resounding above the blasterfire from the two saboteurs. The shots hit the tank behind them, causing no harm to them but nonetheless deflecting them from their task. Their firing on the one-eyed man became more erratic, and they hadn't, so far, been able to leave their package of destruction.

 

 And then the explosion came from behind the tank. For one moment, the area was illuminated by the light of the explosion, and in the strange shadows cast on the side of the tank he was approaching, Ryan was able to see the two saboteurs outlined against the tank. They were both stunned by the explosion, exchanging shocked glances. The ferocity of the explosion, and its appearance out of nowhere, had momentarily stopped then dead in their tracks.

 

 Ryan was startled by the explosion, but he kept bearing down on them, taking the opportunity to straighten his mount's path for a second and take a proper aim at the two saboteurs. He had been expecting some diversionary action from Dean, although that wasn't quite what he had expected.

 

 The one-eyed man squeezed off a shot from the Steyr, and it ate into the ground between the two saboteurs. Leave it to the others to maybe capture a saboteur and question them. Right now it was chill or be chilled.

 

 The bullet from the Steyr hit the small package of plas-ex between the two saboteurs, and they disappeared from view in the middle of an explosion that knocked Ryan back and off his mount. The horse whinnied in fright and bolted off into the desert night.

 

 The package had been heavier than Ryan could have supposed, and it scored heavily into the metal side of the tank, driving a huge crate into the ground and obliterating all traces of the two saboteurs.

 

 As he pulled himself to his feet, he was aware that if he had caused some damage to be done to the storage tank, then it was a terrible error on his part. However, as he pulled himself to his feet and began to run, still deafened by the blast, toward the tanks, he could see that the side of the tank was scored and dented, but not ruptured. This was some kind of a relief, but it would be even more of a relief if he could find his son. He didn't bother to yell, as he figured that Dean would be as deafened by the blast as himself.

 

 Deans ears felt as if they were bleeding, but when he put his fingers to one of them, there was no blood. He had just been heading around the tank when the second explosion had knocked him from his feet. As he scrambled up again, with the Browning Hi-Power ready to fire, he was thinking only of one thing— was his father okay?

 

 Both the younger and older Cawdor had their blasters ready as they came into each other's view. But the razor-sharp reflexes passed from father to son prevented them from firing as each saw the other. Instead, there was a sense of relief. Both were alive, and knowing the other's capabilities, they knew that their enemies had been routed here.

 

 But what of the third attack?

 

 KRYSTY, MILDRED AND DOC were approaching the refinery buildings from their different positions, and found themselves converging at the same point. But they still used the handsets to communicate, as it was difficult to be heard over the pounding of the horses hooves and the roar of the wag.

 

 "How are we going to tackle this?" Mildred yelled over the static.

 

 "I would suggest taking each building in turn," Doc replied. "I think we should stick together to avoid confusion."

 

 Krysty shook her head as she shouted into her handset, her hair now tight to her scalp. "No, we can't risk them having spread out over the two buildings and caused damage. We'll have to split up."

 

 "Yeah, I can see that," Mildred agreed. "There are three buildings, two of them linked by that walkway. I say we take one each."

 

 "Very well," Doc yelled back, "I fear I am not the quickest among us, so I should take the nearest."

 

 "Yeah, good idea," Mildred said. "I'll take the far one. You take the middle, Krysty."

 

 "Okay," the woman agreed. "But stay alert, because this doesn't feel good."

 

 Mildred nodded and spurred her horse, heading off to the far building, hoping that the saboteurs would be too busy to provide each other with covering fire. For she was sure the assumption that there would be at least one saboteur in each building would prove correct.

 

 Krysty headed for the middle, taking her mount in a counterclockwise direction to achieve her goal, as opposed to Mildred's clockwise direction. If they had already been spotted, then at least they would divide enemy fire.

 

 Which left Doc to take the straight course down the middle. Doc wasn't an easily frightened man, particularly not after the things he had seen and endured, but in his more lucid moments he was painfully aware of his shortcomings. And he knew that he was the weakest member, physically and in terms of sanity, of the companions. He also knew that he was the poorest horseman of them all. So he was glad that he had the shortest journey to the point of trouble, but also aware that even then it still made him an easy target.

 

 The wag had long since ceased to roar, and in the darkness and shadow around the nearest refinery building, Doc couldn't tell if it was empty of if there lurked danger in the shape of a saboteur.

 

 Knowing his limitations, Doc suddenly pulled up his horse and dismounted, going the rest of the way on foot. It would take longer, but he would feel more confident of taking evasive or offensive action without having to worry about staying on his mount. In fact, he could use the beast as a diversionary measure. A smile crept over Doc's face as he directed the animal toward the blockhouse refinery building and slapped its rump so hard that it made his palm sting. The pained and affronted creature ran toward the blockhouse, while Doc checked that his LeMat pistol was loaded. There were two charges.

 

 Doc's use of the horse as a diversion was good judgment. Several shots rang out from the interior of the blockhouse—all from the one blaster by the sound of them, which suggested just the one enemy inside. Doc started to run toward the building, low to the ground.

 

 The shots found their mark, and the horse screeched in pain, falling heavily to the ground as it was hit in several places. Doc followed behind, and used the chilled animal as cover. There was a moment of tense silence before Doc's opponent emerged from the blockhouse. A short, fat man with a handblaster clutched in his fist, he came out of a doorway in a crouch and, seeing the felled animal, took one tentative step toward it.

 

 That was all Doc needed. It was a distance of just about 150 yards, and the man had stepped from complete darkness into a relative light from the pale moon. A light strong enough by contrast for Doc to sight him and pull the trigger on the LeMat. With a loud booming that seemed to resound in the sudden silence, the load of shot was expelled at high speed from the old blaster.

 

 The red-hot grapeshot hit the fat saboteur full in the face and upper chest, the pellets of hot metal ripping his skin and flesh. His scream was gargled and stopped by the blood rising in his throat as he was propelled backward into the doorway.

 

 He lay still, and Doc waited for return fire from inside. There was nothing. He waited a few seconds, then moved from around the chilled horse and made his way toward the blockhouse, moving close to the ground. He stepped over the chilled saboteur and looked inside, ready to discharge the ball charge at anything that moved.

 

 But nothing did. One man down…

 

 MILDRED HAD REACHED the far building and could see the empty wag. She crouched over the horse's neck, hoping that even if her mount was big enough to hit, she could make herself small enough to miss. However, there was no fire directed against her. She swung herself over the horse, keeping her body on the blind side of the wag and refinery building. She slowed the horse so that she was able to touch the ground with her foot and hit the earth running, keeping pace with the creature in order to provide cover.

 

 As she guided the horse nearer the wag, she could see that it was empty, and she slapped the horse's flank in order to drive it away. Keeping low, Mildred moved over to the wag. Using it as cover, she surveyed the refinery building. There was no sign of activity, but because the wag was empty of anything approaching arms and ammo, she was sure that someone had to be inside. They obviously hadn't seen her, so now she was faced with getting across from the wag to the building without being seen. And as it was an empty space with no cover, there was little she could do.

 

 It was then fate played a hand. Fate in the shape of Krysty Wroth.

 

 The Titian-haired beauty had made her way to the back of the refinery building that was part of the first complex, joined to its fellow building by the covered walkway. She knew that she was plainly visible, but felt there was little point worrying about that as it was inevitable. If it left her open to fire, the only thing she could do was take evasive action.

 

 Which was exactly what happened. The shots came from the rear of the building and whistled about her head and body. She leaned low over her mount and pulled the animal around so that it was heading straight for the back of the building but head-on, so it presented a narrower target.

 

 She had her blaster in her hand, and while she gripped the horse's mane tightly in one hand she took aim at the empty window in the back of the building… empty except for the occasional explosion and flash of light in the blackness as a blaster was discharged in her direction. She was dimly aware of the discharge of Doc's LeMat in the distance, a different quality of sound to the other blasters that were being fired in profusion, and somehow this spurred her on, reminding her that it was more than just her against whoever these saboteurs were.

 

 Guiding the horse at a slight angle so that she could get a clear shot, she fired three times at the window. The first shot cannoned off the outside brickwork. The second shot went through and hit someone, as she heard a scream of pain. The third shot was the most deadly, as she heard it ricochet off the metal of the refinery pipes. A fraction of a second later she was thrown from her mount as the night erupted into light. The ricochet had hit the plas-ex that the saboteur was planting and had ignited it. The refinery building was ripped apart by the explosion, the wall nearest Krysty being blown out and scattering debris across the immediate area. She was thankful that her horse had thrown her, for the animal acted as a shield, taking hits from several chunks of brickwork that would otherwise have chilled her.

 

 The explosion startled Mildred, but not as much as it startled the two saboteurs who were working inside the building just in front of her. Scared and thinking only of getting the hell out, the two men rushed from the doorway of the building, presenting Mildred with the easiest of moving targets.

 

 She sighted with her Czech-made ZKR, the very model of target pistol she had used in competition.

 

 She very rarely missed, and never at such a range as this.

 

 The first shot caught her target between the eyes, puncturing his forehead with a neat, precise hole that dribbled blood as the slug pierced his frontal lobes. Before he had even begun to fall, she had sighted and fired on the second man, who took his bullet in the chest, shattering his breastbone and stopping his heart while bone shards ripped into his lungs. He hit the ground a fraction of a second after his companion, and Mildred waited a few seconds for anyone else to emerge from the building before leaving her cover to check it out. She then moved over to join Doc, who had run to Krysty's aid when the explosion sounded. Fortunately, her horse had taken the brunt of the blast, and the woman had only a few contusions to show for her part in the explosion.

 

 And so it was over. The saboteurs were routed, and only one of the attempts to destroy parts of the well and refinery had succeeded—albeit by accident.

 

 But still it gave no clue as to why or who.

 

  

 

 Chapter Seventeen

 

  

 

 It took several hours for Ryan and his people to gather their surviving horses and the chilled corpses of the saboteurs before they were ready to travel back to the sec camp. By that time it was daylight, and as the procession made its way across the empty desert between the camp and the works complex, it encountered the party of workers, tramping across the dusty earth to the well and refinery. The sight of the companions, Mildred and Dean on foot, Doc and J.B. leading horses loaded with corpses, and Jak, Ryan and Krysty still on horseback, caused the line—and the sec men guarding them— to come to a straggling halt. Ryan's chest had been bandaged by Mildred, and although the bullet wound had been no more than a scratch, now that he was tired and the adrenaline had worn off, it felt sore and stiff beneath his arm. So the one-eyed man wasn't in the best of moods when one of the sec guards approached him.

 

 "Heard the commotion last night," he said flatly.

 

 Mildred grimaced. "Give that boy a medal for understatement."

 

 "Reckon you could hear that all the way back to Salvation," Ryan replied. "Didn't get any backup," he added pointedly.

 

 The sec man shook his head. "Myall had us all out at the camp. All these fuckers thought each other was responsible and damn near tried to chill each other. If we get a decent day's work out of them it'll be a miracle."

 

 Ryan nodded. "Well, let's see if we can get a reaction from them now," he said, moving his horse toward the crowd.

 

 "Gather around," he yelled at the workers, beckoning them forth. As they started to move, he gestured for Doc and J.B. to unload the corpses from the backs of the horses. Dean and Mildred stepped forward to assist, and soon the chilled corpses of the six saboteurs—there being nothing left of two after the explosions—were laid out on the ground. Two of them were mangled and mutilated beyond any real recognition, but the others were still recognizable.

 

 "Any of you know these?" Ryan yelled over the top of the workers' startled conversation. He waited for the buzz of conversation to subside and some suggestions to come. But there was none. "You sure you don't know them?" he added.

 

 There was a general silence. The companions exchanged glances. They would talk of this later, but from the looks they swapped they were all sure that they agreed on one thing: the workers weren't hiding anything here. At the very least, they would have expected them to try to blame men from another ville. But there was no such attempt. It was looking more and more likely that J.B.'s theory of an outside sabotage mission was correct.

 

 "Okay, load them up," Ryan directed when he was sure there was to be no response. Doc, J.B., Mildred and Dean lifted the corpses back onto the horses, and they were ready to roll.

 

 "By the way," the sec man said, staying Ryan with a hand on his arm, "there's something back at sec camp that Myall wants you to see."

 

 "What?" Ryan queried with a furrowing brow.

 

 The sec man grimaced uncomfortably. "I'd rather not say—" he made a motion toward the still stunned workers "—but I think you'll find it a hell of a lot more interesting than I can let on."

 

 With this cryptic remark the sec man returned to his duty, and the procession of workers started again for the well and refinery, leaving Ryan and his companions to ponder on what they were about to find.

 

 WHEN THEY REACHED the sec camp, they were greeted by Myall and McVie, who were both looking more solemn than any of the companions had seen in the short time that they had known them. The companions rode and led their horses into the compound and dumped the corpses on the ground.

 

 "Take a look at them," Ryan said as the sec chief and his second in command approached. "Recognize any of them?"

 

 Both men looked over the corpses.

 

 "None of them look familiar to me," McVie murmured, "but then again I doubt if their own old ladies'd recognize these two," he added, indicating the mangled corpses.

 

 "I didn't think you would," Ryan said softly. "They've been using wags—and good ones—to get to and from the well and the refinery. I don't reckon they come from the camp—"

 

 "You could be right at that," Myall interrupted. "Come with me. Leave the chilled there," he added as he turned and led the companions to one of the sleeping tents dotted near the mess building.

 

 "What's going on?" J.B. queried.

 

 "Sure as hell what we'd like to know," McVie replied in a tone that encouraged no answer.

 

 They walked the rest of the way in silence, and when they reached the tent, Myall drew the tent flap to one side. "He's mebbe starting to smell, so be careful," he said mysteriously.

 

 The companions followed the sec chief into the tent.

 

 "Dark night," J.B. whispered. "What happened to him?"

 

 For on the ground, laid out in death, was Crow. The Native American was barely recognizable apart from his giant frame and teaklike skin, for he had been beaten to death. There were no stab wounds or bullet holes on his body, but his flesh was a puffy mass of contusions and welts. His skull was misshapen where it had been fractured, his cheekbones beaten out of shape and his jaw at an unnatural angle where it had been dislocated. His clothes were ripped and torn, covered in blood, and it looked as though he had been dragged behind a wag for some distance, as ragged strips of flesh had been torn from his arms and legs.

 

 "The patrol out on the blacktop found him at first light," Myall stated simply. "Figure he's already been dead for some time. Probably happened some time during the night. Another thing—we found a shit load of plas-ex on him, a timing device and a heavy-duty handblaster. A Colt Python like yours, Jak."

 

 "That's weird," Dean said, "I never saw him with a blaster before."

 

 "Neither did I," Myall replied, "but that doesn't mean that he wouldn't have carried one when… when he was on a mission." The sec chief spit out the last phrase, as though he couldn't quite believe it himself.

 

 "So you think he was with those?" Ryan asked, jerking a thumb behind him to indicate the chilled saboteurs who were lying in the morning sun.

 

 Myall shrugged. "With all that stuff, on the blacktop that leads to the well and refinery? What am I supposed to think?"

 

 "Exactly what you are, my dear boy," Doc murmured. "A most carefully laid trail, but not without one glaring error."

 

 "Eh?" Myall looked at Doc with a puzzled expression.

 

 "So simple that it is obvious," Doc said slowly. "If he was one of the saboteurs out there, then how, pray tell, did he end up being chilled on the road…before they actually reached the well and refinery?"

 

 "Mebbe it happened on the way back, a falling-out of some kind 'cause it all went wrong," McVie began.

 

 Krysty cut him short. "We chilled them all. Their wags are still at the site. If they chilled Crow, then it was on the way."

 

 "And someone wanted him to look like a guilty man," Mildred added.

 

 "Well, you'll have a chance to talk to the big man about it," Myall sighed. "I radioed Baron Silas straight away, and he's coming out here."

 

 BARON SILAS ARRIVED about an hour later, during which time Ryan and his people had the chance to clean up and eat, if not to get any sleep. The baron drove into the camp in his large old truck wag, with the shotgun sec rider, and strode straight across to where the bodies of the saboteurs were still lying, rotting in the sun.

 

 He nodded to himself, then turned to Myall, who had joined him. The sec chief showed the baron to where the corpse of Crow had been stashed, and when the two men emerged, they were greeted by the companions, who had left the mess building to meet the baron.

 

 "Well, well, well," Baron Silas said as he greeted them, his eyes slits under the brim of his hat. "You caught some of them, but still managed to blow some of the compound."

 

 "Nothing compared to what could have been done. Besides, you know we couldn't cover all the vulnerable points without extra cover," Ryan commented.

 

 "You mean to say you didn't mount a full guard?" Baron Silas said with a startled tone.

 

 Ryan examined the man closely with his single eye. "You know what our plan of action was. That's why you sent Crow out to ask us."

 

 "I didn't send Crow," Baron Silas said flatly. "Your job was to protect the site and root out the saboteurs. Looks like you've done some of that, but not enough."

 

 "What do you mean?" Ryan continued.

 

 "I mean all the other barons are coming to Salvation in three days' time, and all I can tell them is that you've failed."

 

 "You call that failure?" Mildred said angrily, pointing to the distant corpses of the saboteurs.

 

 "Yeah, I do. There's still damage to the site, and you've no idea where they come from."

 

 "And you have, from this evidence?" Doc queried gently, noting a certain tone to the baron's voice.

 

 "Yeah, reckon I have," Baron Silas replied. "If Crow was involved, then it's got to be something to do with Running Water. And mebbe Water Valley. Could be that they've got an alliance going that has to do with their water-power mills. In which case, this'd be a problem for them."

 

 "Then why would they come in with you?" Dean asked.

 

 Baron Silas shrugged. "Because it looks good, and gives them a chance to hit me from within. I reckon it's pretty clear what's going on now. I'd suggest—" he put heavy emphasis on the word, making it clear he thought of it as an instruction "—that you search out the rest of the bastards behind this, and look in that quarter. All this crap about it being from outside is just that—crap." Finally, Baron Silas spit on Crow's corpse. "I trusted you, bastard."

 

 "WE NEED TO TALK," J.B. whispered to Ryan as they, along with McVie and Myall, watched Baron Silas leave.

 

 "With you on that," the one-eyed man agreed. "This stinks worse than those chilled mercies."

 

 Myall, who appeared not to have heard the whispered conversation, turned to the companions. "I'll start operations in the camp, try and get to the bottom of it. You get some rest, ready for tonight," he told Ryan.

 

 "You don't sound that happy about doing this," Ryan commented, noting a certain tone in the sec chiefs voice.

 

 Myall shook his head. "It doesn't make sense, Ryan. None of it. But I'm fucked if I can make head or tail of it. All I know is that if I don't follow through on the baron's orders, it'll be my head on a pole."

 

 "It's a harsh life," Ryan commented. "But you're right. We should get some rest. Take it easy." He turned and led his people away to their sleeping tent, although sleep was the last thing on the minds of any of them.

 

 "There's something really wrong with all this," Dean said as soon as they were alone. "No way was Crow one of the saboteurs. And what does Baron Silas think he's getting away with saying he knew nothing about our plans? That was why Crow was here yesterday."

 

 "I think he reported to Baron Silas yesterday," Doc said quietly. "And I think he was killed in a deliberate attempt to make it look as though the sabotage comes from within the villes, and not from outside. I also think that we were perfect for the baron because we come from the outside, and to use us as his pawns would not endanger any of his sec forces."

 

 "Meaning that we're in danger?" Krysty posed.

 

 "I think we are," Doc replied, "in the manner of being what they used to call 'the fall guys.' Just as Crow was used in this way."

 

 "You mean to tell me that you believe Crow was killed to provide a distraction?" Ryan asked. And when Doc nodded, so did the one-eyed man. "It'd make sense, I guess. Mebbe he knew something he shouldn't have done. After all, why the hell was he on that road at that time of night when he was supposed to be with Baron Silas?"

 

 "Mebbe he was," J.B. mused. "Mebbe that's the whole problem. We've been looking for outside saboteurs when all the time it has been from inside. But not from the inside that everyone thought."

 

 Jak gave J.B. a puzzled look. "Not make sense."

 

 "Oh, but it does," said Doc slowly. "My dear John Barrymore, I think you may have cracked it. Supposing that Crow had reported to Baron Silas, and suppose that was why he died? To provide a decoy to the fact that all the points hit were ones that were not on the patrol rota at the times they were hit. After all, if he had not visited the baron, then only he would know the points that were vulnerable."

 

 "Oh shit, I've just remembered," Dean whispered. "Baron Silas mentioned that the idea of the saboteurs being outsiders was crap."

 

 Ryan furrowed his brow. "So?"

 

 Dean turned to his father and fixed him with a stare. "So no one knew about that idea of J.B.'s except us and Crow. And the only reason Baron Silas would know—"

 

 "—is if Crow told him," the Armorer concluded.

 

 They sat in stunned silence for a moment. Finally, Krysty asked the obvious question. "But why would the baron want to sabotage his own project?"

 

 "If, my sweet girl, there was something that would emerge and destroy his dream. Men have killed for less," Doc mused.

 

 "Or just take all other barons' jack," Jak added more prosaically.

 

 "Whatever, it leaves us in the middle," Ryan said grimly. "First thing to decide is this—what do we do about it?"

 

 "Find evidence that we can present to the other barons and get our necks saved," Mildred remarked. "Because one thing is for sure—we're being set up to be next on the block after Crow."

 

 J.B. had been silent for longer than the others, looking pensive and lost in thought. Then he said, "How long until the other barons come to Salvation?"

 

 "Silas say three days," Jak replied. "Two nights, guess…"

 

 "Mebbe that's why the attacks have increased," J.B. said quietly. "I've got to go and ask Myall something."

 

 "What?" Ryan asked.

 

 "If he has any record of the sabotage attacks on the well and refinery since work started," the Armorer returned over his shoulder as he left the tent.

 

 MYALL WAS in his small office, drawing up new guard rotas in light of what Baron Silas had told him.

 

 "J.B., what can I do for you?" the sec chief asked wearily as the Armorer entered.

 

 "Records—you keep notes on everything, it seems," the Armorer began, "and I wanted to know if you had any records on the attacks on the well and refinery."

 

 "Such as?"

 

 "Dates, sites that were attacked, anything that could give me a clue as to some sort of pattern."

 

 Myall scratched his head. "Well, I don't keep any records of that as such, but I guess it all would be in the duty log I've got. Everything that happens on patrols I keep note of, just in case the baron asks me about something." The sec chief gave a wry grin. "That way, at least I can tell the Baron something, even if I can't give him all the answers he wants."

 

 "Can I borrow the log?" J.B. asked.

 

 Myall shrugged and handed it over to the Armorer, wondering aloud what the hell good it could do. J.B. didn't answer, but took the collection of papers and notes back to the companions' tent, where the others were waiting.

 

 "Now we'll see," J.B. said cryptically as he settled down with the papers.

 

 After a few minutes, he looked up. "Yep, it's just as I thought. The attacks increase in frequency to coincide with the visit of the other barons, which means the project is always in chaos when they're here and they never get to see the full picture."

 

 "Which means Baron Silas really does have something to hide," Mildred stated. "And, if I'm not mistaken, means we're in for an interesting couple of nights. Especially as the baron knows our patrol schedule."

 

 "So we change it, catch him out," Dean said simply.

 

 "No, not quite," Ryan added. "We play along with him. We need to be able to prove all this to save our necks, because you can bet your last jack that when this comes out we'll be seen by the other barons as being part of it, unless we can prove otherwise. Tonight we stick to the schedule."

 

 "And if there are attacks?" Doc asked.

 

 "We see if they're on the undefended points," Ryan answered. "And if so, then the following night we change the schedule and keep a triple red on those points he thinks are unprotected. And then—and only then—we've got the bastard."

 

 "And kept hold of our skins," Mildred added.

 

 THAT NIGHT BROUGHT exactly what the companions had expected. They were positioned according to the schedule Crow had relayed to Baron Silas when the sound of wags became apparent across the silent desert earth.

 

 Ryan spoke into his handset. "Which direction?"

 

 Jak's voice came back over the crackling receiver. "One headed for pipes to storage tank."

 

 Doc's voice cut in. "Another is taking a second shot at the refinery building they were foiled on last night."

 

 "Any others?" Ryan asked. There was a negative response. So there were only the two wags sent on this night. It was as if whoever was behind the plan didn't want to risk too much. Ryan understood that. His contention had been that the saboteurs would want to marshal all their resources for the last night before the meeting of the barons. This pair of attacks would be to test the water. Had they worked out what was going on? If so, would they have changed their rota?

 

 Although he was almost a hundred percent sure that Baron Silas was behind the attacks, the one-eyed man didn't want to count on that fact and be caught out if it was someone else.

 

 The following night would show for sure. In the meantime, they had to show themselves willing without risking too much.

 

 "Okay, let's go after them." But not, he added to himself, too hard.

 

 Ryan headed toward the wag that was trying to sabotage the piping that led between the refinery and the storage tanks. Along the way, he was joined by Jak and Mildred. All three of them were cantering with their horses, not wishing to charge into trouble. The following night would be the time to go hell for leather.

 

 The sound of the wag had ceased. In the distance, they could see a dim light where the saboteurs were using a lamp to wire their device.

 

 "They're not frightened of being seen," Mildred remarked.

 

 "Need light. Mebbe one man on shotgun," Jak replied.

 

 "So how do we tackle this?" Mildred asked Ryan.

 

 "Circle wide. They'll have to put a timer on their bombs so they can get away. Take a few shots at them, then we'll let the bomb go off, make it look like we failed this time, and they caught us out."

 

 "Sound good," Jak said.

 

 "Hope it's enough to fool them," Mildred added.

 

 Meanwhile, Doc had been joined by J.B., Dean and Krysty, headed toward the refinery block that hadn't been damaged the night before. They were adopting the same tactics as Ryan, Mildred and Jak, circling around the site and moving at a canter rather than a gallop. Like the other group, they wished to create the impression that they were out to stop the saboteurs while making them feel that they could succeed, and so open the way for the following night, when they would go all out against the saboteurs.

 

 The wag standing outside the blockhouse was empty, and as they approached, it seemed that the building itself was empty.

 

 "Must be inside," Krysty said. "We'll let them get out before we fire."

 

 "Try and hit the wag, but don't chill any of them," J.B. muttered. "We want them to get away."

 

 In both locations, the friends waited at a safe distance for the saboteurs to emerge from planting their bombs. It would be a delicate balance to appear to be fighting while in fact hanging back.

 

 At the pipeline, the two saboteurs hurried back to their wag, to find themselves under fire from Ryan, Jak and Mildred, who had circled wide and were now homing in from three differing directions. The saboteurs fired up their wag and headed out into the desert with a squeal of brakes and a screech of tires. Bullets from the ZKR, the Colt Python and the Steyr bit the dirt around the wag, some hits scoring the sides of the wag. But none hit the saboteurs, who thought their luck was in. They didn't realize that the lack of visible success was deliberate.

 

 Much the same happened to the saboteurs emerging from the blockhouse, who found themselves under fire from some distance. They ran to their wag, keeping close to the ground, clambering in and firing the engine. The wag bucked as the driver threw it into gear, and it roared off away from the blockhouse and toward the desert, under fire from J.B., Doc, Krysty and Dean. The shot from the LeMat splashed the side of the wag, pitting the metal.

 

 As the wag pulled away, J.B. turned to the others. "Let's get the hell out before the bomb blows."

 

 THE EXPLOSIONS from both bombs were visible from the workers' camp and the sec camp. The only people not to see them were the companions, who were headed back toward the sec camp with their backs to the work site.

 

 When they reached the sec camp, Myall was waiting for them.

 

 "Well? What the fuck was that?" he asked Ryan.

 

 The one-eyed man fixed Myall with a stare. "Fire-blasted saboteurs. We weren't able to stop them in time. They got into areas we weren't able to cover. Bastards got away this time, though I think we may have injured one of them. Didn't chill any, though."

 

 "Shit! Baron Silas ain't gonna be pleased about this."

 

 "Neither are we," Ryan snapped, leaving the sec chief standing as he headed toward their sleeping tent, followed by the companions.

 

 "Think I sounded convincing?" he asked Krysty. "I'm a fireblasted terrible liar."

 

 "I reckon you did okay," the woman replied. "I also think Myall's got more to worry about than us."

 

 "Let's hope so," Ryan said thoughtfully, "because what we need is everyone to trust us until tomorrow night."

 

  

 

 Chapter Eighteen

 

  

 

 Evening came too soon. After the companions had rested, and then risen and eaten, Ryan had to discuss the previous evening's apparent debacle with Myall and seem to be irritated by his people's apparent inability to deal successfully with the sabotage attempts.

 

 "I dunno what Baron Silas is going to make of this," Myall said softly as he sat back in the small room he used as an office, staring out of the window and not at Ryan, who stood uneasily opposite. The one-eyed man was too straight a person to be able to lie easily in such a situation, and he felt as though Myall would see through him at any moment.

 

 "He can make what he wants," Ryan answered in an offhand manner, avoiding the sec chiefs gaze any time it strayed from out of the window and back into the room.

 

 "So easy for you to say, Ryan. You know the meeting of the barons is tomorrow, and they arrive in Salvation during the day, right?" When the one-eyed man nodded, Myall continued. "Thing is, if they'd arrived the other day when you'd chilled some of the fuckers, and we'd found Crow, that'd look good. Now, with another attack that's been successful, it don't look so good. And that's our asses on the line."

 

 Why not state the fireblasted obvious? Ryan thought, but instead he said, "We're all doing our best here. Baron Silas knows that. The other barons will know that. And we have made progress."

 

 Myall looked at Ryan as though he were stupe. "You think that'll cut any ice with these coldhearts?"

 

 Ryan resisted the temptation to grin, and answered, "No. But what the hell else can we do?" Adding to himself that they could nail Baron Silas Hunter to the wellhead and offer him up for the lying bastard he truly was.

 

 Ryan left an unhappy Myall and returned to his people.

 

 "So how's our happy sec chief today?" Mildred asked with more than a hint of sarcasm as Ryan entered.

 

 "About as far from happy as he can possibly get, I'd say," Ryan returned. "Not that it's our problem, but the poor bastard has been given the shit end of the stick."

 

 "There's always someone to get that," J.B. mused. "Main thing is to see that it's not you."

 

 "Yeah, exactly," Ryan agreed. "Now, if we're going to get this matter nailed tonight and save our own asses, then we've really got to get to work before sundown."

 

 BARON SILAS WAS a far from happy man. If the demeanor of his sec chief had betrayed strained nerves and apprehension about the forthcoming events to Ryan, then one look at the baron would only confirm to the one-eyed man everything that he and his people had suspected about the baron.

 

 The man prowled the length of his dining room, the heels of his snakeskin boots clicking irritatedly against the polished flooring. He ignored the procession of maids that came in and out of the room in order to decorate it for the banquet with which he would greet his fellow barons that evening, before leaving them—hopefully drunk into insensibility—to complete his necessary tasks. If the drink didn't work, then he had some jolt to keep them amused and blasted. If not that, then there were always the women. One way or the other, he had to keep them occupied all the evening to enable his plan to take place. Already he had set up Crow as the ringleader of the saboteurs. Now he just needed to cause enough damage to the well to put it out of action permanently and set up Ryan and his people as fall guys. Oh, yeah—and, if possible, make sure that at least one of the other barons would find another of the barons to blame and so cause enough internal warring to deflect any attention from himself.

 

 Shouldn't be too difficult.

 

 "Shit!" he cursed loudly as a sudden explosion of sound in the otherwise quiet room caused some of the maids to start in their task around the table.

 

 "Is there a problem, master?" one of them asked in honeyed tones.

 

 Baron Silas Hunter had stopped pacing the room and was looking out of the iron-clad window at the people of Salvation going about their business. All of this, built with his own hands and with good faith, now in danger. Yeah, there was a problem.

 

 But instead, he merely answered, "No, go about your business," in a curt and dismissive tone.

 

 And he would go about his.

 

 IT TOOK the companions all day to prepare themselves. Although they knew that this would in all probability be the culminative day of their time at Salvation, they also knew that they couldn't show this to anyone else in the sec camp. So after they had rested and eaten, they retired to their tent to prepare and clean their blasters for the night ahead, also taking the opportunity to work out and exercise, priming themselves for what was to come.

 

 In the late afternoon, Ryan made his first move.

 

 "Okay people, time to get this clear," he said simply, adding, "J.B., keep a lookout for anyone who could come near enough to hear."

 

 "Think they may be on to something, lover?" Krysty asked.

 

 "No," the one-eyed man grunted, "but I don't want to risk anything being overheard by accident and getting back to McVie and Myall. I'm sure they're not in on anything the baron has up his sleeve, but I don't want them blundering in on anyone's side, no matter how well meaning they may be."

 

 Doc nodded. "It will be hard enough to effect this action as it is, without any outside influence."

 

 Mildred shook her head and laughed. "Always use too many words, Doc."

 

 Doc smiled. "My dear good woman, a usage of arcane language could, in itself, be an effective cover. After all, if no one can grasp your meaning…"

 

 "Yeah, well, it helps if we can, at least." Dean laughed.

 

 "Okay," Ryan said good naturedly, "let's cut the stupe stuff and get serious, though I guess us all being in a good mood is going to help."

 

 "Not hurt," Jak commented.

 

 "Right," Ryan began briskly. "I guess we all know the basic plan. There are five points on the patrol roster for tonight that will be left clear at the optimum time for attack. So what we do is quite simple. We reverse the roster and leave the other seven points uncovered, concentrating our efforts on those points that the baron and his mercies will think are vulnerable."

 

 "Not much room hide," Jak commented. "How we keep in cover as bastards approach?"

 

 "Yeah, I've been a little worried about that one," Ryan said. "There are some areas where we can take cover, but the horses could prove a problem. Some of the hideouts are only big enough for people."

 

 "If we make good time, we could tether the horses at the points where we're supposed to be, and make it the rest of the way on foot," J.B. put in from his post by the tent's opening. "That way they can see our mounts if they try to check us out, mebbe figure whoever they're checking is taking a leak at that moment."

 

 "Yeah, good idea." Ryan nodded. "That gives us some cover and mebbe buys a little more surprise."

 

 "Sounds good," Krysty agreed. "So how do we divide up? Seven into five just doesn't go at all."

 

 "We'll do a couple of pairs, and then the rest individually. I know the handsets are a risk to use because we might get overheard, and because the refinery works cause interference, but at least they'll give us some semblance of contact."

 

 "Okay," Mildred said. "But who gets what?"

 

 "Dean and Doc, you two pair up and take the double refinery building. That needs a pair to cover both, and it'll give you a chance to cover each other's back."

 

 The younger Cawdor and Doc both agreed. In many ways, as the youngest and the least fit of the group, they would be able to compensate for each other's weak points.

 

 Ryan continued. "Jak, you take the pipeline point C on the map. It's the most open spot, and I figure you'll be the best suited to finding a hiding place."

 

 The albino hunter didn't speak, merely nodding briefly. His hunting prowess was such that he would be able to find the tiniest recess, the merest hint of darker shadow, and merge silently with it and remain still almost indefinitely. In such an open position, this was an invaluable gift.

 

 Ryan turned to Mildred. "The far side of the storage tank, at point K. There's a lot of desert for them to come in from, so it could any angle. Keep triple sharp on it."

 

 "You know it," Mildred said.

 

 Ryan turned to J.B., who moved into the tent slightly so that Ryan wouldn't have to raise his voice. "As for you, J.B., you've got one of the shortest straws. I need you to cover the point that takes in the tip of the old blacktop. I guess that's the way they'll probably come, so you'll need to stay alert and mebbe let some past before picking up your target."

 

 The Armorer scratched his head under the battered fedora. It was a difficult task, as he would need the patience and judgment to let some of the mercies through before taking action. But the Armorer was a man with a finely honed sense of combat, and could be relied on to kick into action at the right moment.

 

 "Guess I can handle that," he drawled. "So that leaves…?"

 

 "Leaves the wellhead itself," Ryan said grimly. "I figure that's the big target, because if that goes, then the whole thing is fucked over. And I guess because of that, Baron Silas will want to handle it himself. So that's where I want to face him down. And I'll take you with me," he added to Krysty, "as I'm figuring mebbe more firepower from the mercies there, and I'll need a backup."

 

 The woman nodded slowly. "You can count on me, lover."

 

 "Okay." Ryan looked at his wrist chron. "It's about two hours till the sun starts to set. Let's get some rest."

0

 

 THE BANQUET in the baronial hall was in full swing. It was only John the Gaunt from Haigh who didn't seem to be succumbing to the flow of strong liquor and the lines of jolt, although the dour and severe baron was showing a glimmering of interest in the redheaded serving girls. Baron Silas whispered to one of his sec men, and it wasn't long before the Haigh baron found himself the center of attention from a couple of Salvation's finest gaudies, skilled in the art of seducing men.

 

 The evening wore on rapidly, but not rapidly enough for Silas, who found it harder and harder to keep a slick smile on his face while the rest of the barons got more and more removed from reality.

 

 "Boy, I'll say one thing for you," Baron Silveen slurred at one point, "you can sure throw a party and a half."

 

 Baron Silas Hunter found it hard to smile in reply, just wanting them to pass out as quickly as possible. He had started the revelry as soon as the first baron had arrived, and had so managed to so far deflect away from himself any awkward questions. But unless they hit the tables in unconsciousness soon, he wouldn't be able to carry out his plan.

 

 More jolt, more alcohol, more girls…

 

 Eventually, he found that he was the only baron or sec man in the room able to focus.

 

 Now was the time to slip away. By the time his task had been carried out, they'd all be comatose. And he'd be in the clear.

 

 He hoped.

 

  

 

 Chapter Nineteen

 

  

 

 Myall watched the companions leave the sec camp as the sun began to sink and another night descended on the compound. McVie joined his chief at the doorway to the mess hall, where Myall had been completing new duty rosters and worrying about the meeting of barons that was taking place back in Salvation.

 

 "You reckon they've got any chance of stopping this, Chief?" the stocky second in command asked.

 

 Myall shrugged. "I dunno. I would have said so at one point, but after last night? I don't know if any of us have got a chance of stopping it, especially if we can't work out who the hell it is and how they get out of the camp at night."

 

 "Mebbe they don't," mused McVie. "You know, J.B. has this idea—"

 

 "Yeah, I know," Myall cut him short. "Trouble is, that just gives us a whole new set of problems rather than solving the old ones."

 

 McVie laughed bitterly. "And how many more problems do we need, right?"

 

 "Exactly," Myall answered as he turned back toward his poky office. "Anyway, I've got to get these rosters done. We'll need to look really on the ball when Baron Silas brings the other boys over tomorrow for a look around. Got to look on the ball—"

 

 "Even if we ain't," McVie finished for him.

 

 THE COMPANIONS RODE in silence away from the sec camp and across the desert to the work site. It was far enough, in the gloom, for them to change their positions without anyone being able to spy on them from either camp and give the game away, particularly as they shunned the use of lamps to light their way, unlike the regular sec patrols.

 

 Before they parted to take their mounts to the expected positions, then change to the new points on foot, Ryan stopped and turned to his people.

 

 "This is the big one," he said simply. "If we're right, then we nail it down tonight. We need to get Silas, and the best way is to get one of these cold-heart mercies alive and get him to tell his story to the other barons. Otherwise, they'll figure we're in it with him and Silas, and chill us all without a second thought."

 

 There was a moment's silence while they considered that, then J.B. looked at the position of the rising crescent moon and muttered, "Better get to it, before we miss them."

 

 THE SIMPLEST PART of the plan was to tether their mounts in the positions they were supposed to have taken and then make their way to their revised places. In the darkness that rapidly fell when the sun set, there was plenty of shadow for them to move silently. That wasn't their problem. For each, it would be a matter of finding a hiding place where they could observe what was going on and also keep out of sight until the moment of optimum surprise.

 

 For Doc and Dean, there was also the matter of teaming up and making sure that they knew where the other was. If there was trouble, they didn't want to chill or endanger each other by accident. So it was that both the young Cawdor and the prematurely aged Doc Tanner found themselves approaching the refinery buildings from different angles, keeping a sharp lookout for each other.

 

 Dean saw a shadow moving across between the two smaller buildings, keeping to the line of the covered walkway. He cut across from his position until he intersected the other figure's path… except that the other figure had vanished. Dean's finger tightened instinctively on the delicate trigger of the Browning Hi-Power as he scanned the darkness, straining for the slightest sound.

 

 "By the Three Kennedys, you will have to do better than that," whispered a voice from the shadows.

 

 Even though he knew it was Doc, Dean still dropped to one side, rolling as he hit the ground and coming up in a combat stance, only just stopping himself from firing.

 

 "Hot pipe, Doc! Don't do that!"

 

 Doc emerged from the shadows, LeMat in one hand and swordstick in the other. He was shaking his mane of white hair from side to side as he entered the dim light. "I could have taken you out right there and then. Please be careful when the enemy arrives, as I would not like to have to explain to your father how you were chilled."

 

 "Fair point, Doc," Dean replied, cursing himself for being caught. But, like a true Cawdor, he would learn from the experience. "So how are we going to take this?"

 

 "I would suggest we cover a section each, and perhaps have some kind of signal to warn each other of our own approach during a tactical situation—to avoid any more confusion," he added wryly.

 

 Dean ignored that, and replied, "I'll take these two buildings. You take the larger as it's less ground all around. And we'll just yell. In combat who the hell is going to hear a birdcall?"

 

 "As you wish," Doc replied. He made to speak again, but his attention was snatched away by the sound of wags approaching.

 

 "Let's do it—and now," Dean snapped, moving back into the shadows. Doc nodded his agreement, and with a surprising turn of speed for one seemingly so old, he, too, vanished into the darkness.

 

 Although there were other wags audible in the distance, only one sped into the gap between the two refinery blocks, skidding to a halt. It had three occupants: a driver and two others, who jumped out as soon as the wag halted. On either side of the gap, Dean and Doc couldn't believe their luck as they were able to completely cover the wag and its occupants.

 

 Mindful of Ryan's words, Doc chose to speak from the shadows.

 

 "If you will kindly put down your weapons, we will desist from chilling you."

 

 There was only a fraction of a second of stunned silence, although it seemed to be much longer, before the angry explosion of sound that was an Uzi on rapid fire. The driver rose from his seat to level the fire in Doc's direction.

 

 It was short lived, as Dean took him out with a single shot from the Browning that took away a chunk of the back of his skull and pulped his brain tissue.

 

 "Fuck it, there's more than one," yelled one of the saboteurs to his companion. The two men, having already left the wag, had flung themselves into cover—or what they assumed was cover—against the side of the wag farthest from the direction of Doc's voice. Which made them perfect targets for Dean.

 

 The man who hadn't spoken swung himself around in the dirt and rose to run for cover, expecting covering fire from his companion. When it failed to emerge, he swung his own blaster around and loosed a couple of rounds in Dean's direction.

 

 Doc aimed from the shadows and fired the shot charge from the LeMat, the roar of the blaster being echoed only by the agonized yell of the saboteur as the shot ripped into his body, shredding his internal organs and splintering bone. But the yell itself was lost in the louder sound of an explosion. The saboteur had to have been carrying plas-ex on his body, ready to plant it within the confines of the refinery buildings. The shot from Doc's LeMat had hit the explosive and detonated it, causing the body of the saboteur to disintegrate in a ball of flame that lit the entire area between the buildings.

 

 "Oh shit!" Dean yelled, throwing himself flat to escape the rain of debris that ensued as the force of the blast detonated plas-ex that was on the saboteur still taking cover by the wag, taking him out in a blaze of flame and causing the wag to explode as its fuel tank overheated and combusted. The triple explosions were so close that they sounded as one, deafening Dean and Doc as they took cover in their respective points and hoped that no stray piece of debris should, by chance, chill them.

 

 It seemed like forever before the world returned to some semblance of normal, but it had to only have been a few moments. The light settled to a level set by the burning wag, and the only sound was the crackling of flames.

 

 Dean and Doc, now both safe from any debris and certainly safe from any threat from the now chilled saboteurs, emerged from their respective covers and met in the middle, standing together to watch the fire begin to die as the fuel was used.

 

 "So much for taking prisoners," Dean murmured.

 

 JAK HAD ARRIVED at his position with little trouble. Moving silently and swiftly was a matter of instinct and nature for the born hunter, and so it presented him with no problem to find his way along the pipeline with little chance of any approaching agency spotting him.

 

 The pipelines running from the refinery to the storage tanks were straight, with little or no cover provided, particularly at the vulnerable point that Jak was to guard. It was a series of valves and small pipe fittings that joined the two sections, and the shape of the construction meant that the whole piece jutted out into the desert, presenting a plain target with no recesses in which to take any kind of cover.

 

 Within the maze of pipes at this point, there was a small gap that would provide scant opportunity for anyone to take cover. But Jak was small, lithe and supple, and used to keeping still for long periods of time. He forced himself into a tiny gap and settled down to wait, easing his cramped muscles with exercises taught to him by his hunter father that prevented him from either becoming stiff or from having to move out into the open to stretch. He slowed his breathing, making each breath deeper but spaced further and further apart. And he settled to watch and listen, his red eyes sharp in the darkness, his ears alert for the slightest sound out of the ordinary.

 

 So it was that, as before, he was the first to hear the wags. He was aware of the handset sitting heavy on his hip, but he was unwilling to use it. Ryan had wanted them to maintain as much of a radio silence as possible, in case of eavesdropping. The others would hear the wags soon enough in the quiet of the desert night. The only thing that concerned Jak was being ready for the wag that would come his way— for he had no doubts that Ryan and J.B. were correct, and that the five vulnerable points would be those that were hit.

 

 So Jak stayed, patient and silent, keeping his senses alert. He could hear the wags roll from the blacktop and separate, the notes of their engines changing pitch with their directions, and forming a strange harmony on the dark desert air.

 

 One of them was headed toward him. He increased his rate of breathing, keeping it deep to oxygenate his blood. He exercised his supple muscles, easing all signs of strain and cramp from them. He had to be ready for them when they arrived, which would be only a matter of seconds.

 

 The wag rolled across the dark earth, silhouetted against the lighter sky. Jak could see from his position that there were only two occupants in the wag. They wouldn't be able to see him, as they were showing no lights in an attempt to disguise their position from where they thought a patrol might be. In the quiet, it was impossible for a person to truly disguise his or her position in a wag, but at least with no lights it would take longer to locate…unless it was already known where it was headed.

 

 Jak smiled as he readied for attack, a humorless smile, his lips drawing back over vulpine teeth. His Colt Python was still tucked in his camou pants. Speed was essential in getting out of concealment and into space to move freely. If he needed an immediate weapon, he always had a leaf-bladed knife ready to palm.

 

 The wag rolled to a halt, and the albino heard a muttered exchange between the two occupants as the engine cut out. One, called Murphy, was the driver. Greenberg was the name of the other mercie, and they exchanged a few comments about getting the job done before the sec had a chance to get over to them, and get the hell out. "We were lucky the other night," he heard Greenberg say, adding, "Those bastards are too good. Let's hope the big score really works."

 

 The two mercies climbed from the wag, taking in the surrounding area and judging it to be empty. They were wary, but beneath that they betrayed the security they felt by a certain relaxation of posture. Despite the wish to be wary, everything told them that they were alone, and they wouldn't be prepared for attack.

 

 Jak tensed every muscle in his body, every sinew taut and ready to explode. His eyes darted from one prey to the other, and also around the surrounding area to judge the best places to move, to duck and cover if necessary. Not that he would need it.

 

 The two mercies had both looked into the back of the wag to remove the plas-ex they would need for their bomb when Jak moved. Although his clothing was dark, it was only the shadow of cover that had kept his startling white face and stringy white mane out of view, and as he leaped from his hiding place, it seemed to the two men as they turned at the sudden sound as though a white bird with a terrible beak and eyes of fire had sprung from the darkness.

 

 The sight was so unexpected and so terrible that it froze them for a second.

 

 A second was all that Jak needed. The man named Murphy caught a leaf-bladed knife, thrown while in flight with such accuracy and force that it entered his left eye, spinning in the air and skewering into his brain, entering the frontal lobes behind the eye socket and rendering him devoid of movement but with enough awareness to know the terrible fact that he had been chilled.

 

 Greenberg's attention was then fatally torn between the apparition in white and his chilled friend. Torn fatally because the albino landed on the hard-packed dirt floor and in one bound had flattened the mercie against the side of the wag, Jak's combat boots thudding into his chest at the culmination of a flying leap. Greenberg felt one of his ribs crack as he bent against the metal edge of the flatbed wag at an unnatural angle, and he was unable to drag himself upright, his breath driven from him and the ability to draw any more denied by the pain in his lung from the fractured rib piercing the organ.

 

 Jak landed a little way back from the mercie, having used him as a springboard to get some distance. Rolling, the albino was on his feet again and moving in for the kill against his almost defenseless foe. Greenberg fumbled for his blaster through the mist of pain, but felt his wrist crack and another agony add to that he was already enduring as Jak took his wrist in both hands and cracked it, leaving it limp and useless. The albino followed this with a straight-fingered chop to the open throat, crushing the thorax and leaving the mercie unable to breathe.

 

 Greenberg fell forward, exposing his neck. The bones of his vertebrae stood out against the corded muscles of his neck, and it was little more than an exercise for Jak to take one clean chop at them, shattering those that attached his skull to the rest of his skeleton.

 

 Greenberg was chilled before he even hit the dust.

 

 Jak stood back, pleased with his work. The threat was over. Barely out of breath, he turned to where the refinery buildings became an explosion of light and sound. Dean and Doc were making progress.

 

 But what of the others?

 

 MILDRED KEPT HER WATCH on the far side of the storage tank, remembering the action she had seen there previously. It was a good place for the saboteurs to come, as it was sheltered from view if there was a patrol on the near side, taking in the pipeline, as well as the tanks. Although any wag would have to come the long way around to tackle the tanks in this way, it would be worth their while as they could buy valuable time installing bombs and booby traps.

 

 But this night there was a booby trap waiting for them.

 

 Mildred had a secure place in the shadows between the two tanks. There was nothing but metal at her back, and it would be impossible for anyone to take her from behind. The same was true of both sides. The only way anyone could come at her was from the front. And it was the only direction in which she had to focus her attention.

 

 Mildred heard the wags come in from along the blacktop, heard the change in pitch of the engine notes as they separated and went in their differing directions, and waited for the one that she could pick out as coming near to her.

 

 It looked as though the wag had three occupants. They weren't easy to spot as the wag came around in a semicircle and approached the tanks from the blind side, as the wag itself was outlined against the horizon. It was a jeep, like the ones she had seen used before.

 

 Three against one weren't good odds. Ryan wanted one of the saboteurs kept alive to use against Baron Silas Hunter? Hell, it'd have to be one of the saboteurs from the other wags, as far as she was concerned—unless one of these bastards survived by accident. Because with odds of three to one, there was no way she could take a chance on trying to keep one alive and chill the other two. While she was paying attention to the live one, the others might get her before she could move.

 

 There was only one way to play this.

 

 Ever since she was a child, no one had ever accused Mildred of subtlety. Sure, she could hack that if it came her way. If she had to be diplomatic and sensitive in the past, she could fake it. Sometimes you had to, like in her prefreezie days when she had been a doctor and had to handle people who had terminal illnesses, or whose loved ones had passed away under her care. That was fine. But most of the time, being subtle, diplomatic and sensitive meant kissing some poisonous little snake's ass, and it meant deferring to someone who would walk all over you given half a chance.

 

 It was a lesson from the predark days that had stood her in good stead since she had emerged into the Deathlands.

 

 Mildred wasn't going to let these bastards even get out of their wag. She took from a coat pocket a gren that J.B. had given her, for use in an emergency situation.

 

 She pulled the pin and stepped forward, focusing her eyes on the wag that was almost at a standstill. She took a firm stance and, without leaving the safety of her shadows, she threw the gren.

 

 It was a good pitch. Hard and true, with just a slight amount of lift to it. It flew at the wag before the mercies had a chance to register what it was, and clipped the top of the windshield, just enough to break its path and momentum, and tip it into the interior, where the men still sat.

 

 The gren went off in a flash of light and a roar of sound. It was a shrapnel gren, and Mildred hit the dirt, covering her head with her arms against any debris.

 

 Inside the wag, the mercies didn't have a chance to realize what had hit them as the shrapnel ripped them to shreds seconds before the explosive charge triggered off the plas-ex they had with them, and ignited the wag's gas tank.

 

 Threat nullified by the second big explosion of the night. Mildred looked up to see a smoking chassis and little else where the wag had been standing.

 

 She wondered how John was doing.

 

 J.B. WAS, in fact, a man whose almost infinite patience had been stretched unnaturally thin. There was little he could do in his position out near the blacktop that fed a side road to the refinery and well. A small hut there held building materials for the road, and the Armorer had been able to secure a hiding place. But this supply hut was the target for this point, and if it was to be hit, he was directly in the firing line. He just hoped that the mercies would want to lay a bomb and not just use a gren. If the latter was the case, then J.B. was dead meat before he had a chance to bite back.

 

 He was the first to see the wags approach. Five of them, in convoy. There was something about someone in the leading wag that seemed oddly familiar, but he dismissed the thought. Let whoever got that wag deal with the problem. Then four of them peeled off the blacktop and down the side road, past the hut where he was hidden and off across the desert to their allotted tasks. With the amount of grens he had on him, plus the M-4000 and the Uzi, it was tempting to try to take them out as they passed. But before he could have got them all, his position would have been identified and bombarded.

 

 Better to let them pass.

 

 That had galled him, but now he sat waiting for the last wag, which still stood on the ribbon of blacktop. He didn't dare risk firing until it started its run toward him, as then the crew would just have to concentrate their blasterfire on the hut or pitch a gren at it to completely obliterate him. But leave it too late, and he would be blasted out of existence before he could pick them all off.

 

 Did they know he was in there? It certainly seemed to him that they were mounting a war of nerves…and winning.

 

 The Armorer felt sweat bead on his forehead and trickle down the bridge of his nose, past his spectacles. He blinked as the sweat stung his eyes, but kept his Uzi, set to rapid fire, trained on the wag. That was his best first-line defense.

 

 Finally, just when it seemed that his nerves were screaming at him, the wag began to move. He could only assume that they had been waiting for the other wags to make distance so that they could time their raids in unison.

 

 Through the small window hole of the hut, the snubbed barrel of the Uzi stood out. If he let them get too close, they would see it and start to fire. But too far and they would be out of effective range.

 

 J.B. blanked his mind. His grasp of weapons was so instinctive that he wanted to go with it, and trust his gut feeling.

 

 Now.

 

 He squeezed the trigger of the Uzi and started to spray the oncoming wag. There were sparks as bullets ricocheted, and the wag swerved as the driver tried to take evasive action. But he swerved too hard, and the front wheels hit a ridge of rock at the side of the road. The wag tilted and tipped, the near-side wheels turning on air.

 

 Slugs from the Uzi sprayed the underneath of the wag, severing the fuel line and igniting the fuel. The gas flickered to flame, spreading to the tank and making it combust. The explosion was doubled in a fraction of a second by the plas-ex that the wag was carrying.

 

 "Dark night!" the Armorer cursed, flattening himself in the hut to take cover from the force and heat of the blast as it swept over the structure.

 

 He picked himself up as it subsided and looked out of the window at the blazing hulk of the wag.

 

 So much for trying to take a mercie prisoner. Maybe someone else was having that kind of luck. J.B.? At least he was alive. There was nothing more important than that.

 

  

 

 Chapter Twenty

 

  

 

 Ryan and Krysty made their way to the well and derrick on foot, having tethered their mounts in their rostered positions. Both moved swiftly on foot, keeping a watch for each other as they approached the site. Krysty was sure that the saboteurs were at a safe distance as her hair flowed wild and free, not curling to her neck in the manner it adopted when there was danger present.

 

 So it was that she knew instinctively that the approaching footsteps—light and almost inaudible on the still night air—were Ryan's.

 

 "So you got here, then, lover," she said softly.

 

 "Yeah, and with time to spare, I'd say. There's no sign of anything going down yet."

 

 Krysty shook her head. "When they come, how the hell do we take one alive to nail Baron Silas?"

 

 Ryan shrugged. "I don't know. In the middle of a firefight it's not going to be easy to just stop one of the coldhearts and say 'Excuse me, would you mind coming with us.' Guess we've just got to hope, and mebbe hope that one of the others can get us a mercie."

 

 "Not much of a hope, is it?" Krysty queried.

 

 Ryan shook his head. "I reckon we might just have to battle our way out of this, like every other fireblasted situation."

 

 "At least we're ready for it," she replied.

 

 Ryan pointed out the two areas of the wellhead where there were hiding places. One was the small blockhouse used to house the main valves and stopcocks for the wellhead pumps—where J.B. and Jak had previously encountered saboteurs—and the other was in the heart of the derrick itself, over the hole where the main shaft of the pump would fit when it was restored. A smaller, test borehole stood to one side of this, and the casing around it would provide cover for the one-eyed man to use in the event of a firefight…which was an inevitability.

 

 The two companions took their positions and waited. They didn't have long to wait before the distant roar of the wag engines became audible. As with all their companions, they were able to hear the change in pitch and harmony of the engines as they veered off toward their differing destinations, and were able to pick out the sound of one individual wag as it moved toward them.

 

 From his position on the derrick, Ryan was unable to see the wag until it was upon them, but Krysty had been able to observe its approach, and identified it as yet another of the jeeps that the saboteur parties seemed to favor. She could tell that it had three occupants—a driver and two passengers, one of whom was holding what looked like a Heckler & Koch G-12 caseless rifle. Even in the darkness, Krysty was able to identify the shape because Ryan had once used such a blaster.

 

 Krysty waited in the blockhouse, her Smith & Wesson .38 in hand. She was sheltered in the shadows cast around the doorway, but had enough of herself showing to be able to get a good view of the outside.

 

 The occupants of the wag climbed out. They were brisk and businesslike, but not hurrying, men who knew exactly what they were doing and that they had but a little time in which to do it. So every movement was to maximum efficiency. The driver of the wag was short and fairly stout; he looked powerful but not too fast, and carried a snub-nosed handblaster that could have been anything in this light. The second man was taller, but just as broad. He had long dark hair that made the line of his head flow smoothly into his neck in the dim light, making him appear to have no neck. He looked very powerful, as his torso tapered to a tight waist. He would be quick.

 

 But it was the third occupant of the wag that took Krysty's breath away. She got a clear view of him as he moved across toward the derrick in the moonlight, suddenly becoming illuminated as he moved across patches of shadow and into the light. There was no mistaking the Stetson hat, snakeskin boots and rangy figure…

 

 Although distracted by the surprise of seeing the baron, Krysty soon switched her attention back to the two men by the wag. They were unloading a cache of plas-ex, and also something that could be timing devices, although in the poor light it was difficult for Krysty to tell. The baron was moving over toward Ryan, so it was up to her to take these two out.

 

 Krysty leveled her blaster and aimed at the shorter, fatter man. If she took him first, then the one with the Heckler & Koch—the one who looked leaner, fitter and faster—would have time to turn and loose a few rounds at her. Whereas his companion, if he were to be the one left after the initial shot was fired, would probably be slower, and would be using a handblaster that would be less powerful and less accurate from a distance.

 

 That settled it. The taller, more muscled saboteur would be the first one chilled. For there was no doubt in her mind that she would take them both out. Ryan had to keep Baron Silas alive, as he was the best chance they had of proving their own innocence in the bedlam that was bound to erupt.

 

 The two saboteurs were now hunched over the plas-ex and timers, the taller one holding a lamp that illuminated the work the fatter man was involved in. He was manipulating the wires of the timing devices, rigging up a bomb. Krysty knew she would have to strike soon, and so she drew a bead on the fat man. Her finger tightened on the trigger, pressure increasing as she squeezed gently but firmly…then stopped suddenly.

 

 Baron Silas Hunter walked back into her field of vision, stopping in front of the two saboteurs and blocking her shot. There was no way she was going to risk taking out the baron.

 

 RYAN STOOD behind the cover of the borehole shaft, the SIG-Sauer in his hand. His amazement at seeing the baron walk toward him had lasted only a moment. It was incredible that Hunter would risk everything by going on one of his own sabotage missions, even if it did confirm for Ryan that the baron was indeed behind it all. It had to mean that this night's attack was the last gasp by Hunter to stop the project going any further. Why was something that Ryan would have liked to know, but ultimately that was unimportant. The only thing that mattered now was getting Hunter alive and keeping him that way.

 

 As Ryan shifted J.B.'s M-4000 across his back, Hunter suddenly stopped in his tracks, causing the one-eyed man to also freeze. Was he aware of Ryan's presence?

 

 Hunter turned and walked back toward the wag, passing out of Ryan's view and causing the one-eyed man to curse to himself. It would have been a whole lot easier if the baron could have been kept separated from the other saboteurs.

 

 THAT SENTIMENT WAS ECHOED by Krysty as Hunter bent over the other two, muttering in a voice too low to be clearly audible. He straightened, nodding as he did so, then ran across to the derrick, passing from her field of view.

 

 All yours, lover, she thought as she closed in on the two saboteurs, who were set to their task with more speed than previously.

 

 The saboteur with the lamp and the Heckler & Koch had no idea what hit him. Although Krysty wasn't an accurate shot to the degree that either Mildred or Jak were, she was still the possessor of a keen eye. The bullet took the tall and muscular saboteur straight between the eyes, shattering his skull and the bones of his nose, driving splinters into those frontal lobes that weren't eviscerated by the hot lead of the slug. He fell backward, dropping both lamp and blaster, not knowing that he was even chilled.

 

 The fatter saboteur was momentarily stunned into shocked stillness. Then something in his brain clicked into gear, knowing that he would be chilled unless he acted. He went for his blaster, trying to turn…

 

 Too late. Krysty's second shot took him at the top of the cheekbone, in the area between the ear and the eye socket. He screamed as the bone acted as a shock absorber for the slug before shattering under the impact. It was the merest fraction of a second longer that he lived, but a fraction of a second that was of the acutest agony.

 

 Knowing they were dead, Krysty emerged from the hut, keeping low in case Hunter should have turned back. She checked the chilled saboteurs to be sure, then turned to the derrick.

 

 What she saw made her blood run cold.

 

 RYAN HAD LOST TRACK of the baron when the first shot was fired. Somewhere in the shadow, Hunter had disappeared. He couldn't have gone far, but knowing he had to have realized what had happened, and that he knew the wellhead better than anyone, Ryan knew he'd have to be on triple red.

 

 Even so, Hunter's voice from behind still shocked him and made his blood run cold.

 

 "Drop those blasters and turn around slowly, or else I'll chill you where you stand," the baron said softly.

 

 Ryan had no doubt that Hunter had his blaster leveled at him, and so he complied, making sure to be triple slow and buy some time. The baron had to know that there was someone else at the wellhead, but he couldn't keep his attention perfectly divided. Ryan just hoped that Krysty would be able to do something before the baron decided it was time for him to buy the farm.

 

 "So tell me," Ryan said calmly as he turned. "Was Crow involved?"

 

 "No. Shame he had to tumble to what was going on, as he was an okay guy and a damn fine worker. That I do regret, if I'm honest."

 

 "I regret that, too," Ryan said. He wanted to keep the conversation going as long as possible, to buy time for himself, and for Krysty to try to attack the baron. He'd be less likely to hear her approach if he was busy talking. Ryan continued. "I don't get it. Why do you want to destroy the well?"

 

 "Want? Hell, the last thing I want is to destroy it." Hunter laughed bitterly.

 

 "Then why are you doing that very thing?" Ryan asked.

 

 A tinge of genuine sadness entered Hunter's voice.

 

 "I don't have any choice. I spent years searching for a well. Years. And it was part of my father, too. When I found this one, I couldn't believe that it was still operable. The test drilling found that there were sizable deposits—or that's how it seemed."

 

 "How it seemed?" Ryan interjected, trying desperately to see if Krysty was in view anywhere, trying desperately to keep Hunter talking.

 

 "I guess that some old deposits had been trapped by rock shifts, making big enough pools to drill into. But soon after we started work here it became clear that there wasn't anything really left in the well, and those deposits soon dried up."

 

 "Shit, that's one beauty to explain to the other barons," Ryan said.

 

 "Explain? After all the jack and supplies they've pumped into this? They figure that they own me, and they'd take it out on my ass. So I had to delay the project somehow, until I had enough jack and an escape route to make a run for it."

 

 "And now you have."

 

 Hunter nodded. "And the perfect setup, with you getting the blame for tonight's disaster. 'Cept you were too clever. Which is why I'm gonna have to chill you."

 

 "Go ahead. It isn't going to help you," Ryan said calmly.

 

 "You're one strange fucker, Cawdor," Hunter remarked as he leveled his blaster.

 

 It was then that Krysty leaped from the shadows, having made her way into a good position. She didn't want to fire at Hunter with Ryan so close, so instead threw herself forward and took the baron from one side, driving into his ribs with her shoulder and using her incredibly strong arms to grab at his blaster hand and force it up. Hunter fired harmlessly into the air, then dropped the blaster as the nerves deadened in his fingers.

 

 The force with which Krysty hit the baron propelled them both across the edge of the borehole for the main shaft and into the empty space.

 

 "Fireblast!" Ryan yelled, bursting into action as he saw Krysty and Hunter disappear into the blackness of the hole. It was a bore sunk several hundred feet deep, with nothing to break a fall.

 

 The one-eyed man reached the edge of the hole. Peering over the edge, he could see that Krysty was clinging to the edge by her fingertips, which were slipping painfully as there was little purchase, and she had Hunter clinging to her heels, even though she was trying desperately to kick him loose.

 

 "I go, you go with me lady," he yelled.

 

 "Not if I can help it," she yelled back, loosing one of her feet from his grasp and pulling it up before thrusting down hard, the heel of her boot cracking hard against the side of the baron's head, catching him above the ear and stunning him…just enough for him to lose his grip and plunge into the depths with a wild scream.

 

 "Hold on," Ryan gasped as he reached down and gripped her forearms in his strong fingers, using his boots and the edge of the lipped wellhead to gain a counterforce before pulling with all his might, dragging Krysty upward as she scrabbled for a foothold to help him.

 

 It took a few seconds, but she was finally able to pull her arms over the lipped edge of the wellhead and drag herself upward as Ryan pulled, until she was out of the borehole and lying on the derrick, gasping for breath.

 

 Both of them were silent for a few moments as they regained their breath, before Krysty gasped, "What now…lover?"

 

 Ryan shook his head. "We'll take the wag and round up the others. Head out on the blacktop and hope for the best. Get J.B. to get a direction and try to head back for the redoubt, get the fuck out of here and somewhere else."

 

 "Try and explain to the barons?" Krysty hissed through painful breaths.

 

 Ryan shook his head once more. "No chance…look at it."

 

 Krysty raised her head. There were several fires across the work site, and she could hear the scattered sounds of battle coming to a close. The well was in ruins, and there was no Baron Silas Hunter to stand accountable to the other barons. Just a bunch of outsiders that no one would trust.

 

 She raised herself to her feet, leg muscles still trembling from the effort. Fixing the one-eyed warrior with a stare, she said, "Yeah, you're right. No one'll believe us. Let's get the wag, round everyone up and get the hell out."

 

 Ryan grinned. Despite the situation, he couldn't help saying it.

 

 "Yeah—and out of hell."