Chapter Twenty-One

 

 

Jak drew his .357 Magnum pistol and dropped into the shadows of the building down from the Bent Rose, warned by the sharp reports of gunfire.

 

"Who is it, lad?" Doc asked.

 

"Not know," the albino called back. Doc was at his back, the Le Mat blaster in a hard-knuckled fist. "Gunning for Ryan, though." He knew that from the flickering gunfire racing through the room atop the tavern that lighted up the one-eyed man's face briefly.

 

A moment later, J.B. erupted from the alley atop a horse, followed by Krysty, who held the reins of the horse bearing the Celtic boy.

 

"Move," Jak told Doc.

 

The old man was slow to react, following the albino to the edge of the sidewalk. J.B. spotted them first, bringing his horse to an abrupt stop, wheeling it around in the center of the street and causing it to rear up.

 

Two men rushed from the front doors of the Bent Rose and started firing.

 

Managing his horse with his knees and one hand yanking on the reins, the Armorer brought his mount around. The Uzi stuttered sudden thunder in his hand, chopping into Gehrig's men and spilling their corpses across the street.

 

Krysty threw the reins of one of the extra horses at Doc. "Mount up," she said. "We've got some hard riding to do."

 

Doc caught the reins and looked up at the red-haired woman. "I might have a lead on at least one of my descendants."

 

"Here, Doc?" Krysty asked.

 

"I do not know. Perhaps."

 

Krysty controlled her nervous mount with difficulty. The animal stamped its hooves and tried to turn in circles, its eyes rolling wide and white in fear. "We've worn our welcome out here. You can't do anyone much good if you're dead."

 

"John Barrymore," Doc said, looking at the Armorer.

 

"Lady called it," J.B. replied. "That's the ace on the line. Gehrig wasn't going to let us take a free ride on this one anyway. And those soldiers from that unit in White Sands are here, too. I don't get the feeling they're here to ask a bunch of questions. Come another time, Doc, mebbe we can take another look around this ville. But not now."

 

Jak put his hand on the old man's shoulder, urging him toward the skittish horse. "Go, Doc. Long Johnson not man to hide easy. He not have all answers, either."

 

Reluctantly Doc put a foot in the stirrup with the albino's help, then pulled himself into the saddle. More gunners were pouring from the Bent Rose, taking up positions in the street.

 

"Ryan's going to need help," Krysty said to Jak. "He had this set aside for you."

 

The albino caught the pouch the red-haired woman tossed him. A brief check inside showed him plas-ex charges already set up with time detonators.

 

"Gehrig's wags," Krysty said. "He's got some out back. Ryan's got the ones in front of the Bent Rose."

 

Jak slid the pouch strap over his shoulder, then caught the reins J.B. threw to him. "Ryan?"

 

Before anyone could answer, Ryan came crashing through the window over the eaves of the tavern overhanging the street. Glass caught the moonlight and splintered it into bright sparks.

 

Jak was already in motion, grabbing the saddle pommel in one fist and yanking himself onto his mount. A second horse's reins were looped around the pommel, and he knew the horse was intended for Ryan.

 

"Take care of him," Krysty called as the four riders broke into a full gallop. "And take care of yourself."

 

Jak didn't answer. It would have been a waste of words. He yanked the reins, bringing his horse in a tight circle that the second horse had to step quickly to emulate.

 

Ryan was already in the street, the blaster in his hand hammering out a death song for Gehrig's people. The one-eyed warrior stayed in motion, sliding under one of the wags in a diving lunge.

 

Then Jak lost him, cutting down the alley J.B. and the others had come from. He rode the horse tight, hanging on with his knees rather than depending on the stirrups to handle his weight.

 

Two wags were behind the tavern, both of them outfitted with the oversize tires that indicated Gehrig and his people took them on their raids into the Celtic territories on occasion. The albino reached into his pouch and grabbed up the first plas-ex charge, setting the detonator for thirty seconds. As he tossed it into the window of a truck, the mirror on the side exploded as a bullet ripped through it.

 

Jak's horse shied away from the noise and the flying debris, and it took him a moment to regain control. He brought out the second explosive pack and set the timer, getting it somewhere between forty and fifty seconds before his attention was seized by the stiletto that suddenly appeared with a shiver near his crotch at the base of the pommel.

 

The blade sliced the thin flesh webbing between his thumb and forefinger. Blood immediately trickled down into his grip, causing him to lose control of the second explosive. It went tumbling down and dropped into the sunbaked alley a dozen yards from the second target wag.

 

Jak turned in the saddle, hunkering down low as he did. An irregular shadow along the eaves drew his attention. He made out the man with difficultysmall and rat faced, wearing glasses and bringing up a machine pistol. The man's uniform gave no doubt about his connection to the military force from White Sands, New Mexico.

 

Evidently the man had been trying to take Jak down without alerting anyone to the fact. To manage the knife throw downward onto a man on horseback and come as close as he had, the albino knew the soldier was deadly.

 

Crossing the man's target zone, Jak flicked two of the leaf-bladed knives toward the soldier. They glimmered in the moonlight for just a second. The dull thunk of a blade sinking into wood told Jak one of them had buried itself in the eaves, but the other had to have found flesh.

 

The rat-faced man cursed and curled in on himself for an instant. The machine pistol in his hands chattered briefly, cutting a staggered line of bullets into the street and chipping away at the rooftop.

 

Counting down the seconds in his head, Jak brought the horse around. An irregular line of gunners had formed at the far end of the alley. Kicking his heels into his mount's sides, he rode back the way he'd come, knowing he was a moving target for the man on the rooftop.

 

He searched the alleyway for the second explosive, then spotted it in a lopsided rut that had been cut through the hard ground. Bullets rent the air around him.

 

Relying on his acrobatic skills, knowing he had only seconds left before the first plas-ex package went off, Jak shoved himself out of the saddle. He ripped the knife loose from the pommel base and gripped it, sliding it expertly through his fingers until he got it in a throwing hold.

 

Both legs on the left side of the saddle, his right foot in the stirrup, Jak dropped his free foot and kicked the plas ex. The pounding horses' hooves swallowed whatever sound there might have been. The package flew from the rut, then slammed into the rear tire of the second wag and bounced underneath. Jak figured the curb or the back of the tavern would stop the explosive somewhere beneath the wag.

 

A beefy man with a shotgun stepped from the back door of the tavern ten yards in front of the bolting horse. He raised his weapon to his shoulder.

 

Seeing the danger, Jak whipped his arm back and let the knife fly. The keen blade lodged in the man's throat a heartbeat too late.

 

The shotgun belched out a twisted orange-and-white blossom.

 

Jak heard the meaty smacks of the pellets slapping into flesh an instant before he felt the heat of the horse's blood spread over him.

 

Knowing the horse was dead or dying from the shotgun blast, the albino dropped from the stirrup, managing a staggering run beside the faltering animal just long enough to free one of the leaf-bladed knives from its hiding place. He swiped the keen edge across the reins securing the second horse to the saddle pommel of the first, then caught them up as they fell loose.

 

Tugging on the reins, he guided the animal to the other side of the alley, knowing the first explosive would be blowing at any second. Gehrig's raiders who'd taken up positions on that side of the alley were caught off guard. Jak buried the knife he held between the ribs of one man and watched the guy go stumbling away, his face suddenly waxen with pain and surprise.

 

The youth hooked a foot in the stirrup as controlled bursts from the machine pistol in the hands of the man on the eaves across the street took out the windows of the hardware store. He drew the .357 Magnum pistol fluidly and hunkered down so he could fire from beneath the horse's neck.

 

He fired four rounds as quick as he could trigger them. The horse flinched, but it never broke stride.

 

The rat-faced man went to cover, breaking loose shingles that rained on the men below. Alerted to the fact that someone was above them, Gehrig's raiders suddenly found themselves with two targets.

 

The rat-faced soldier was in a worse way than Jak was, but the albino couldn't find a bit of sympathy in himself. He fired his last two rounds in the face of another raider who was in the shadows ahead of him.

 

As the raider went stumbling backward, already losing motor control, the first explosive blew. The roof ripped off the wag, and shards of glass went spinning out in a deadly hailstorm.

 

By the time Jak made the corner of the alley, he was in the saddle again, shaking the brass from the .357 and reloading. He kicked the horse's sides, urging it forward. He was scanning the street for Ryan when the second wag exploded behind him.

 

 

 

SERGEANT CONTE DECIDED the stealth operation had gone to hell. He didn't know exactly where things had gone wrong, but they'd been mistaken in thinking that Ryan Cawdor's presence in the tavern was wholly by invitation.

 

The sergeant dropped the machine pistol to waist height and sizzled out a blistering arc of 9 mm rounds that tore two gunners from the entrance of the Bent Rose. He took cover behind a rain barrel set in place to catch freshwater runoff from the roof.

 

Return fire smashed the glass panes from the windows above him and to the side. Mannequins, dressed in refurbished clothing, performed a jerking dance, then vanished over the railing behind them.

 

Cawdor was in motion around the wags, but Conte couldn't tell what the man was doing. When the first explosion pealed through the night a moment later from somewhere behind the tavern, he knew.

 

He also knew Cawdor had taken advantage of the squad's sudden appearance to make his escape. The men inside the Bent Rose who'd evidently been there to help hold Cawdor and his band under loose house arrest was suddenly returning fire on all fronts.

 

Conte tagged the headset radio. "Cobra One to Cobra Team. Pull back. Now! We've stepped in it here."

 

The other members of his team quickly responded, counting down and letting him know they were all still viable.

 

"Regroup," Conte ordered. "Cawdor's making a break. He'll head for the gate more than likely."

 

His men leapfrogged back, not drawing much pursuit.

 

"Ryan!"

 

Conte looked over his shoulder and saw the white-haired youth suddenly gallop around the side of the Bent Rose. Cawdor was in motion at once, running for the albino and the horse. Whipping around, Conte brought his Hamp;K MP-5 to bear, thinking he could at least put Cawdor down. Then the jeep in front of the Bent Rose suddenly exploded, bathing the area in a blinding flash of light that caught Conte unprepared.

 

 

 

RYAN DIDN'T HESITATE about approaching Jak. Most of the concussive force from the first charge he'd set was just catching up to him in a searing blast of heat. He knew the second blast was going to be even closer, and it was coming hot on the heels of the initial detonation.

 

The albino's hand closed around the one-eyed man's wrist with wiry strength. Ryan gripped the teenager's hand and swung himself up behind the saddle. The horse staggered for just a moment under the sudden change in weight, then surged forward.

 

Bullets chopped pocks in the hard earth of the street.

 

Jak urged the horse forward, drumming his heels into its sides.

 

 

Swinging around behind the albino, Ryan drew a bead on one of Gehrig's men lying in a prone position on the front eaves of the Bent Rose. The SIG-Sauer in his fist cracked three times in quick succession. Two of the rounds found only the shingles, but the third caught the gunner in the face.

 

The body pitched from the eaves and landed on top of the second wag in time to be blown straight up again as the plas ex touched off. Some of the raiders had started to get to their feet in front of the tavern, recovering from the initial blast. Many of them went down with the second detonation, hit by the flying debris. The extra fuel tanks aboard the wag became a flaming wave that crashed on the shoals of the Bent Rose's exterior, bathing it in fire.

 

"The other horse?" Ryan asked.

 

"Dead," Jak answered.

 

 

"Krysty and the rest?"

 

"Go to the gate."

 

"Going to be some argument there, too."

 

The albino nodded, reining the horse to the right and taking the corner.

 

Ryan scanned the shadows along the street. Gehrig's raiders weren't the only threat the companions had to be concerned about. But he didn't see any of the soldiers from the White Sands redoubt.

 

Looking back, Ryan saw the fire had engulfed the front of the Bent Rose, the flames already eating through the eaves and bringing them down in sheets. The raiders spread out into the street, firing at will.

 

Two riders approached, leading another half-dozen horses. Blackjack Gehrig was one of the first men mounted, wheeling the horse around as he pulled himself into the saddle.

 

Then Ryan lost sight of their pursuers. He roped his free arm around the albino and held on.

 

After hard riding and a number of turns, Ryan saw the gate ahead of them. The doors were already open, and at least three dead men lay in the vicinity.

 

Jak whipped the horse lightly, moving it into a full gallop. He rode low over the animal's neck, the .357 Magnum pistol in his fist. "Soldiers," he said.

 

Ryan had already noticed the men. Two of them, dressed in military fatigues, were just inside the shadows. He lifted his blaster and started firing. "Head for the gate," he growled. "We don't make it, that's how it goes down."

 

The two soldiers ducked, seeking cover to return fire. Before they could get set, though, Gehrig and his men galloped into view and started firing, as well. The combined barrage proved too much, and the soldiers suddenly found more interest in trying to stay alive.

 

Jak guided the horse through the gate, keeping to the left. The horse balked only for an instant as it gathered itself to vault over one of the sec men's corpses.

 

Ryan shook his empty magazine free and jammed another one home, holding on to the horse with his knees. He almost slid off when the animal bolted forward again, but caught the back of the saddle with his free hand and held on grimly.

 

The horse dashed through the gate. Bullets cut the air over Ryan's head as Jak headed the animal up the incline to the left. Once they were in the tree line, they'd be more difficult targets.

 

A shadow moved to Ryan's left, and it was more instinct than sight that made him swivel to his blinded side. A rider was in the shadows, the horse stamping impatiently.

 

Moonlight flashed on J.B.'s glasses as Ryan covered him with the SIG-Sauer's open sights. "Ryan," the Armorer said laconically.

 

"J.B.," Ryan replied.

 

"Going-away party favor." J.B. held up a remote-control detonator they'd found in White Sands. He kicked his heels into his horse's sides, drawing up to Jak and Ryan easily.

 

An instant later explosions ripped through the night, echoing among the trees. Looking back, Ryan saw the gate come apart along the side they'd rounded, blowing debris over Gehrig and his riders. With the accumulated stone and mortar, and other metal parts that had gone into the building of the wall, the gate became a deadly weapon, as well. Strands of barbed wire whipped out and coiled around the riders.

 

The pursuit literally died away.

 

Ryan couldn't tell if Gehrig was among the dead scattered in the wreckage. A moment later the forest closed around them, closing New London off from sight.

 

Krysty Wroth and the others waited in a small clearing up ahead. Tarragon was leaning over the pommel of his saddle, a thin line of drool slicking out the side of his mouth. He had a gray pallor.

 

"Take horse," Jak instructed, handing the reins back to Ryan. "I ride with boy. Mebbe help. The weight of us two not so much for horse."

 

Ryan took the reins as the albino kicked a leg over the saddle and slid off. Jak put both hands on the horse's rump and heaved himself aboard behind Tarragon. The albino wrapped an arm around the boy and helped him sit up straight. "His fever back."

 

"We're going to have to push on," Ryan said. "J.B. mebbe slowed them down some, but they won't give up. Not for a while."

 

Tarragon fumbled for the bag of medicines fastened around his neck. He opened it and shook some of the contents out into his plam, then put them in his mouth and started chewing. Jak unstoppered a canteen and helped the boy drink.

 

Ryan recharged the SIG-Sauer from loose rounds among his gear, then refilled the clip he'd emptied during the escape. He holstered it and unslung the Steyr.

 

"Once those people get reorganized," Doc said, "they will come for us again. Gehrig does not appear to be a Christian soul. Forgiveness, doubtless, is not part of his itinerary."

 

"No," Krysty agreed. "Jak, can you take care of him?"

 

The albino nodded.

 

Ryan glanced at the Celtic boy as his horse shifted beneath him. Tarragon was their ticket into the Celtic ville and a chance at rescuing Mildred. If the woman was still alive. He moved his horse forward, getting into a position where he could look back toward New London. He took the night glasses from his back and studied the terrain as it fell away from them back toward the ville.

 

Shadows were moving down there, but they were cautious. Ryan couldn't tell if it was Gehrig's people or the White Sands soldiers.

 

"Those soldiers tailed us to the ville," J.B. said. "I figure it was to chill us."

 

"Mebbe," Ryan replied.

 

"If worse comes to worst, dear Ryan," Doc said in a quiet voice, "there are ships that cross the oceans."

 

Ryan didn't like the idea of being trapped in the worm-infested bilge of some boat or ship that presented only a fair chance of returning to Deathlands. Something like that, over that kind of distance, he'd have to trust his welfare and that of his friends' to someone else. That wasn't restful thinking at all.

 

But if it was the only way to get back to Dean, then he'd see it done.

 

"J.B.," Ryan said, "you got the rear. I'll take point. Krysty, you're after me. Then Jak and the boy. Doc, you're next."

 

He kicked his horse in the sides, pointing it east, intending to keep angling up the incline to keep the terrain working against whatever followers they might have. Krysty rode up next to him and passed over his pack, followed by his coat.

 

"It'll be cold out here, lover," she said. "And we're going to be in it for a while."

 

Ryan shrugged into his jacket as he rode, transferring the Steyr from hand to hand while he got it done. He gave her a wan smile, then reached out briefly to touch her face. "What with all these coldhearts out aiming to chill us, we're coming up between a rock and a hard place."

 

"We've been there before," Krysty said. "They'll find us ready."

 

Ryan leaned forward long enough to brush his lips across hers, then set the Steyr across the saddle pommel with the safety off and got moving. He figured they could get back to the Celtic ville by early morning, hopefully prelight. His chron showed that it was a little after 900 p.m.

 

He kept a weather eye peeled on the area behind him out of habit. J.B. was as good as they came, and he knew the companions were in good hands. Concentrating on the forest stretching out before him, he kept his senses alert, knowing possible death dogged the group every step of the way. And he was sure it lay in wait at the Celtic ville, too.