“A ground attack?”
“Yeah. Gaza may be blasting the cliff to make a path out,” Ryan said with a grim smile, “but we already know the way down, and the very last bastard thing he would ever expect at this point is a strike from behind.”
“And above,” Kate said, tossing the man her personal hand comm. He made the catch. “Only use the even channels. Jump each time you make a call. We’ll hit him together.”
“Allies?” Ryan asked.
“Partners,” she agreed. “Deal?”
The one-eyed man nodded at that and started along the corridor, pushing Anders out of the way as he and the rest of the companions started toward the washroom and their battered ponchos.
In the tumultuous sky, the chem storm raged away, completely unconcerned with the very human battle about to begin on the muddy ground below.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Rumbling, tumbling and rolling madly, the pieces of the shattered cliff cascaded into the city, crushing cars and smashing into the sides of small buildings.
Gaza watched impatiently as the loose material shifted and slid about in the pale yellow rain, the salt and sand mixing into a vicious mud that flowed as thick as snot from the desert above. Damn. There was no way he could roll the behemoth through that mess without becoming completely quagmired, a sitting target for the Trader to shoot apart at her leisure. Fuck that nonsense.
Again and again, the cannon hummed, discharging new projectiles at beyond the speed of sound. Each time, the power gauges on the control board swung high toward the redline, but never reached the danger zone. After his initial zeal of discovery, it was soon apparent to the baron that the mil wag wasn’t in as good a shape as he had originally believed, but it was still better than that patchwork wag the Trader drove. Clearly, some minor adjustments would have to be made to his master plan, but nothing serious. And the beginning was exactly the same—get out of the hole, then kill the Trader.
Steadily, the ammo count dropped, as more and more of the cliff was blown loose and the sharply sloped mound of rubble expanded into the ruins, becoming less angled, easier to climb, wider, flatter, stronger.
Soon freedom would be his, very soon now.
AT THE BOTTOM of the cliff, the rain was splattering juicy and hard on the plastic ponchos of the men, their three bikes equally draped with as much plastic sheeting as they could carry as some extra protection against the deadly rain. Only three motorcycles had been recovered, the rest damaged from shrapnel. Three bikes meant just three riders. Only Ryan and J.B. were going, along with Fat Pete, the goliath insisting a member of the convoy ride with the outlanders for obvious security reasons. The rest of the companions were in War Wag One, helping with what they could. Despite his blunt demeanor, Ryan didn’t think the big man liked the companions, and especially the way the Trader looked at Ryan when she thought nobody else would notice. The one-eyed man had wanted a ride from the Trader, but not that kind, and was no threat to the love stricken man. But the big hardcase didn’t see the matter that way, finding it difficult to believe that everybody didn’t want to be with the Trader.
Well equipped, Ryan and J.B. had their personal blasters back, plus a lot of secondary stuff from the Trader’s considerable supplies, along with the only two functional LAW rockets. And that was it. They had to do the job with two, or else the mission was a bust and Gaza would bring a new meaning of hurt to the helpless world above.
“Let’s go,” Fat Pete said, checking the sawed-off double barrel at his side. The scattergun had been Roberto’s, rescued from the acid puddles soon enough that the firing mechanism hadn’t been damaged. The shells were doubtful and he had tossed those, but now the loops of the gun belt were full of slick cartridges sprayed with the silicon lube they used to protect the hoses of the bikes.
Twisting the hand grips and kicking the starters, the men got the Harleys sputtering into life, and worked the fuel and clutch awhile until the engines grew warm and finally smoothed out. Slipping into gear, the three drove carefully through the rocks and rubble until reaching the flat city streets. Now they fed the hungry machines juice and leaned into the acceleration, dodging potholes, skeletons and wags, often going onto the sidewalks to avoid the motionless traffic jam of the dead.