“Bikes, coming our way!” the baron shouted, grabbing a few grens from the wall bins and dropping them into the pockets of his new tan jacket. “Let’s close her tight!”
The diesel roared into life as the man headed for the front of the wag, Kathleen closing and locking the heavy rear doors. The baron knew the riders might only be the Blue Devils, not exactly allies, but mercies who ran a stretch of villes and brothels to the west of the Great Salt. Hard boys with a taste for pain, the group was tough and fast, with a secret source of shine to fuel their bikes and an unhealthy appetite for longpig. These were people Gaza could understand, and he wanted them as his new sec men. The first recruits for his conquering army.
Taking over the controls, Gaza moved the APC away from the cliff where the ground was weak and a single gren could send them hurtling over the side. Better to play it safe.
Charging out of the thick smoke blowing across the desert, the six bikes came into view, leaving eddies swirling in the dark fumes behind. At the sight of the APC, the riders’ faces became shocked, and they all drew blasters, boxy rapidfires, and one guy on front hauling out a sawed off double barrel.
There were no decorations of any kind on the two-wheelers, no human skulls, no flaps of scalped enemies, no necklaces of teeth. That was suspicious enough, but their clothing was in good shape, and they had extra ammo in the loops of their gun belts. Mebbe they jacked the bikes and blasters from the Devils, but nobody had clothing like that except for barons and that blond bitch. Baron Gaza had no fragging idea who these assholes were, but it sure as shit wasn’t the Blue Devils.
“Outriders!” the baron cursed, in sudden understanding. “They’re fucking sec men for the Trader! Take ’em down!”
As his wives started firing through the blasterports, the bikers gunned their engines and separated quickly, only taking a few wild shots at the APC in passing. But as they converged behind the LAV 25, the .50-cal in the turret exploded into action, the heavy rounds ripping through the riders and machines, throwing sparks and blood to the desert sands.
The two flank men dropped, their bikes toppling over to pin them helpless on the sand. Then another motorcycle detonated as its fuel tank was ruptured, the fireball engulfing two other riders. The screaming human torches continued riding their bikes blindly over the cliff and out of sight.
Revving the engine, Gaza started for the others when something hard bounced on top of the APC and then hit the ground, exploding with deafening force and throwing a hellstorm of sand and shrapnel against the armored side. The shrapnel from the antipers gren sounded like hard driven hail for a long moment, and then was gone.
“Missed! That all you got?” Gaza sneered, throwing the transmission into high gear. “Aim for the bikes! I want one of those bastards for questioning!”
Sitting alongside the man, Kathleen nodded and started to fire short bursts from her new AK-47 out the blasterports.
More weapons boomed outside, closely followed by another gren bouncing loudly off the chassis. It landed in plain sight directly before the ob port of the driver, only inches from Gaza’s face. The man locked the left four tires and gave full power to the right four. The APC heaved into a sharp turn, the gren tumbling away to detonate a split second later somewhere to the side. With a pounding heart, Gaza slammed the gas pedal to the floor, and the mammoth machine lurched forward, catching a man pinned under his crippled bike, his screams cut off almost before they started.
The fifty stuttered once more, and Kathleen let loose a long spray of lead when the roaring diesel of the APC suddenly cut off and interior light winked out.
Out of power, the war wag rolled on for a few yards, the bikers hammering it from every side. Throwing a switch, Gaza flooded the interior with emergency lights, and there by the rear doors stood Shala, still holding a fistful of wires as she fumbled with the lock.