Doc let go of Maya’s hand and half turned away from the pursuer, masking the movement, reaching for the silvered butt of the little .32 automatic that he’d noticed in the woman’s belt. He palmed it smoothly and thumbed back on the hammer, firing from the hip.
The snub-nosed blaster bucked in his wrist, spitting out its flat sound and a tiny jet of flame. The bullet hit the sec man an inch above the big brass buckle on his broad leather belt, driving straight through and splintering the spine. It broke up, distorting, shredding the intestines into ragged loops of bloody tissue.
The rifle went spinning into the mud, and the man dropped like a discarded doll, clutching at his stomach, rolling and kicking, screaming out his shock and agony.
“Got him, Doc,” the woman crowed. “Brilliant piece of shooting!”
The familiar voice was from behind them, near a tumbledown shed with all of its windows shattered. “Yeah, fuckin’ brilliant shooting.”
THE HOUSE WAS SILENT.
There was the smell of wax polish, and banisters glistened, oak paneling reflecting the light of several dangling oil lamps on brass gimbals.
A full-size oil painting hung crookedly on the opposite wall of the entrance hallway, showing a soldier from predark times in a green uniform florid with crimson and gold frogging, holding a drawn cavalry saber. He was a tall, handsome man with a proud, scarred face.
“Find the weapons,” Ryan snapped.
J.B. sprinted up the staircase, followed by Jak and Dean, while the others started to check out the ground floor. The lamps swung from side to side as yet another brief but powerful aftershock made the building tremble.
There was every evidence of panic. The dining table lay on its side, food spilled, glasses broken, the smell of beer strong in the dusty air. Chairs were on their backs and sides, legs in the air. Ryan found a smear of what looked like fresh blood on the edge of the doorway into the kitchen. The stove had slid the length of the room, still lit, with a pot of beans miraculously steaming away, undamaged.
Mildred called from the back room, which looked as if it had once been Wolfe’s private study. Dark oak shelves lined the walls, with all of their books piled higgledy-piggledy on the gleaming floor.
“Locked cabinet in here. Seems like it might hold some blasters.”
Ryan poked his head into the room, agreeing. “Yeah. Let’s smash it open.”
He picked up a heavy stool and hefted it over his head, bringing it around with all of his strength to hit the inlaid cabinet just above the ornate brass lock. The wood splintered under the blow, and the door swung slowly open, revealing the rifle, scattergun, machine pistol and a variety of familiar hand blasters and knives.
“Get your blaster, Mildred. I’ll take Doc’s Le Mat. Hope to give it to him real soon.”
Ryan tucked the SIG-Sauer P-226 into its holster, the balance immediately feeling right. The eighteen-inch panga went into the oiled sheath on the other side, and the Steyr SSG-70 rifle was slung comfortably over a shoulder. He tucked Doc’s massive cannon into his belt.
The others came running in, heels ringing on the wooden floors, clattering on the stairs.
J.B. straightened his back, testing the action of the Uzi, a rare glacial smile decorating his sallow face. “Dark night! That feels better,” he said, hefting the powerful weapon across a scrawny shoulder.
The others helped themselves to their own blasters, emptying the shattered cabinet.
“We going to spread some chilling around the ville?” J.B. asked.
Ryan shook his head. “Best is to get out clean and fast. That way we can go after Doc. Mebbe get to him in time to do some good. Might pick up the sec gang on the way back.”
“Think should take out Wolfe.” Jak glanced along the hall, through the open front door. “Evil bastard. Best without him.”
Ryan considered the teenager’s suggestion, recognizing that there was something in Jak’s idea. Brother Joshua Wolfe’s presence on the planet would be better terminated.
He shook his head. “No. Think it’s better to get out fast, Jak. Time’s not on our side.”