Partially pinned, Jak clawed desperately in the grass for his blaster, but it was nowhere to be found. Cursing vehemently, he pulled out a pair of knives and wildly stabbed anything nearby, arms, legs, butts and ribs. Men cursed and started pounding him with fists. They wanted him alive! Somebody stomped on his wrist, pinning his left hand, Jak sliced with the right, opening the belly of a snarling sec man, warm blood and entrails pouring out from the ghastly wound.
That bought him some space and Jak pulled out another blade, doing his worst. Screaming in pain, the blues scrambled to get away and he was free. Rising to his knees, Jak stabbed a man in the groin. The blade opened a vital artery, and the man paled instantly from blood loss. The neutered sec man writhed in agony, clutching the blade that had removed his manhood. Jak tried to yank the knife free, but the man’s death grip was too strong. Releasing the trapped knife, Jak drew another leaf-shaped blade when somebody grabbed him from behind. The attacker released the teenager instantly as his fingers fell to the ground, the razor blades sown into Jak’s collar neatly severing them.
Spinning, Jak threw the knives. A blade caught a short sec man in the chest, and he fell. But the other trooper took the knife in an arm and turned sideways to kick Jak in the face.
Blood filled his mouth, and Jak spit it into his adversary’s face, drawing his last blade while digging for a gren in his pocket. The bombs were ticking; he had to leave before this whole complex went sky-high.
Then something slammed into him from behind and the world started to spin out of the control. A blaster fired, and he felt white-hot pain in his leg. Dropping the knife, he clutched the wound and tried to shout a warning to the companions, but blood was pouring down his throat from his broken nose and all he could produce was a horrid gurgling.
As he got the gren loose, another sec man rose before him and shoved a rifle butt toward him. Jak tried to duck out of the way and caught the blow on his wounded shoulder. Pain erupted and his arm went limp, dangling loosely. Then the unprimed gren fell to the ground from his numb fingers, useless and inert.
Jak tried to ran again, but the blues swarmed over the teenager, pounding him with rifle butts and fists until there was only the sound of meaty thumps in the Tennessee night.
WHEN RYAN AND J.B. returned to Mildred and the rope, the men found the other companions waiting for them nervously.
“Trouble?” Ryan asked, looking out into the ville. All was quiet with no outward sign of undue activity from the blues.
“Where’s Jak?” J.B. asked.
“I think the blues got him,” Mildred answered with a hard edge to her voice. “Saw some muzzle-flashes in the western section of the ville, and then heard Jak cry out.”
“Can’t be dead,” Krysty said, looking at the dark buildings, a hand partially raised as if feeling the air.
“Anything, madam?” Doc asked hopefully.
“Nothing.”
Biting back a curse, Ryan glanced at his wrist chron. Twenty minutes remained until the whole valley was one huge fireball of steam and shrapnel. Clearly, the others wanted to go after the teenager, but they always followed his lead. Every cell in his brain told Ryan to leave the teenager as a causality of war. Friends died, that was a fact of life. Finnigan was gone, old Pete, Hunaker, maybe even the Trader himself. Everybody died eventually.
Soft thunder rumbled overhead, the clouds sealing off the moon and extinguishing its silvery light.
In spite of logic and reason, Ryan already knew the answer. Maybe Sheffield and the blues could leave a friend alive in the hands of the enemy, but not him. This wasn’t a question of tactics, it was a matter of honor.
“Well, what the hell are you waiting for?” Ryan whispered, working the bolt on his Steyr SSG-70. “Let’s go get him back.”
Chapter Nineteen
“Twenty minutes until the first charge goes off,” J.B. said bluntly, checking his wrist chron. “That’s mighty tight.”