Finnegan didn’t much like that. “Not fucking mercies, kid. We go where we want and chill who we want to chill. You need us more’n we need you, kid.”
Suddenly there was a flicker of light, and Jak was in a classic knife-fighter’s crouch in front of Finn, the blade dancing from hand to hand, faster than the eye could follow.
“Don’t call me kid, fatso.”
Ryan knew better than to try and step into a scene like this. Finn, despite his chubby, amiable exterior, was a bloody-handed killer and was quite capable of drawing on the boy and spreading him all over the far wall. If that happened, things would get hot. “Don’t call me fatso, kid.”
Jak was balanced on his toes like a wind-blown feather, watching Finnegan, red eyes locked on the older man’s face. “You got balls, fatso.”
“Kids like you, they got lotsa gall but no fucking sand. I could drop you before you could use the knife, kid.”
Lauren grinned wolfishly. “Sure you could. You’re here cause you’re good, fatso. Heard you chilled some sec men this morn. You draw, you mebbe hit me, but you’re on your fucking back looking up at sky, wondering why you wanted to be a prick.”
Ryan could see a real risk, after the first combustible moment, that they might talk each other into killing each other.
“That’s it,” Ryan said, feeling the ripple of disappointment around him. For a kid of fourteen, Jak Lauren had some serious respect from his people. They really thought he could take Finn.
Maybe he could. Ryan wasn’t going to find out. “It’s gone noon,” he said, showing his chron around. The place was badly lit, with a row of flickering lamps, in glass bowls with swimming fish engraved on them. At one end of the sloping room was a massive maroon curtain with golden tassels draped across it. From what he recollected, Ryan guessed that there would be a screen behind it.
“Sure has. You’re right, Ryan.” The slim knife disappeared as quickly as it had sprung to his hand. Though Ryan was watching him intently, he hadn’t seen where the boy had hidden it.
“We talk about how we do this?” asked J.B., moving casually against the right-hand wall. It was second nature for the Armorer to seek out a position where he had his back against something solid.
Jak half bowed to him. “Sure. Talk plan. Can’t go until after dark. They’re too ready. Tourment’s no fool. Before talk, we’ll show something to you. Rare. From before the quick sick came.”
“Food?” asked Finnegan, omitting the “kid” this time. “Sure. Always ready. Talk. Then go in and get the prisoners.”
Ryan spotted something in the use of the word. Something that meant more than just Lori and Krysty. “How many prisoners, Jak?” he asked. “Three.”
“Three?”
“Yeah. Night ‘fore last. Mephisto sec men snatch squad got lucky. Picked up my father. This time tomorrow Tourment’ll have killed them all.”
“Then let’s get to it,” suggested Ryan. , The boy nodded, solemn-faced, the cascading white hair framing his skull like a silver halo.
Chapter Eighteen
KRYSTY WROTH WAS ANGRY with herself. Angry that she’d let her emotions govern her good sense. Mother Sonja’s often repeated motto, Strive for Life, had been momentarily forgotten.
It was scant consolation that Baron Tourment’s evening roll call would be two sec men short.
THEY’D COME IN a couple of minutes after the giant ville chief had lumbered clumsily out. They were both small, with sallow complexions, looking as though they’d been standing out in the rain for too long. When they spoke, she heard the nasal tones of the bayous and guessed they came from Cajun stock. The one with a small mustache looked around thirty; the other, with a three-day stubble on his chin was nearer twenty. Both men carried greased M-16 blasters.
There hadn’t been time for Krysty to do more than hiss a warning to the sobbing Lori to try to hold out and tell the baron nothing. Then the sec men were walking cockily to stand between them.
“Yellow hair or red?” one said.
“Yellow.”
“Why?”
“Already got her snatch warm and waiting. Red’s got hers sewn up in her pants. Baron might guess ifn we cut her naked.”