“Not unless we get the details of this plan worked out,” called Ryan. “We got a lot of pieces, and none of them stick together. You showed us the plan of the Best Western and told us how many men and what kind of weapons they got.”
“And you showed us what you got,” added J.B. “You sure you told us all?”
Jak stopped pacing and turned toward the slight figure of the Armorer. “Sure. Blasters. Ammo. Grens. Some high-ex but not much. Two flamers we captured when we got the swamp wag last week.”
“There’s that gas-jelly, Jak,” called a balding man with a drooping mustache.
“What?” snapped J.B. “How’s that?”
“Yeah. Year or more back, three of us, one was Pa, near got jumped by sec men up near old highway. Hid in brush and found a war wag from before the winters. Army. Two smaller wags with it. Few blasters, fucked by water and rain. But in back was drums this gas-jelly.”
“How many? How big?” asked J.B., glancing across at Ryan, who was searching, his memory for a long-forgotten piece of information.
“Twenty. All ’bout this high,” he said, holding his hand about four feet, from the floor. “Opened one. Sticky. Fuck, was it sticky! Tried dipping a hunk of wood in it, and it burned like gas. But we couldn’t see no use for it.”
“Jelly that burns like gas,” said J.B., turning to Ryan with a blissful smile, It was the happiest that Ryan had seen him in months. “Know what it is, Ryan?”
But it was Doc who replied. “I know, Mr. Dix.”
“What?”
“It’s napalm.”
BARON TOURMENT led them onto a low concrete dock that jutted into an expanse of murky water. It faced west, toward a red sun that was sliding nearer the horizon, sinking behind bayous lined with stunted trees, their roots tangling above the brown slime.
The stone dock was mud-smeared, chipped and broken where it came in contact with the water. It stood about three feet above the swamp, on pilings of rusted iron. Several wide-bottomed metal canoes were tied to the pier. Across the water Krysty could make out the silhouette of a building, open on two sides, a stone table at its center. Her sight was exceedingly sharp, and she could see metal rings at each corner of the table and the thick stains that ran down from the top.”
Sec guards ranged around them as they stood there in the cooling late afternoon, with the baron and Mephisto at their head.
“Now for you to meet an old friend, ladies. The father of your leader.”
Krysty felt Lori stiffen, the word “Ryan” on her lips, and nudged her into silence. “Our leader?” she said.
“Jak Lauren, slut. The white wolf himself. We hold the coward’s own father.” Raising his voice and clapping his hands together, he ordered, “Bring him here. And the pitch.”
The air filled with the tang of hot tar as four sec men struggled with an iron caldron that bubbled and smoked. Two others brought out a prisoner cuffed between them. He was short and frail, wearing only rags of cotton, with a pair of rubber sandals flapping on his feet.
“Father Lauren,” said the baron. “Have you three met before?”
The man, who looked to be close to Doc’s age, ignored the baron, staring stubbornly at his own feet. Lori shook her head and looked away. Krysty was puzzled. It seemed as though Tourment genuinely thought they knew each other. If it wasn’t a trick, then what did he think was going on? She knew the leader of the other gang in West Lowellton, the snow wolf, was the bitter enemy of the baron. If he was called Jak Lauren, then this old man was his father. Why had the baron brought him out? What was he trying to prove?
There wasn’t long to wait. Tourment gestured for Mephisto to approach. The sec boss sidled to the front of the group and drew a long, slim-bladed stiletto from a sheath at the back of his belt. He grinned as he showed it to the women.
“His son will be angry. I don’t care,” said Tourment. “I don’t fear him. Or any of you. Even the man with one eye.”