When they had finished the field, they found that the farmhands from the neighboring fields had come across to watch them. Dean unharnessed himself and fixed them with a glare.
“Next time you want to palm us off with a dud, we’ll break your balls,” he said softly.
There was silence for a moment, until one of the farmhands burst into laughter.
“Everyone gets the old nag,” he said. “Just means you’ve become one of us.”
“All with hurting back?” Jak asked.
Dean wasn’t sure if the albino—deadpan as always—had been joking or serious, but it had the desired result. They were surrounded by farmhands, clapping them on the supposedly aching backs in displays of camaraderie.
They had proved themselves to their new compatriots, which was always a vital part of survival in the Deathlands.
“WE AIN’T HAD MUCH in the way of trouble down here for a while. No big convoys going through. Kinda prefer it quiet, but then no one’s getting any jack. I suppose you take your choice over which is best, right?”
The fat sec man they knew as Yardie scratched his balls and hitched up his pants, waiting for an answer.
“Sure,” Ryan answered simply, not wanting to start the man off on another ramble.
The one-eyed man and J.B. had been assigned to assist the bar sec on their nightly shift. The bar sec was a group of heavily armed sec men who also had unarmed combat skills and were used to police the bars and gaudies frequented by the trading convoys. Their task was to stop trouble without it escalating, and not to alienate the traders by wrecking their crews—otherwise they may not pass through again.
With no convoys in town at present, it had been quiet for the past few nights, and the fat man who was sec chief for the area had been telling them stories about the main drag—stories in which he was mostly the hero.
“Trouble is, all we get are horny men who just want to hit on any woman. They can do most what they like to the gaudies sluts, but when they get it wrong… See, there’s this weird bunch of women live somewhere hereabouts—never can trail ’em—and when they come in to trade, they always get hit on. Tiny, no clothes…but real mean. I like to look after them, ’cause they shouldn’t be treated like that. Had to chill a couple of mechanics once—just the one shot, clean through both of ’em. But then again, I seen one of ’em—red-haired thing that I’d crush if I fucked her— take out four men using nothing other than one of those big knife things like you’ve got.”
Yardie indicated the panga that Ryan had strapped to his thigh, and the one-eyed man shot a glance at J.B. Could it be possible? The description sounded uncannily like Gloria and the Gate tribe. The Armorer’s eyebrows shot up, but before he had a chance to say anything, both his attention and Ryan’s were taken by a sudden outbreak in one of the bars.
All three men were standing on the boardwalk outside the bar, and through the open door came the sounds of an argument, followed by a staccato burst of blasterfire.
“Three blasters,” J.B. said quickly. “Small caliber handblasters.”
Ryan nodded. “Okay, let’s take them.”
Almost glad of the opportunity to get away from the fat man, who was still standing, staring blankly at J.B.’s ability to determine the blasterfire, both Ryan and the Armorer were through the open doorway, opting to unsheathe their knives rather than use blasters.
Inside, the room was well lit. Most of the clientele had taken cover, and two men stood at each end of the bar, holding blasters. A third, with his back to the door, was slumping to the ground from a slug that had hit him in the stomach, blood dripping onto the floor.
Keeping low, both J.B. and Ryan exchanged a look, and by the subtlest of indications chose their prey.
Moving around the tables, J.B. circled his man, who was torn between turning to this new threat or taking out the opponent with the blaster. His indecision cost him both targets. J.B. leaped onto a chair and used it to launch himself at the man. The Armorer’s Tekna knife speared through his blaster hand, momentum taking it down and pinning it to the bar. A scream of pain was killed in his throat by a chop across the windpipe from the Armorer’s free hand. The man slumped to the floor.