“Bullshit,” she growled, walking closer until the cold metal of the weapon touched his flushed face.
“I k-know where the Devils store their slick,” he said hastily, cringing from the outlander. “Blasters, ammo, all ya can want. All ya can carry! It’s yours, just don’t ace me and it’s all yours!”
The tall woman curled a lip in disgust. “I don’t make deals with dead men,” she said, pulling the trigger. The barrage of double-aught buckshot blew off the top of his head in a horrid spray of bones and brains and blood. Mouth still working to plead for life, the corpse dropped into the mud, fingers wiggling and feet kicking in a pantomime of life. Racking the weapon, she aimed at his neck and fired again, finishing the job.
Wading across the river, the woman joined the people on the bank as they sorted through the corpses of the bikers, knives slashing every throat in ruthless efficiency. Splashing behind her, a Hummer fought over a tangle of broken tree branches and dead men, catching for a moment with its rear wheels spinning as it fought to finally get loose from the mud and surge onto dry land.
“Glad to see you’re alive, Kate,” a big man said as she joined him, his left arm tucked into his belt to keep it motionless. There was a bloody stain at the shoulder, but the red wasn’t spreading. It was just a flesh wound, one of many over a long life of fighting.
“I see you caught one, Roberto,” she said, pulling fresh shells from a looped bandolier of cartridges across her chest and shoving them into the scattergun.
“Bastards threw enough lead at us. Somebody had to get lucky,” Roberto said calmly, then added, “Or unlucky, depending on how you look at who got shot.”
“Well, don’t die on me yet,” Kate said, slinging the shotgun over a shoulder. “We got a long ways to go before this is over and done.”
He grinned. “With you all the way, Chief.”
Just then, the crowd of armed men and women on the shore parted and Denver Joe limped over, escorting a skinny man dressed in rags. Obviously one of the freed slaves from the condition of his feet.
Running stiff fingers through her wealth of golden blond hair, Kate greeted Denver Joe with a nod, which he returned. Tracking the signal of his transmitter had only brought the convoy to a mesa, but after that it had been no great trick to guess where the bikers would be heading next and cut them off in the forest.
“Nice to see you on this side of the grass, D.J.,” she said amiably. “Do we have a problem here?”
Denver Joe jerked a thumb at the man standing alongside. “Wants a favor,” he said.
“With your permission, Baron,” the man said with a bow.
Kate frowned. “Ain’t no barons here,” she drawled. “Whatcha need?”
The man glanced nervously toward the imposing war wag sitting high on the riverbank, its arsenal of blasters radiating visible waves of heat as they continued looking for targets.
“May I speak with him?” the man asked reverently.
“The boss took lead saving your ass,” she lied.
“So he’s about to go under the knife. No visitors.”
“My prayers will be with him,” the man said, making some sort of symbol in the air with his hand.
Behind the thick tinted plastic of the dome, a figure sat tightly in a chair, dimly seen others moving around him. But the person in the chair didn’t seem to move at all.
“Yeah, well, it takes more than some coldheart lead to chill the Trader,” the woman said, then hawked and spit blood on the bedraggled corpse of a Devil.
Accepting the rebuff, the man was lead away to a Hummer where a man was passing out predark sneakers and MRE packs.
“And so the legend grows,” Roberto said softly.
“That’s what keeps us in biz,” Kate said, cracking a smile. “The more folks fear him, the less we’re attacked.”
With bloody water lapping at his combat boots, the man nodded. “True enough, I guess.”
“So what was the breakage?” Kate asked brusquely, starting up the bank toward War Wag One. The side hatch was open and an armed man was standing guard, watching their approach with an M-16/M-203 assault combo cradled in his hands. An ammo pouch on his belt was heavy with spare clips.