Heading for the front gate, Gaza careened off the corner of a building, running down several people, their screams continuing to come from below the war wag but only for a few brief moments. Another Molotov hit the vehicle’s front prow, and as the flames licked into the wag through the air vents, Gaza frantically drove into an alleyway to dodge any further firebombs. But unexpectedly, there was no end to the alley, a wide breach going all the way through the thick outer wall.
Suspicious as hell, the baron scowled at the sight. Could this be some sort of a trick? No, there had been no time for the sec men to arrange for such an elaborate trap. This had to be how the outlanders got out of the ville. Excellent.
Revving the big diesel engine, the baron charged down the alleyway and roared through the crumbling gap, the APC riding rough over the irregular chunks of masonry, dead horses and sec men. More blasterfire came from the top of the wall, and then Gaza was outside the ville on flat ground. Throwing the war wag into high gear, the baron raced across the desert sand into the night, and soon even the sporadic sniper fire died away into the distance.
Easing off the bolt on her rapidfire, Delia rose from her chair and awkwardly walked to the front of the APC to touch her husband on the shoulder.
“Yes, I have a plan. There are some ruins to the north,” Gaza replied to the unspoken question, then paused for a moment as the badly stitched wound on his throat began to bleed slightly. He mopped away the blood and continued. “We’ll hide there for a while and then move on to New Mex. I know of some villes there could use a strong baron.”
Holding on to a ceiling stanchion, Delia frowned and made a gesture with a fist.
“Yes, they have contact with the Trader,” Gaza answered angrily. “But that homemade war wag of his can’t possibly stand against us! Soon I’ll be the Trader, and then I’ll carve out an empire the likes of which nobody has ever seen before!”
The woman nodded in acceptance and carefully walked back to join the other wives. She had total faith in her husband.
Checking her blaster, Delia stood guard at the rear blaster port, while Kathleen went to the front to ride shotgun, and the remaining women began checking over the hastily gathered supplies, each obviously content to do whatever was needed for the man they loved.
SLUGGISHLY, HAWK awoke into a world of searing pain. For a single chaotic moment, the sec chief thought he was still falling, then abruptly realized he was merely laying in a soft bed, his chest and left arm swaddled in bloody bandages.
“He’s alive!” a sec man shouted across the room, and others rushed closer to crowd around the wounded man.
Hawk grunted at their presence and tried to stand, but strong hands forced him back down onto the mattress.
“Easy, sir, don’t tear open that stitching,” a sergeant said. “We found the dead wrinklie who shot you, and his body has been thrown to the pigs.”
The events replayed themselves in Hawk’s mind, and he decided to accept the lie. “Where’s Gaza?” he croaked weakly.
The faces in the room took on dark expressions.
“The nuking bastard ran away when the temple exploded!” a sec man cursed, tightening a hand on his gun belt. “There was some sort of well underground. We have a flood in the ville!”
Another sec man added, “Most of the buildings are melting.”
Hawk understood. Yes, of course, sun dried adobe mud bricks. He should have thought of that event.
“So how bad am I?” he asked with false calm. Death wounds often hurt less than minor scrapes.
The sec man serving as a healer snorted at that. “Merely flesh wounds, sir. The lead went clean through without hitting anything vital.”
So the slug had missed anything vital and he would live. Good. Gaza was going to die for that mistake.
“Get me a horse.” Hawk groaned as he swung his boots to the floor and painfully sat upright. The barracks spun for a minute, then settled into place once more.