“I was hoping you would understand the dirty clothes,” Nathan said, turning from his deadly servants.
Yawning and scratching, the hounds spread out, some drinking at a water bowl, others chasing their own tails until falling asleep on the floor.
“Almost didn’t,” Ryan stated, shaking the man’s hand. “Thanks for helping.”
“No prob.”
“Sir, three dogs are missing,” a sec men said.
“Damn, you’re right. Are they wounded?” the baron asked hopefully. “Still in the tunnel?”
“Chilled,” J.B. stated bluntly.
“But they got all ten of the riders chasing us,” Dean added.
“Three for ten,” Nathan said, frowning deeply. “Shitfire, Overton’s men are good. Too damn good. I shouldn’t have lost a single dog today.”
“Excuse me,” Doc said, gesturing with his swordstick at a table laden with clothing and backpacks. “Are those ours, perchance?”
Nathan waved at the supplies. “I brought them along so you could change. There’s also food and cold coffee sub. Thought you might be hungry.”
“You thought right.” J.B. grinned.
The companions fell upon the supplies, changing clothes and stuffing food into their mouths. The coffee sub was only warm, not cold, and took the fog of exhaustion from their minds. It had been a long night, and the day was only just starting. It couldn’t be much past noon.
With a soft belch, Ryan finished his second cup and shoved it aside. Any more and he would get the shakes. “How’s the fight going?” he asked, draping a bandolier of rotary ammo clips for the Steyr across his chest.
“Stalled at the present, I’m afraid,” Nathan replied, taking a stool while a sec man poured more coffee. “I had no idea if you freed Tabitha yet, so most of my troops are protecting the armory in case Overton tries to seize control.”
“She’s alive,” Jak said, after swallowing a mouthful of bread.
“Indeed, sir,” Doc added, nibbling some hard cheese. “Lady Cawdor should safely be in one of the hamlets by now. Mildred and Clem took her and several of your captured sec men on a flatbed into the hills.”
Nathan stood straighter, a new expression of determination on his haggard face. “Then I can finally chill that outlander.” He spoke so quietly and firmly that the dogs whimpered, thinking their master was displeased with them.
Slapping a venison steak between two slices of homemade bread and wrapping the sandwich in a cloth napkin for later, J.B. then dragged his munitions pack closer and did a quick inventory, finding most of the explosives gone. “Where’s my stuff?” he asked, annoyed.
“Taken and used already,” Nathan answered, checking his handblaster. “Weapons are getting scarce. We’ve been stealing blasters from the dead, and are dangerously low on ammo. There are no grens or dynamite.”
“Incorrect, sir, there are plenty in the barracks,” Doc stated, ruffling the frills on his dry shirt. With his hair neatly combed, food in his belly and wearing clean clothes, the old man felt revitalized. “Along with quite an impressive array of ammo for the longblasters.”
“Excellent! I’ll send troops to gather them.”
“Not deserted,” Jak warned, hiding his leaf-bladed throwing knives in the secret places of his clothing. His white hair was already drying and starting to fan about his shoulders.
“Good,” the baron replied firmly. “Now that we don’t have to worry about the hostages, my men will rip the fucking door off with their bare hands to get us more weps.”
“By the way, how’s Krysty?” Ryan asked, drying off the SIG-Sauer 9 mm with an embroidered napkin.
Baron Cawdor frowned, then glanced at his sec men. They shrugged and shook heads. “Thought she was with you,” he replied.
“Fireblast,” Ryan growled, rubbing his unshaved chin. “Hope she’s okay.”
Reshaping his crumpled fedora, J.B. gave a snort. “Krysty is probably at the drawbridge with a blaster to the guard’s head, making sure the riders can’t get in, and we leave.”
“Hopefully,” Ryan said, deeply worried. “But if she’s a prisoner, we’re back to square one.”
“CAREFUL, NOW,” Orin said, tightening the second belt around the seat of the APC. “That should do it, I think.”
Krysty tried not to wiggle as the leather straps underneath her moved. The plan was her own idea, and it had taken more than an hour for the sergeant to get enough strong, long belts, without cracks or worn spots, from the dead sec men in the garage and slide the leather under her, cinching the straps until compressing the seat cushionhopefully hard enough to simulate her weight.