Somewhere, an assault rifle softly chattered, emptying a full clip in mere seconds, then fired again in short bursts as if doing cleanup work.
Dean took the blaster from the blue sprawled on the steps and shared the man’s extra ammo clips with Jak and Nathan, who were both low.
“I’ll check the drawbridge,” Doc said, staring into the distance as if he could see the gatehouse of the drawbridge. “Maybe Krysty is there.”
“Secure the area,” Ryan ordered, pulling the bolt of an AK-47. “Cover our exit.”
Doc saluted with his swordstick and dashed off at a brisk run.
“Pretty spry for a whitehair,” Nathan remarked.
Ryan made no comment.
“This is a good location,” he said instead. “We can see the streets leading to the drawbridge, and the stables. Jak, Dean, take position here and cover our rear. Nathan and everybody else with me.” Ryan raised the Steyr and his borrowed Kalashnikov. “Let’s go shopping.”
HIDING THE AK-47 under a dead horse, Doc started hobbling toward the gatehouse, leaning heavily on his cane and mumbling to himself. Turning the corner, he found the short tunnel through the ville wall was full of blue shirts. A door on the right he knew led to a small room used for different things by different barons. To the left was the guard kiosk with bars covering a window so the people inside could monitor who entered and exited the ville. From his last visit, Doc knew that inside the small room were the pulleys and wheels controlling the portcullis and drawbridge, which was down at the present, probably to let the mounted sec men back inside after chilling Ryan. But if Overton had hidden troops in the woods, it also allowed them access into the Front Royal. The old man knew in cold certainty that was big trouble. The bridge had to be raised immediately.
“Excuse me, young man,” Doc called, hobbling closer and smacking his gums. His frock coat hid the presence of the deadly LeMat, and hopefully he resembled just some old whitehair confused by all the loud noises. “Young man?”
“Piss off, Grandpa,” a blue shirt snapped, Kalashnikov cradled in his arms. “Gate is closed by order of Baron Overton. Go home.”
“Okay,” Doc agreed amiably, still walking closer. Krysty might be tied up in a corner somewhere. He had to get a better look inside the kiosk. “Say, are you Jimmy?”
“Who?” demanded another sec man in annoyance. “Ain’t nobody here by that name.”
“Go home, Gramps,” a third snarled. “This is men’s work.”
“Jimmy?” Doc asked, peering inside the kiosk. There was only a single person behind the grilled window, and the Oriental nearly fell over his chair in his haste to draw a weapon.
“Kill that man!” Ki cried. “He’s one of Ryan’s men!”
Doc dived to the ground, drawing and firing the big LeMat twice, the thundering booms filling the confines of the passage with volumes of black smoke. There was a rush of boots and Doc shifted position, firing twice more. This time he heard screams of pain. A movement in the smoke made him jerk to the side, and a shiny bayonet at the end of a Kalashnikov stabbed past his head, missing by an inch. Grabbing the rifle barrel, Doc used it to guide his aim and shot twice at point-blank range, high and then low. Still clutching his weapon, the sec man reeled backward, bleeding from the neck and belly.
“That’s six, Grandpa,” cried a grinning corporal, stepping into view from the smoke. “That wheelgun is empty. Get him!” The sec man charged with two privates bracketing the rush to forestall any attempts at escape by the unarmed whitehair.
Doc chose his targets and fired three additional rounds from the oversize blaster, shooting the blues in cold blood. The corporal died with an expression of total shock, completely unable to comprehend how any wheelgun could fire more than six rounds.
“Now that trick gun is out,” Ki snarled, rising behind the grilled barrier.
Switching the selector pin to the second barrel of the Civil War handcannon, Doc leveled the blaster at the chief of the sec men. “Freeze!” he commanded.
Ki sneered in contempt at the feeble bluff, then saw the raw determination in the whitehair’s face and clawed for his own blaster.