Buford sagged at the unexpected sight of the two-headed mutated woman, dropped his stick and would have slumped straight to the floor if one of the sec men hadn’t grabbed him by an arm and held him upright.
The guard looked at Trader. “You in charge?” He didn’t wait for the answer. “This isn’t anything to do with the ville’s security forces. The scientists do all the experiments.” He made the last word sound like something you found at the bottom of your boot. “Don’t blame us.”
Edna-Evangelina stood by the wall, hands behind her. Both heads had hectic spots of angry color at the cheekbones, staring intently at the semiconscious Buford.
“Lay him on that operating table and fix the straps to his ankles and wrists,” Ryan ordered, ignoring the sec man’s plea. “Good and tight. Then buckle that inflatable gag in place. Don’t want him making a load of noise.”
When they’d finished, Trader checking their work, the second of the guards, who’d been totally silent, suddenly spoke to Ryan. “Listen, One-eye.”
“What?”
“Beyond that outer door there’s all the whole powerful world of the institute going on. Must be at least twenty or thirty of our friends within calling distance. You don’t dare squeeze the trigger on either of your blasters. Be signing your own death warrants if you do.”
“So?” Ryan moved a little closer to the speaker. “We might die tomorrow, but you’ll die right here and now. Is that a good deal?”
The man laughed contemptuously. “I know you dumb fucks from the outlands. You value your own skins too much. I’m walking out right now.”
He turned to his comrade. “Come on, Jerry.”
Ryan had already bolstered the SIG-Sauer, and now drew the eighteen-inch panga. Trader was in the act of dropping the Armalite to the tiles, reaching for his own slim-bladed knife. But both of them were way, way too slow.
There was the lightning flash of the bright overhead lights on tempered steel as the perfectly honed scalpel swung toward the throat of the leading sec man, held in the strong right hand of Edna-Evangelina.
“Give it him, sister!” cried the weaker head, pale eyes open wide with delighted excitement.
“We will, sister.”
The man staggered away, blood pulsing from the opened artery, spraying ceiling-high, the fountain weakening as the crimson flood slowed. He dropped to his knees, then slid onto his face, the gash leaking the last drops of blood.
“Bitchin’ freakin’ bitch!”
The surviving guard had drawn his own knife, which looked like an old military bayonet. Turning, be stabbed upward at the neck of the exultant woman, catching the dominant head squarely under the chin, driving the blade home before Ryan or Trader could do anything to stop him.
Trader was a half step nearer and he stabbed the sec man through the heart from behind, cutting off what might have been a desperate cry for assistance. The guard moaned once, his own blade clattering to the blood-sodden floor, then fell alongside his dead colleague.
“Too slow to save, in time to avenge,” Trader said, kneeling to check his victim was truly dead. He wiped his knife clean on the man’s pants.
Ryan, seeing that the chilling was over, had stepped immediately to the side of the wounded woman, aware at a first glance that all was done for her.
For them.
The knife had done its work too well, and there was no possibility of checking the flow of blood. Ryan helped her to lie down, away from the lake of crimson at the center of the floor that was already seeping into a network of strategically placed drains.
The eyes were closing on the dominant head, the mouth open, a tiny thread of blood inching between the parted lips. The other head was turning frantically from side to side, trying to see its sister.
“You all right? We did it. Did it!”
“I’m real sorry,” Ryan said quietly, “but I don’t think she’s goin’ to make it.”
The tongue came out to moisten the dry lips on the wounded head. “Don’t cry for me, sister,” it said feebly.
“I’m not, truly.” Tears were bubbling from the weak eyes, down the cheeks.