Her gift kicked to life inside her. Wherever Ryan was, she knew her lover was in danger, too. She couldn’t see what it was. Maybe if she’d had time and could concentrate better, she’d have been able to get a picture of it in her mind. But she didn’t have time and couldn’t afford to concentrate.
Because those same senses warned her now that she wasn’t alone in the darkness.
Chapter Two
The keen edge of the camp ax halted only inches from Ryan’s face. He kept the mutie’s wrist trapped in his grip and tried to fight his way from under his two adversaries as they worked to keep him pinned.
“Sacred grounds, outie,” the ax wielder shouted. “You and yours should’ve stayed away.” He fought to free his weapon, his other hand scrabbling for Ryan’s eye.
Ryan turned his head as the broken fingernails bit deep into his scarred cheek, curiously having no sensation as they tracked across the nerve-dead areas.
The other mutie had drawn his blade free of the sand and was taking aim again.
“Ryan!” J.B. yelled. “Company’s coming!” The rapid, ringing cracks of the Armorer’s Uzi testified that the three muties who’d attacked Ryan hadn’t come alone.
As the mutie with the knife settled into position, leaning heavily on Ryan’s chest, J.B.’s Uzi rattled off a short burst and the creature pitched forward. Ryan grabbed the dying mutie’s shirt and pulled him off his chest. The other mutie had gotten smarter and was transferring his ax to his off hand.
Shots rang out, some heavier and some higher pitched than the snarl from J.B.’s Uzi.
“Fireblast!” Ryan cursed, throwing his weight to one side as the mutie took a cut at him. He blocked the man’s arm to the side and rolled, but before he could get to his feet, he got tangled up with the corpse of the man whose head he’d smashed with the Steyr’s butt.
The mutie gave no quarter. With a yell, he launched himself at Ryan again. Bullets ripped into the swell of the dune behind him.
Still on his knees and tangled with the dead man, Ryan reached for his SIG-Sauer P-226. The pistol ripped free of the well-worn leather, coming up as natural as the one-eyed man could take a breath. His finger found the trigger unerringly, and he squeezed through on double action, then followed up with two more rapid shots.
The hollow point bullets took the mutie in the chest. The impact knocked him backward, and he was dead before he landed in the sand.
Ryan raked the terrain with his gaze, counting at least a half-dozen more muties. All of them were in the advanced stages of rad sickness. His nervous system was still jangling, warning him of danger all around, not just in front of him. He darted a quick look over his shoulder and caught a hint of movement there.
He spun toward it, the SIG-Sauer before him.
Nothing was there.
Ryan blinked, his breath already ragged and thready because of the desert’s thin air and the blistering heat. The shimmer moved again, less than twenty feet away.
Bullets tunneled into the sand around Ryan’s feet, urging him into action. He followed the itch and stayed away from the area where he’d spotted the shimmering movement. His boots shoved deep into the sand as he ran, slowing him considerably. He had to lift his legs high and drive hard to maintain any kind of speed, and his heart hammered with the exertion.
He threw himself behind a tangled section of fence that offered protection from the muties’ rounds. He changed magazines in his pistol and stuffed the empty one into a thigh pocket of his pants. It was easier to find ammo than magazines.
Lying prone, he pulled the Steyr into his shoulder and sighted through the scope. He squeezed off two shots, making them both count. One mutie was surely dead, and the other not long for the world. Considering the depth at which they were operating inside the installation, he figured the rest of the group would be unaware they were under attack.
“We can’t hold them,” J.B. called out. “We stay out here, we’re going to get chilled ourselves.”