Looking back, Ryan saw the fire had engulfed the front of the Bent Rose, the flames already eating through the eaves and bringing them down in sheets. The raiders spread out into the street, firing at will.
Two riders approached, leading another half-dozen horses. Blackjack Gehrig was one of the first men mounted, wheeling the horse around as he pulled himself into the saddle.
Then Ryan lost sight of their pursuers. He roped his free arm around the albino and held on.
After hard riding and a number of turns, Ryan saw the gate ahead of them. The doors were already open, and at least three dead men lay in the vicinity.
Jak whipped the horse lightly, moving it into a full gallop. He rode low over the animal’s neck, the .357 Magnum pistol in his fist. “Soldiers,” he said.
Ryan had already noticed the men. Two of them, dressed in military fatigues, were just inside the shadows. He lifted his blaster and started firing. “Head for the gate,” he growled. “We don’t make it, that’s how it goes down.”
The two soldiers ducked, seeking cover to return fire. Before they could get set, though, Gehrig and his men galloped into view and started firing, as well. The combined barrage proved too much, and the soldiers suddenly found more interest in trying to stay alive.
Jak guided the horse through the gate, keeping to the left. The horse balked only for an instant as it gathered itself to vault over one of the sec men’s corpses.
Ryan shook his empty magazine free and jammed another one home, holding on to the horse with his knees. He almost slid off when the animal bolted forward again, but caught the back of the saddle with his free hand and held on grimly.
The horse dashed through the gate. Bullets cut the air over Ryan’s head as Jak headed the animal up the incline to the left. Once they were in the tree line, they’d be more difficult targets.
A shadow moved to Ryan’s left, and it was more instinct than sight that made him swivel to his blinded side. A rider was in the shadows, the horse stamping impatiently.
Moonlight flashed on J.B.’s glasses as Ryan covered him with the SIG-Sauer’s open sights. “Ryan,” the Armorer said laconically.
“J.B.,” Ryan replied.
“Going-away party favor.” J.B. held up a remote-control detonator they’d found in White Sands. He kicked his heels into his horse’s sides, drawing up to Jak and Ryan easily.
An instant later explosions ripped through the night, echoing among the trees. Looking back, Ryan saw the gate come apart along the side they’d rounded, blowing debris over Gehrig and his riders. With the accumulated stone and mortar, and other metal parts that had gone into the building of the wall, the gate became a deadly weapon, as well. Strands of barbed wire whipped out and coiled around the riders.
The pursuit literally died away.
Ryan couldn’t tell if Gehrig was among the dead scattered in the wreckage. A moment later the forest closed around them, closing New London off from sight.
Krysty Wroth and the others waited in a small clearing up ahead. Tarragon was leaning over the pommel of his saddle, a thin line of drool slicking out the side of his mouth. He had a gray pallor.
“Take horse,” Jak instructed, handing the reins back to Ryan. “I ride with boy. Mebbe help. The weight of us two not so much for horse.”
Ryan took the reins as the albino kicked a leg over the saddle and slid off. Jak put both hands on the horse’s rump and heaved himself aboard behind Tarragon. The albino wrapped an arm around the boy and helped him sit up straight. “His fever back.”
“We’re going to have to push on,” Ryan said. “J.B. mebbe slowed them down some, but they won’t give up. Not for a while.”
Tarragon fumbled for the bag of medicines fastened around his neck. He opened it and shook some of the contents out into his plam, then put them in his mouth and started chewing. Jak unstoppered a canteen and helped the boy drink.
Ryan recharged the SIG-Sauer from loose rounds among his gear, then refilled the clip he’d emptied during the escape. He holstered it and unslung the Steyr.