The air was filled with shouting, screams and the smell of gunfire and hot, fresh blood.
It was Krysty who finally took out Albert, rolling on one side from under the table and shooting him with her short-barreled Smith amp; Wesson double-action 640, the big bullets tearing into the man through his sweating, bare chest, one of them hitting the ammo bandolier and exploding a couple of the rounds in a burst of flame and noise.
He dropped without a sound, lying facedown in the spreading pool of dark blood that was still seeping from Elmore’s shattered skull.
Ryan was up on his feet, covering the shocked survivors of the massacre, calling out above the cries of the wounded, trying to restore some kind of order.
“It’s over!” The barrel of the SIG-Sauer moved from side to side like the head of a rattler. “Chilling’s done. They got what they wanted. Sorry others of you got to pay the butcher’s bill for them. Now we’re leaving. Give us five clear minutes or we shoot anyone who sticks a head out. Then get all the help you can. And remember we didn’t start this.”
“Sure fuckin’ finished it, mister,” one of the patrons breathed in a shocked whisper.
“Yeah.” He gestured for the others, guns all drawn, to move away toward the main entrance, then changed his mind. “No. Go out the back. Along the alley.”
He turned back to the huddled survivors of the brief firefight. “Remember what I said. Five clear minutes, and then you can get help.”
The gut-shot man was huddled on hands and knees, weeping in quiet desperation, tears streaking his face, mouth working in pain. “Gotta help me, mister,” he panted.
“Five minutes,” Ryan repeated, watching as the others walked safely out of the bar before following them, pausing a moment to make sure there wasn’t going to be any more trouble. He slipped out as J.B. held the padded door open for him.
“Quiet,” the Armorer said. “Looks like nobody heard the shooting.”
“Only be a matter of time. We need to get out of here. Right now. Let’s get to the wags.”
His first plan had been to either persuade or force Sullivan into letting them take one of the lumbering grain wags. But he suddenly realized that there was a potentially much better option available to them.
“Take Albert and Elmore’s 4×4,” he called to Jak. “Hot-wire it.”
“Sure.” The teenager ran ahead, vanishing around a corner toward the abandoned garage.
The farmer wasn’t there when they finally arrived, but his men were all on careful watch, covering Ryan and the others as they raced back.
“No time for talk. Got bad trouble in a bar. Like we were warned. Some folks on the last train west. We got a few minutes, then every honest citizen of Country Row’s goin’ to be lookin’ for us with a rope in his hand.”
The foreman, a tall, laconic Iowan called Webster, looked at Ryan warily. “You weren’t thinkin’ of takin’ any of our wags, were you now?”
“Don’t be a stupe. Two of the dead own that flash 4×4.” The engine of which burst into roaring life as Jak finished hot-wiring it. “We’re off in that.”
“Fuel?”
“How’s fuel, Jak?”
“Full.”
Ryan shook the foreman’s leathery hand. “Thanks for everything. Our best to Sullivan. See you all around one day. Watch your asses here.”
The man grinned slowly. “Don’t you worry none about us, Ryan Cawdor. Get goin’ now.”
There was a swift round of handshakes, then they piled into the chromed and polished wag, J.B. taking the wheel.
“Good luck,” someone called.
They drove out into the main street of Country Row, between tumbling gateposts, stopping for a moment to check both ways. Other than the merry little lights and an odd staggering drunk, the place looked and sounded normal. The nearest bar was thundering out raucous music as they turned to the right and headed west.
IT WAS THE MOST overornamented wag that Ryan had ever encountered, reminding him of the florid pimp-mobiles that he’d seen when riding with Trader in the gaudy sections of some of the larger pestholes.
The top of the windshield was festooned with all kinds of soft toys and junk fluorescent green dice covered in fur; a pair of dogs with nodding heads and rolling idiot eyes; a flesh-colored Madonna that seemed to glow in the moonlight; a naked black doll, with a pregnant belly, holding a spear. Mildred tugged that off and threw it out the side window before they’d even reached the town marker for Country Row.
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