“There is a belief that you should never go back,” Doc said.
“True.” Krysty rubbed her hands together as if she felt the cold. “It’s true.”
THE PLAN WAS TO SPLIT into three pairs.
If the gang had all been in one central location, then Ryan would have gone in leading a full frontal attack. But they were scattered in several different buildings, including church and school. So the best bet was to hit in a coordinated series of lightning raids.
“If all goes well, then it should all be over and done in fifteen minutes,” J.B. said.
He was going with Mildred.
Jak and Doc were going to circle to the north and come in that way, picking up any of the gang who might try to escape on the highway out.
Ryan and Krysty would set the ball rolling, along with Carl.
“Best check our chrons,” Ryan said. “Moment the shooting begins, it’ll be like gasoline on an ants’ nest. We all move on the stroke of five. Just be enough light to see our way around by then. And make sure the blasters are all loaded. Anyone got any questions?”
Nobody spoke, except for Doc.
“Would it be in order for us to try and catch up on a little lost sleep?”
Ryan nodded. “Sure. All do the same. And we leave here at four-thirty.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
At least five of the cold hearts were sleeping together in the church. They were the first of the targets for Ryan, Krysty and Carl.
They waited in the lee of a stone wall to the east of the building. Harmony was as quiet as death, with not even a distant howling coyote to disturb the silence.
“What’s time?” Carl was breathing hard with tension, and Ryan could almost taste his sweat.
“Two more minutes. You all right?”
“Sure. Want to get started is all.”
Krysty was sitting cross-legged, hands flat along her thighs, eyes closed, looking as serene as a Buddhist statue of calm. The calm before the hurricane.
Ryan checked his chron again. “Right,” he said. “Carl, take that side door and chill anyone coming out of it.” He gripped him by the shoulder. “Anyone, Carl. Hold back for a moment and you’ll be buying the farm.”
“Don’t worry,” he replied hoarsely. “You wouldn’t have a small jug of drinkin’ liquor anywhere around, would? No, I guess you wouldn’t.”
He vanished into the opalescent dawn light, creeping through the dew-decked grass.
“Ready, lover?” He kissed her softly on the cheek, seeing her eyes open.
“Ready. Let’s go do it for all of the dead and for Harmony.”
THE OAK DOOR WAS STUDDED with heavy iron nails. The handle was cold and damp as Ryan carefully turned it, his eye half-closed, wincing against the expectation of squeaking hinges.
But the door swung open quietly, revealing a small porch with a pair of muddied boots in one corner. The door into the body of the church was partly open and Ryan ghosted through it, the SIG-Sauer drawn, the rifle across his shoulder. Krysty was at his heels like an avenging angel with hair of living fire, holding her own Smith amp; Wesson blaster.
The church was white and wooden-framed, with stained-glass window facing the east. The first weak shimmering rays of the dawning lit up the picture of the blessed Saint Buebo of Ishmailia, smiling beatifically while defeating the great worm of Salonika with a fiery trident.
There was enough light in the building to show Ryan and Krysty the sleeping men, sprawled between pews, one of them lying drunkenly across the stained top of the altar. Most were wrapped in blankets, making it difficult to tell if they were norms or muties.
Ryan counted and held up six fingers, looking around to see if any others slept in the shadows.
Krysty shook her head. She held up seven fingers, pointing with the barrel of the Smith amp; Wesson toward the pool of darkness between the pulpit and the covered font.
“Yeah,” Ryan whispered. “Got him.” Hie chron’s dancing digital figures glowed as he checked them again. It was nearly time.
IT WASN’T A FIREFIGHT, not at all at the start, and not very much at its ending. It was simply a straightforward series of executions, carried out with clinical efficiency.