Breathing heavily, his legs almost burning from the awful heat of the bike, Ryan tried to guess when the coldheart first set the animal loose. He guessed the timing at a mile. But Overton had to have jumped off as soon as he heard the bike, sosay another quarter to a half mile before that.
“Fireblast, that’s a lot of ground to cover,” Ryan muttered angrily, wiping the sweat off his face with a sleeve. This job was fast becoming impossible. Now he was guessing on top of guesses.
Returning the way he had come, Ryan counted off a mile, then chose a point one-third of a mile beyond. When in doubt, go for the middle, as the Trader used to say. That always gave you some leeway in case of a miss.
Kicking down the stand, Ryan throttled the engine to an irregular idle with the brilliant headlight washing the roadway and into the trees. Crossing to the other side in the shadow of the beam, Ryan walked slowly, looking for any indication of where Overton might have jumped off. The Deathlands warrior knew that time was against him, but it was his only chance. At dawn, Ryan could come back with a hundred sec men from Front Royal and sweep this area of the forest. However, Overton would be long gone by then. There had been hardtack and blankets in the stable for ville sec men to take with them on long rides, but Overton hadn’t grabbed any, even though the grub was in plain sight.
Blaster in hand, Ryan proceeded along the dim shoulder of the roadway, total darkness descending as the sun dipped behind the trees. Without food, running away couldn’t be his plan. The bastard had some local goal in mind, close enough so that food wouldn’t be a problem.
A stuttering sound erupted up in the trees, and the headlight of the bike shattered, plunging the road into darkness. Dropping to his belly, Ryan grabbed a stone and, throwing it into the bushes, screamed in pain. It landed with a clatter near the bike.
The tree branches rustled, and a figure in black lowered himself to the ground, cradling a longblaster of some kind. The weapon fired a long burst at the motorcycle, a flower of fire ringing the vented muzzle of the sleek assault rifle. The bullets noisily punched through the machine, and the engine whoofed into flames. Since the wind was coming from the north, Ryan cupped his hands and gave a low moan, hoping the sound would travel.
The sniper seemed to buy the trick and as he started to walk closer, he dropped the spent clip and reached for a fresh magazine. With his enemy unarmed, Ryan aimed the silenced barrel of the SIG-Sauer at the man and fired six times. Sparks flew from the rounds as they struck the Kalashnikov, but the other bullets garnished meaty thumps, and the would-be killer crumpled to the dirt road. His heart pounding, Ryan quietly stood and walked forward to see whom he had just chilled.
The dancing light of the burning bike cast bizarre shadows across the surrounding forest, and Ryan had to drop to his knees to get a close look at the dead man. The face was clean shaved, the hair long. Mentally crossing his fingers, Ryan flicked his butane lighter and saw it was just another blue shirt and not Overton. The sec man was heavily armed, but so was Ryan, so he left the corpse with its blasters and ammo. Only a fool took more than he could carry. Being slow was as deadly as being unarmed in the Deathlands.
Scrambling down the gravel incline of the roadway into the forest, Ryan moved stealthily through the bush, circling into the greenery until the gasoline fire was a flickering spot of light. Now anybody else waiting in ambush would be silhouetted by the flames, and a perfect target.
Stepping from mossy rock to bare stones, Ryan avoided the dry autumn leaves and headed deeper into the trees, searching for the reserve man in the ambush. Overton wouldn’t be stupid enough to send only one man to try to chill him. Caution was called for here. The swift always died first.