“I had hoped all that crap about me arriving on a white horse,” he growled, “and firing golden bullets would be forgotten by now.”
“Indeed, no, sir,” Doc stated, basking in the attention and waving to the crowd with his swordstick. “Even in the best of times, people always need their mythic heroes. You are that to them. A new symbol of hope.”
“Horseshit,” the man snarled, pounding on the horn again.
Graciously, Doc smiled. “Agreed, my dear Ryan, but still true, nonetheless.”
“Not everybody is delighted we’re here,” J.B. stated, tilting back his hat for a clearer field of vision. The Uzi was slung over a shoulder and dangled at his side, ready for instant use. “Spot them yet?”
“The blue shirts? Yeah, I got them zeroed.” Even before stopping the truck, Ryan noticed the gathering of the sec men armed with AK-47 blasters. There were a lot of them. But he was also noticing other sec men dressed in brown shirts staying near the blue shirts. Wherever the blues went, the browns followed and in greater numbers.
“Nathan’s troops?” Jak asked through the passenger’s window.
High in the cab, Ryan craned his neck for a better view. “Makes sense.”
“Sure going to be easy to know who to chill if it comes to a fight,” Clem observed, taking out a plug and biting off a healthy chaw.
“Can’t see how it could end any other way,” Ryan stated. “Doesn’t take a doomie to know that.”
“Winner take all,” Doc said. “Loser gets buried.”
“Exactly.”
Still in the rear of the truck, Dean couldn’t stop staring at the cheering people and the golden fortress. This was his heritage, his true home. Some day, if he wanted, he would be the baron here. No, wait a secondthat was wrong, the boy corrected himself. His father had given up the title, and Nathan’s children would rule the ville. Dean wasn’t quite sure if he was happy about missing that bullet of responsibility or angry as hell about not getting the title and authority. It would require some serious thinking. Did he even want to be a baron?
“Ahem,” Doc said, indicating a commotion near the drawbridge. People were going quiet as something pushed through them at a good clip.
“Nathan?” J.B. asked, resting a hand on his Uzi.
“Gotta be wag,” Jak said.
“Can’t tell yet,” Ryan stated, moving the carefully cut wooden stick closer to the gas pedal. If trouble came, he was going to jam the stick on the gas pedal, flooring the engine, and send the flatbed truck crashing into the fortress while Dean lit the fuse on the case of Molotovs. The rest of the companions would scatter into the crowd. They were ready to talk, fight or escape.
In growing silence, the crowd hastily parted, several folks almost going into the moat as they cleared away from a big man wearing a blue uniform.
“That’s him,” Clem said, resting a finger on the trigger of his blaster.
Overton ran swiftly across the drawbridge, unbuckling his gun belt and dropping weapons every few yards. When he reached the shore, the would-be baron was only wearing clothes.
Cig lighter poised near a cloth fuse, Dean wondered what the man was doing. Suspecting the truth, Ryan unlocked the cab door as a precaution.
“Salutations and greetings,” Doc said, but the man went straight past him.
Reaching the truck, Overton slammed a fist through the open window and directly into Ryan’s face. The one-eyed man was caught by surprisenot by the attack, but by the speed of it. He managed to roll with the blow, but it still rattled him hard. Then combat reflexes flared, and he kicked open the door, slamming Overton to the ground. The big man landed sprawling, and Ryan climbed down with a hand on his blaster.
“Get up,” he ordered, drawing the weapon.
Slowly, Overton stood and threw dirt in Ryan’s face. He instinctively fired twice, and the other man grabbed him in a bear hug. Powerful arms wrapped low around his back began to squeeze, trying to break his spine. Ryan head-butted his adversary twice before he finally let go. Then, before Overton could get clear, Ryan slammed his boot into the man’s groin. Overton loudly grunted in pain but didn’t drop.