As Ryan glanced about casually, as if deep in thought, he saw a brief flash of reflected light from the roof of the keep. A double flash would have been binocs; a single meant a telescope, or a scope on a high-powered sniper rifle ready to remove his head. Then a second flash from the trees caught his attention, and Ryan realized he was caught in their cross fire. By stopping the truck outside the ville, he had hoped to force Overton into an awkward position, but instead had played right into the man’s trap. The original plan was probably for Ryan to be killed by a silenced shot from the keep while he and Overton fought. Who would notice a small-caliber wound in the body of a man already bleeding? It was a good plan. However, ambushes always fell apart if the victim didn’t do exactly what was expected.
Taking a hesitant step, Ryan extended his arms toward the younger man. Overton recoiled as if expecting a strike but stood resolutely his ground.
“Yeah, I can see Havila in you,” Ryan said, forcing some emotion into his voice as he walked closer. He felt like a triple-stupe fool, but an excited hush fell over the watching crowd. “And we look so much alikeit must be true. You’re my son. My long lost son!”
Lunging forward, Ryan hugged the total stranger. Overton stood there as stiff as a board, completely baffled by this unexpected turn of events. Then, ever so slowly, he returned the hug, and the crowd erupted into wild cheers. Surging forward, the people lifted both men onto their shoulders and carried them triumphantly across the drawbridge and into the ville.
Chapter Eleven
Clouds of acrid smoke drifted over the battlefield at BullRun ville. The dead and the dying lay everywhere, destroyed wags and crushed horses burning under the fiery sky. Even the fortress itself, barely visible above the line of trees separating the ville from the war zone, had several large holes punched through its thick granite walls.
Standing amid the destruction, a large blond woman in ripped Army fatigues dug loose 5.56 mm rounds from her shoulder bag and hastily thumbed the bullets into the exhausted clip of her repaired military blaster. When it was full, she grabbed the M-16 leaning against her leg, slammed in the clip and worked the bolt with practiced ease.
The predark M-16 was a mismatch. The barrel came off an MR-4, the recoil spring was cut down from a Stoner, the carrying strap made of horsehide and the replacement stock hand carved by a local carpenter. But the deadly blaster functioned smoothly, and that was the most important thing.
Blinking the sweat from her eyes, Baron Susan Markham started to walk through the destroyed cornfield. Dead sec men and residents lay everywhere, many of them missing arms or legs. She wanted to avert her eyes, but forced herself to look at each and every one of them. These were her people, and their deaths were a personal matter.
Scattered among the locals were the dozens upon dozens of Oriental men dressed in black. Even their faces had been masked, leaving only a tiny slit for them to see through.
“Baron!” someone called.
Susan spun on a heel, and exhaustion almost made her fire purely on reflex. “Chatty, is that you?” the baron demanded.
Out of the billowing clouds came a small man wearing a garage mechanic’s jumpsuit, the loose pant legs tucked into hiking boots. A bloody tourniquet was wrapped around his right arm, the hand tucked into his belt to keep it still. Fresh blood trickled down his cheek from a shallow gash in his scalp. The leather bandolier crossing his chest was empty of rounds, the knife sheath at his hip empty and the staggering man carried a shotgun with a bent barrel. But he was still standing and seemed fiercely proud of the fact.
“Did we get him?” the baron asked anxiously.
Sec chief Charles Chattington nodded wearily. “The bear traps we laid killed his horse, and the archers put enough shafts into him for us to use the bastard as kindling.”
“What about the bomb he was carrying, that satchel thing? I heard a blast, but it sounded distant, muffled.”
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