“Please” the man whispered, slumping to the ground.
With a sigh, Daniel stood and drew his belt knife. The bowie was sixteen inches long, the needle tip of the steel blade reflecting the firelight like a mirror.
“Guess I’ll be operating tonight,” he said, walking closer. “But don’t worry, friend. I always do this as painlessly as possible.”
“No! Pleasewhowho are you?”
“Who am I?” Lissman laughed, amused. “My name is Daniel Lissman. Happy now?”
“Yes, thank you.” Sullivan smiled, exposing a big-bore Army Colt .45 automatic pistol from within the folds of his loose clothing, the hammer already cocked and in the firing position.
Lissman dropped the knife and clawed for the Ruger on his belt.
Calmly, without any emotion, Sullivan triggered the military blaster and a massive dumdum round blew the healer’s chest apart, red blood and organs spraying across the campsite.
Before the dead man hit the ground, Sullivan rose to his full height, tucked the blaster into its holster and threw the bloody rag from his undamaged neck.
When he’d found the fresh corpse in the bog, it seemed only natural to use some of thblood to pretend he was wounded himself, and follow the trail of the killer. It had been too long since Sullivan last killed in combat, and he desperately needed to know if his skills were as good as ever before taking on the baron of Front Royal.
Stepping over the corpse, Sullivan tossed some more wood onto the fire, building it to a roaring blaze, and inspected the dead man’s belongings. There were four more blasters in his pack, along with predark cans, a wad of jack tied with string, vials of jolt, two sticks of dynamite coated with wax to keep them fresh, a switchblade knife, a can opener and several pieces of silver cutlery. It was a fortune, but Sullivan recognized the items as a litany of human suffering packed into a dirty canvas satchel.
In the background, grisly bits of the dead healer were still dripping off the trees as Sullivan slid the switchblade into a boot A good fit. Then the half-breed kicked the head of the corpse for a while. Making a decision, Sullivan tucked the bowie knife into his own belt and exchanged his polished Colt for the other man’s rusty wheelgun.
Dawn was starting to brighten the sky above the thick foliage. Not a cloud was in sight, which was always a good sign. The sky was only a light orange incolor, streaked with some soft purple and a few minor burning hues. It was about as clear a day as it got in Deathlands.
Squatting on the ground, Sullivan reached out with his bare hands and ripped some strips of meat off the roasting rabbit suspended above the flames.
“Dan Lissman,” he said between bites, trying different tones and inflections. “Hello, I am Daniel Lissman, a healer. How can I assist you, Baron Cawdor?”
Chapter Thirteen
As Mildred closed and locked the door to their suite, Ryan checked the ledge outside the windows, while Dean looked under the bed and J.B. did a quick recce for secret doors and such in the walls. Doc probed the closet, Krysty searched the washroom and Jak stood guard in a corner watching their backs. Clem did the same across the room.
“Clear,” the Armorer reported, dusting off his hands and pushing back his fedora. “Okay, what’s this about?”
“Overton has Nathan’s pregnant wife held hostage,” Ryan said, pulling a chair from under a rolltop desk. He turned the chair around and sat down with his arms resting on the back. “And unless he turns over the ville, she and the baby die.”
“Wife? I heard some of the staff mentioned his wifeTabitha, I think they called her. Supposed to have died in the mutie attack.”
“If she is believed dead,” said Krysty succinctly, “then nobody would try and rescue her.”
Ryan scowled. “Exactly. He’s got every base covered.”
“Clever bastard,” Clem muttered, leaning against the corner and crossing his arms. He looked for a place to spit, but saw no sign of a spittoon or bucket. Damn, what a backward fortress.
“Overton dies,” Jak stated, tilting his head forward so that the snowy hair tumbled forward and masked his features. A knife slid into his palm, and he tested the edge on a thumb. His own wife and child had been killed a long time ago, but the pain of their loss was reborn with this news. The teenager had coldly witnessed the deaths of hundreds over the years, but the murder of women and children stirred a fire in him that no amount of revenge could satisfy.