James Axler – Judas Strike

“Ryan gave you those wounds,” Glassman stated.

“Yes, sir, he did,” Mitchum growled, and felt the rush of hatred warm his face.

A slave cried out in triumph, lifting a hinge from the hot ashes and waving it about. An overseer snatched away the object and whipped the woman back to work.

“Find Ryan before he leaves this island and he is yours to punish for a day,” Glassman stated. “Execute the others on the spot. Understand me? No rape, no games, just put lead in their head.”

The words “or else” weren’t said aloud, but Mitchum clearly heard them spoken anyway.

“Then I’m baron here,” Mitchum said bluntly, standing a little taller.

There was a momentary pause. “If you find Ryan, yes. Until then, I’m in charge.”

“Deal. Give me his revolver,” Mitchum said eagerly, jerking his chin at the dead man.

Glassman gestured and one of the local sec men removed the gun belt from the body and gave it to Mitchum. The cracked leather was speckled with gray and red, but the colonel didn’t care. He was going to be the baron here! Mitchum draped the gun belt over his other shoulder, the two different blasters crisscrossing his chest.

“They have the Juggernaut, and if they drove over the grasslands, they could be anywhere on the island by now,” Mitchum said, checking the draw on the S&W .22 revolver. “Ryan had mentioned wanting a boat, and there’s only three villes on the island to steal one. Cargo ville burned their boats because of the plague—Ryan and his people told us about it. Ours are too well guarded, which leaves Cascade.”

Teams of men began to drag the first of the felled trees into the ville.

“Never heard of the place,” Glassman said suspiciously.

Mitchum grinned. “Little ville to the south, mostly predark ruins built on top of a waterfall. Bitch to see from the ocean. The mist from the fall sort of hides it from sight.”

Glassman wasn’t overly disturbed by the news. Kinnison knew about the dozens of villes scattered throughout the Thousand Islands that remained hidden to avoid paying tribute to him. None was very big, or of any military importance. Aside from the armed dockyard of the pirate fleet.

“How far away is it?” he asked.

“Five days on horseback. Two by sea. You have to arc far around our island if going south to avoid the reefs. Can’t take the northern route at all, unless you’re willing to pay the toll.”

“Pirates?” Glassman asked, feeling a rush of excitement over the prospect of battle.

Scratching at his stubble, Mitchum frowned. “Wish it was. Those we could handle. An old deeper lives off the north shore. It might be safe. He sleeps a lot, but when he wakes up hungry…”

“Fair enough. Get your men ready. We leave in an hour.”

The taste of ashes filling his mouth from the smoke, Mitchum hawked and spit. “South it is.”

“For us,” Captain Glassman stated. “But where that wag can roll, horses can run. You’re to take troops straight across the island, while we steam around. Then we’ll crush them between us in a two-sided attack at Cascade.”

“Should work,” Mitchum said thoughtfully, then added, “if you give us some Firebirds.”

The captain turned his head sideways, as if looking away from the sec man, but his eyes never left Mitchum. “You want more,” he said stiffly. “And yet the records I was given by the lord baron say this ville owns eight already.”

“Not anymore,” Mitchum said hatefully, both hands clenched into hard fists. “They’ve sort of been stolen.”

Chapter Fourteen

As the miles rolled by, the companions ate a cold meal from MRE packs, their blasters close at hand. On a couple of occasions, they saw more of the muties staggering about in the soggy fields, then a pack of them ripping apart a drowned opossum. At the first hint of the noisy wag’s badly tuned engine, the stickies swarmed after the vehicle, but were easily outdistanced. Keeping a careful watch on the dashboard, Krysty balanced the rising engine temperature against getting away from the stickies. She took a life only when necessary, and would rather bypass the muties than brutally run them over.