James Axler – Road Wars

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. There was eight. Now there aren’t any.”

“You chilled them all?” the old woman asked.

“I told you. When we left the camp they were all dead. Or down and dying. I promise you that your ville won’t have any trouble with that group of stickies ever again.”

Sheppard grinned, rubbing his hands together. “Oh, boy, that’s good news.”

“Now we’re going,” Ryan said, suddenly drawing the SIG-Sauer and leveling it at the man’s belt buckle. J.B. had the Uzi cocked and ready.

“Hey, what is this? This?”

“This is the way we leave a ville where we’ve done a job and got paid in gasoline. And nobody wants any accidents happening to spoil things. Do they?”

Andy Sheppard turned around, his eyes settling on Maggie. “You told them. Oh, boy, oh, boy, you better watch your ass from now on in.”

“We hear of any trouble for Maggie when we come back this way in a few weeks, then it’ll mean some chilling,” J.B. warned. “Starting with you, Sheppard.”

“Hey! No hard feelings, feelings, feelings, now.”

“Good.” Ryan turned to his companion. “Go get the armawag started up, J.B., and bring her along here. I’ll stay and keep an eye on our hosts for a while.”

“Sure.”

Maggie was smiling fit to bust, pulling a shawl up over her sparse silver hair to protect it from the steadily falling snow. “You did good,” she said. “Saved ’em makin’ decisions. Dirt farmers!” She spit in the street. “They don’t need trouble. Too much sun and the crops fail. Too much rain and the crops fail. That’s what they understand.”

Ryan smiled. “I know it.”

Behind him, he heard the clang of the main hatch being thrown back on the LAV-25, followed a few moments later by the throaty roar of the powerful engine.

“Mind if we go inside?” Andy Sheppard asked, shuffling his feet, rubbing his hands together. “It’s oh boy cold out here, out here.”

“I bet they took our gas and never done what they did the deal on,” said a thin-faced man in a heavy trench coat. “How do we know the stickies are dead?”

Ryan turned the blaster toward the speaker, his voice calm and gentle. “Stupe. We have the firepower to just take the gas and chill anyone who tried to stop us. We aren’t in the business of playing games.” He looked at Sheppard. “No, you can’t go in. Just stand there and wait. We’ll be gone soon enough.”

The hills around were vanishing as the snow fell more heavily, with every sign of turning to a full-blooded blizzard. The temperature was falling fast, and Ryan couldn’t wait to get himself snug into the shelter of the wag. And safe out of the little Washington ville where treachery waited behind every watery, insincere smile.

The LAV was rumbling up the grade behind him, but Ryan didn’t turn to watch it. He kept his eyes ranging over the group of people, also checking out the windows and doors of the nearby houses for any attempt to coldcock them.

“We didn’t mean Oh, boy, not a thing, not a thing,” Andy Sheppard stammered. “Don’t need to chill me, mister.”

“Not about to do that,” Ryan replied. “Water’s flowed under the bridge.”

“All right, partner,” J.B. called. “I got them covered now. Climb aboard.”

Ryan backed away, giving a casual wave to the old woman, who dropped him an unsteady curtsy. The metal of the wag was icy to the touch, covered in a thickening layer of fresh snow. He swung himself up and into the main hatch on the turret, the automatic still firmly gripped in his right hand.

“Ready?” the Armorer asked.

“Yeah. Let’s go.”

He eased himself quickly down the short metal ladder and into the main compartment, dropping the hatch and locking it securely in place.

“Let’s go,” he repeated.

They’d only driven a mile when the weather closed right in around them, dropping visibility to zero. J.B. had eased down through the gears, but he finally brought the armawag to a halt, calling back to Ryan, just behind him.

“No point going on. Might easily drive straight off the side of the world.”