Jamie fished for the note in his pockets, eventually pulling it out and giving it along to Trader, who was slightly the nearest to him.
“Waste of time givin’ it to me, son,” he said. “Never got on with them crawly little black spider marks. Give it to the lady to read.”
The letter was crumpled, written in ink on the usual Deathlands handmade paper, though it was slightly better quality than what was usually encountered. What was surprising was the neatness of the writing, in a sort of sloping Gothic hand, impeccably spelled and punctuated.
” ‘To the noble and respected Baron Weyman. We hold your son, Jamie, a prisoner, but do not wish any fellness to befall him. You will be pleased to hear that we are not demanding jack from you, beyond your powers of paying. No, that is not our wish. All you have to do is return a message with this boy that you accept our terms and your son will be released unhurt. Not at once, you understand. But once you have done what we ask. That is to abandon your ville to us and disband your sec men. Once we see that done, then Jamie is a free boy again.’ ”
“They don’t want much, do they?” Krysty said. “Just everything!”
“Go on.” Ryan was glancing at the sky, his mind working like a racing calculator. The brushwooders wouldn’t know that he and the group were so close. It would have taken Jamie at least six or seven hours, on foot, to reach the ville, meaning there was no risk of any retaliation until after dark. They wouldn’t be expecting any sort of attack within the hourwhich meant their best chance. They would creep in silently and waste the camp before anyone knew they were there.
Krysty was still reading the letter.
” ‘In the event that you don’t believe us, we will deliver to the ville, twelve hours from noon this day, the right ear of your son. Then, at such intervals, other parts of his body so as to leave him still in fair working order, but sorely mutilated. We think this is only fair. Send reply by this ragged boy at your fastest convenience.'”
Krysty shook her head. “It’s signed The Levelers. Don’t know what that means.”
“How far’s the camp, Jamie?” Ryan helped the boy to his feet. “We’ll go straight in now, fast and silent All of us. You can show us the way.”
“About a mile. The trail winds and twists an awful lot, but I can find it easily.”
“Good lad.” Ryan patted him on the back. “Your father’ll be proud of you.”
“You don’t mind the way I left Dean?”
” ‘Course not. Soon have him safe and snug with us, Jamie. Don’t worry.”
Trader chimed in. “Yeah. Nothing’ll go wrong, kid. Not with us hitting the ace on the line.”
THE ONLY THING that went wrong happened just as the hunters reached the perimeter of the camp, halfway down a steep and slippery slope.
The sky had darkened with the threat of imminent rain, sweeping in toward the mountains from the west from over the Cific Ocean.
It was perfect timing for their raid. It was obvious from a quick recce that Ryan had taken with J.B. that the brushwooders were totally off guard, not anticipating any trouble for several hours.
There had been a short, sharp shower, lasting less than three minutes, but it had been enough to dampen the grass and the mud between the trees.
Ryan was in the lead, SIG-Sauer drawn, the rest of the group strung out in a ragged skirmish line. At his order, the boy was waiting for them a couple of hundred yards in the rear, at the top of the hillside.
The only worry for Ryan was the trio of sec men with Rainey. The sharp-featured sec boss seemed the sort of man who could look after himself, but the others were slow and hesitant, clutching at their armed crossbows as though they were frightened that the bolts might fall out.
It was the fattest and oldest of them, named Micah, who lost his footing and fell crashing through the brush, yelling at the top of his voice, leaving everyone stranded halfway down. As it hit the fan.