James Axler – Starfall

Pulling on the reins, Dean broke off the direct approach. But going back didn’t offer any relief, either, because the baron’s riders were closing in. A line of bullets chopped into the dirt near the horse’s hooves, sliced through the air only inches from Dean’s head.

He kicked the horse in the sides again, urging it back into a full gallop toward the oncoming riders. He rode low, presenting as small a target as he was able, and he got past them.

Blasterfire from the coldhearts lashed into the baron’s men, emptying two of the saddles. A bullet cut through Dean’s shirt, and he felt the heat of its passing. He spotted J.B. to his left. The Armorer exchanged shots with a mounted man, but neither of them appeared to be hit.

Cutting hard to the right, Dean guided the horse in a wide loop back to the fence surrounding the junkyard. One of the motorcycles pulled away from the Jeep and pursued him. Urging his mount to greater speed, the boy raced up a small promontory overlooking the fenced area.

“Go!” he urged the horse, lying low enough that he was screaming in the animal’s ear.

On top of the incline, the horse found it had no way to go but forward. Dean felt the big animal’s muscles bunch, then it hurled them into the air.

At first, Dean thought the horse was going to clear the fence. But its back hoof got caught in the strands of barbed wire at the top. Coming down off balance, the horse rolled on its side with a grunting snort of pain.

Dean cleared the saddle, rolling himself. He came up on his knees as the motorcyclists made the same jump he’d attempted with the horse. They had more power, though, and cleared the fence with feet to spare.

Spitting out dirt and blood from a busted lip, Dean tar­geted the motorcycle in the air. He aimed for the center of the men, and for the gas tank. He believed he hit both, but the sudden eruption of the gas tank let him know he’d gotten the fuel tank for certain.

The motorcycle turned into fireball that careened in a short arc, then smashed into the ground front wheel first. The coldheart who’d been driving screamed in hoarse fear and flapped at the flames licking at his crotch.

Dean ignored the man and turned his attention to his second adversary. The man landed in a heap, but he came up with his revolver in his hand, spitting lead. Coolly the younger Cawdor stroked the Browning’s trigger and put a round into the man’s face, sealing his fate.

Dean fired two more rounds into the burning man to put him down. Pushing himself up, he raced back toward the entrance to the junkyard. Another sonic boom of thunder cascaded over the area, trapped between the stacks of dead wags filling the junkyard.

Movement ahead and to Dean’s left drew his attention. He barely kept his finger from squeezing the Browning’s trigger as the dirty face of a blond-haired little girl looked up at him.

“Holy shit!” Dean’s hand shook as he took the gun sight off her. “What do you think you’re—?”

The man leaped at him, a lock-back knife bared in his fist and a look of desperate fear on his face.

“WHATS WRONG WITH HER ?” J.B. asked, nodding at Krysty. Her tied hands and feet drew the Armorer’s eyes as he sat astride the lathered horse.

“Later,” Ryan said, swinging Krysty up to his friend.

J.B. grabbed the woman’s belt and heaved her over the saddle in front of him. The horse shied at the extra weight, stamping its feet.

“In the meantime,” Ryan said, “don’t listen to her what­ever she says. Keep her tied.” It bothered him to say that, but the instructions might keep Krysty and the Armorer alive. He glanced out at the open space in front of the junkyard. The baron’s men and the Slaggers had declared all-out war on each other, and it was difficult to tell who was getting the better end of it. Horses and men lay scat­tered across the torn, bloody earth. “Where’s Dean?”