James Axler – Trader Redux

The sun had just gone beyond the western rim of the canyon, its shadows pouring blackly to lay across the tiny silver thread of the river, close to two thousand feet below.

“We have a plan?” Abe asked as they crouched behind a tall hedge of yew trees.

“Plan?” The Armorer turned his head, the scarlet glow from the far horizon burning in the lenses of his spectacles, turning his eyes to fire.

“Yeah. We just goin’ to sail in, blasters going, like in the old days? Rescue Trader and Ryan from this fucking fate worse than death.”

J.B. grinned. “It was Trader himself used to say that it was double shit to think that. Said that there really wasn’t any fate worse than dying. It was the way you went that counted. Hard or easy.”

He wore the scattergun looped over his shoulder, the Uzi ready in his hands. Abe had the stainless-steel .357 Colt Python unholstered.

“How about our plan?” Abe insisted.

“Sure. One thing we need is to try and find where they keep that land wag we saw. Plenty of gas if we can get it. Then we work out a way of getting inside. Find Trader and Ryan and all walk out together.”

“That’s the plan?”

“You have a better one, Abe?”

They sat where they were for several long minutes and silently watched the smoke cloud of bats circling the tall chimneys of the old hotel.

RYAN HAD TOPPED UP the three dirty brass lamps that stood around their bedroom. Using a self-light, he watched the steady golden flames flicker and grow, filling the darkness with their steady brightness.

There was still three-quarters of a gallon of oil left in the red metal can.

Outside the door they could hear the steady steps and the murmur of conversation from the three sec men that Arkadin had placed there to keep them safe during the long night before their shared wedding.

“Try and take them in the early hours?” Trader suggested, pacing up and down.

“Need a diversion. They won’t come in just because I pretend you’re sick or any old trap like that. No, I figure it might be a good wait, Trader.”

They both heard the sound of high heels on the worn carpet outside and a woman’s voice.

The sec men talked louder. Ryan moved quietly to the door and pressed his ear against it.

“What?” Trader whispered.

“Bessie, I think. Arguing she and her sister want to come in and spend a little timea little loving time, she sayswith their future husbands.”

“I’ll be hung, quartered and dried for the fucking crows! I could prefer rad cancer of the tongue to that, Ryan. Shout and tell them we’re busy. Praying. Tell them that.”

“Quiet, I can’t Ladies are getting their way, Trader. Be in here in a few moments.”

The two men looked at each other, struck simultaneously by the same thought.

“Diversion,” Trader said, grinning like a starved wolf. “Let them come.”

THE SEC MAN LAY SPRAWLED in the deep pools of shadow at the rear of the garage. Blood seeped from his eyes, ears and nose and mouth, running onto the oil-stained concrete of the floor. There was a livid line etched around his throat where the thin wire garrote had choked him to death.

“Neat,” Abe whispered admiringly. “Sure haven’t lost your touch with chilling.”

“It’s a skill like any other,” the Armorer replied. “Once you got it, you never really lose it.”

The powerful land wag stood in the corner. It was a six-wheel predark Volvo that had been rebuilt so many times in the past century or so that there wasn’t a whole lot left of the original truck. A flatbed had been added at some time, which had then been built up higher, as well as a makeshift roof and sides made from sheet steel to give it security.

“Check the gas in the tank.” J.B. said.

He opened the double door and squinted out into the evening gloom. The guard had been patrolling the entire area around the flank of Hightower ville, walking slowly along, whistling to himself. J.B. and Abe had been watching him for more than twenty minutes, making sure he wasn’t part of a team of sentries.