He stood slightly below five and a half feet tall, wiry and whipcord lean. His skin held the pallor of a corpse, mirrored by the shock of white hair on top of his head. Bone white and savagely scarred, as still as death, his face looked like a mask. Only the burning heat of his ruby red eyes showed life as he watched the men before him.
Philox and the two men who rode with him dismounted from their horses a few yards back of the clearing where Doc and Ryan conducted their business. They unsheathed their long blasters and crept forward, never knowing that death dogged their heels.
Lush forest growth, overgrown for decades, provided cover for Jak. He remained behind the men as they went forward. Their attention stayed on the events spinning out in the clearing. The albino teen left his .357 Magnum Colt Python in its holster, filling his hands with the leaf-bladed throwing knives he made himself and kept secreted on his body and in his clothing.
Seated atop an outcrop thrusting from the uneven ground less than ten feet from the three men he followed, Jak saw Liberty make his move against Ryan. The Winchester came up blasting as the gang leader levered round after round into the breech and fired away. Doc scattered to the left, just as they’d planned, making his way toward the huge Le Mat blaster.
“Keep the old man alive, you stupe bastards!” Liberty yelled above the sudden din.
Philox and his two partners raised their long blasters to their shoulders, taking aim.
Both hands flashing, Jak threw the leaf-bladed knives, then leaped from his vantage point. The three men howled in pain, hands reaching over shoulders to try to grasp the knives that sank deep into their backs. One of the men turned as Jak landed, alerted by the noise even over the crash of gunfire.
The man yelled out a warning as he brought up his weapon.
Jak whipped back a hand and released another throwing knife as he spun and ducked into cover behind a thick bole of an oak.
The knife sank deep into his victim’s throat, the man gagging instantly on his own blood. He dropped to his knees, firing his blaster into the ground.
Hand dropping to the butt of the .357 Magnum revolver, Jak ripped the big weapon free of leather. Following his momentum around the tree bole, the albino brought up the blaster in a two-handed grip, rolling the hammer back with his thumb for a quick snap shot. He punched a round through Philox’s forehead. The man’s head jerked backward as the bullet emptied his brain pan across the brush behind him. He went wide-eyed, face first into the dirt.
“Fucking ghost!” The third man panicked, trying in vain to find cover.
Jak relentlessly pursued, bringing up the .357 pistol again. The front sight fell over the back of his target’s skull, then a full-metal-jacketed hollowpoint caved it in. The albino recovered Philox’s long blaster, scooping it from the ground in a quick, practiced movement. He recognized the weapon as he brought it to his shoulder—a Marlin bolt-action .30-.30 with a 5-round clip.
Squinting through the telescopic sights, he tracked across the clearing where Doc and Ryan scrambled for their lives. The gang poured a constant barrage of fire, fighting against their struggling mounts.
Jak slipped his finger inside the rifle’s trigger guard and took up the slack, knowing the lives of his friends existed only one heartbeat to the next, with no guarantees.
RYAN MOVED in a smooth uncoiling of muscles, not bothering with a feint. Liberty struck like a snake, with no warning and without hesitation.
Diving to the right of the clearing, Ryan knew he pulled most of the gang’s guns in his direction. He broke his fall with his left arm as he kept hold on the Steyr with his right hand. He rolled, keeping the long blaster tight against his body.
“Get him!” Liberty yelled. “Get the bastard now!”
Long blasters and pistols broke the stillness under the leafy canopy behind Ryan as he came to his feet behind a three-foot-high shelf of rock the brush covered from casual view. He misjudged his roll and smacked his right cheek against it. Blood wept warmly down the side of his face. He pulled himself into position behind the rock and raised the Steyr. The weapon’s butt pressed into the side of his face against whatever injury he had taken. The abraded flesh stung at the touch, but parts of his face where the old scars were didn’t have any feeling at all.
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