J.B. took the rope and leaped across the alley, with Ryan following almost right on his heels. They hit the other rooftop almost at the same time, letting go to drop the final distance.
Ryan pushed himself to his feet, ignoring the painful scrapes he’d gotten on the side of his face and along one arm. He fisted the Steyr and ran for the side of the building facing the hotel. Broken glass and debris from the structure littered the rooftop they stood on. Fires raged inside the building, licking at the gaily patterned curtains.
At the side of the building, he looked down and found the small wag still sitting below. One of the men was down, covered by a section of the building that had popped his skull like an overripe tomato blistered by the sun. The driver struggled to get out from under the debris.
Ryan brought the Steyr to his shoulder and shot the man through the head. J.B. burned down a couple of stragglers trying to recover from the blasts. Shouldering the Steyr, Ryan slipped his panga free. “Get Jak to pull the rope to the other side of the building. I’ll get the wag, bring it around over there and we can board.”
“I’ll give what cover I can.”
Ryan slashed the panga through the rope, watching the free end jump away as he held on to the other end. He leaped upward and grabbed a fresh hold. The twenty-foot span across the alley would put him closer to the ground as the rope dropped.
He leaped over the edge of the building and swung toward the hotel. Lifting his feet, he caught himself parallel to the side of the hotel, then dropped to the ground.
Fisting the SIG-Sauer, he sprinted to the wag and yanked the dead driver from behind the wheel. Seating himself, he pressed the starter button patched onto the console in front of him.
The engine turned sluggishly at first, then caught. It gave a throaty roar, then he let out the clutch. Debris fell away from the wag. Men poured out of the hotel behind him, dust covered and injured. From the looks of things, the jackers were winning over Kirkland’s sec forces.
Ryan roared around the building, handling the wag with brute strength across the ruts. A wag came at him from the left, catching him from his blind side. It rammed into the pickup, carrying enough weight and speed to lift Ryan’s wag from the ground for a moment.
The driver of the other vehicle fed more power to his machine, a reconditioned jeep that had seen hard times.
Ryan drew the SIG-Sauer and blasted the man from almost point-blank range. The bullet blew the back of the jacker’s head out in a gush of brains. Metal shrieked as Ryan swerved around the corner and found his friends taking up positions in the alley.
J.B. and Jak climbed onto the wag’s running boards and shoved the rest of the debris out the back. The Armorer took the shotgun seat while the others piled in back.
Krysty sat behind Ryan, one hand touching his neck.
Ryan took the shortest course out of the ville, putting the accelerator to the floor. The wag’s engine sent them surging forward.
“My dear Ryan,” Doc called from the back, “I am afraid we have not quite escaped the ville without notice.”
Ryan had to glance over his shoulder, as the wag had no mirrors. He spotted the wag pulling into their dust trail. Jak and Krysty had already opened up on the vehicle, with Dean joining in a heartbeat later. But it was Mildred with her steady hands and keen eye that put a bullet through the driver’s chest.
The trailing wag slewed sideways, giving up the chase.
Ryan kept his attention on the narrow, twisting road. With luck they would be back at the redoubt in under an hour. He glanced back at the ville one last time, seeing how the streamers of black smoke were gathering above it.
“That ville,” Doc announced, “was aptly named.”
“No,” Dean stated. “Needs a new name. Longer than the original. Mebbe call it Hazardous.”
Doc laughed delightedly. “Ah, young Master Cawdor, your education has not been for naught, has it?”