“Great. How many more of these do we have?” Mildred asked, looking at the dull green gren. The color said it was HE, high explosives, with no shrapnel. Not a very good killing device. But enough of them could bring down an army.
“One each,” J.B. answered, reaching into his munitions bag and passing them around. “The rest are hidden upstairs in case we had to fall back.”
“Sufficient unto the day,” Doc declared, both hands busy resetting the hammer on his LeMat to fire the shotgun blast first. “These days, there is no such thing as overkill.”
“Agreed.”
“Best check wag, too,” Jak suggested, tucking his gren into a pocket.
At that moment, something thumped onto the sidewalk in front of the store. Everybody stopped eating as plates and drinks were cast aside and blasters were grabbed.
“That wasn’t some empty brass shells,” Ryan stated, SIG-Sauer in hand as he went to the door.
“Too heavy and solid,” Krysty agreed, peeking outside through the blankets covering the display window. “Gaia, there’s a blaster laying on the ground!”
“Browning Hi-Power?”
“Looks like.”
“No way Dean dropped his blaster.” J.B. frowned, unfolding the wire stock of the Uzi.
“Well, somebody did,” Ryan snapped, easing off the chain and darting into the night. With his blaster sweeping for targets, he let his eye adjust to the darkness and glanced around.
Krysty joined him on the sidewalk, with the rest staying inside and covering them from the doorway. Ryan jerked his head to the left. She nodded and he went to the right, but only got a few feet. There on the broken concrete was a familiar metallic shape. Rushing over, he scooped up the weapon. It was a .38-caliber Browning Hi-Power in near mint condition. The odds of somebody else having one of these were astronomical.
“It’s Dean’s,” Ryan said, looking at the roof. Nothing was visible.
“Shit,” Krysty swore, craning her neck. “Any blood?”
“No.” Placing two fingers in his mouth, he whistled sharply twice and waited. No reply. “We got trouble.” They hurried inside and J.B. closed the door, keeping a hand on the busted lock.
“Okay, something is wrong,” Ryan stated, grabbing his Steyr and working the bolt. “Dean might have dropped the blaster, but no way he is also asleep on guard duty. Krysty and I’ll hit the rooftop. Mildred, J.B., are the anchor here. Doc and Jak recce the ground, then join us topside.”
Everybody moved without discussion.
Grabbing a canteen, Mildred poured water over the grill to kill the coals and went behind the steamer trucks. They would give decent protection and offered acceptable vantage of the front window and the door to the stairs.
“We’ll fire a round if there’s trouble,” J.B. said from the doorway, but Ryan was already charging up the stairs.
It took them only seconds to reach the top of the building. Ryan and Krysty burst out of the stairwell, blasters in hand. But the roof was empty, only a warm wind from the desert blowing steadily over the bare concrete.
Frowning, Ryan gave a pigeon coo and listened for an answer, while Krysty moved to a prominent dark spot on the white concrete. She didn’t have to touch it to know it was fresh blood. The redhead eased back the hammer on her revolver and whistled sharply three times.
Scowling, Ryan gave an answering coo and they moved out in a crisscross pattern, blasters searching for targets. A minute later, they met at the far corner.
“Anything?” Krysty asked in concern.
“Nothing,” Ryan stated grimly. “Think he fell off?”
The woman looked at the three-foot-high wall edging the roof and thought of the five-foot-tall boy. “No.”
“Better tell the others.”
A nod. “I’ll stay here and keep a watch.”
“Check.” As Krysty sprinted for the door, darkness enveloped them, something large blocking the weak moonlight shining through the dense clouds overhead.
“It’s the mutie!” Ryan shouted, the Steyr belching flame and thunder.
A few yards away, Krysty was briefly illuminated by the muzzle-flash of her booming handblaster. Under the double assault, the shadowy figure was hurled backward and over the edge of the roof to disappear.
“Fireblast!” Ryan growled, working the bolt on the rifle and slamming in a fresh clip.