“Sorry,” he muttered, hurrying away. He couldn’t afford to draw attention to himself. They were here to find that med kit and leave. Nothing more. Besides, this seemed to be the nicest ville he’d ever seen since his own barony back in Virginia.
“Hey!”
Ryan turned, his hand resting on the handle of the panga inside his shirt. Hopefully, it appeared as if he were merely scratching an itch. But the stranger’s throat was one fast step away from eternal silence.
“Yeah?” Ryan asked bluntly.
“Nice boots,” the big man said, displaying a mouthful of broken teeth. His hands were covered with the fine scars of brawling, his ears lumpy from badly thrown punches. But he stood on the balls of his feet, not the flat soles. This was a professional fighter, not some alleyway thug. Krysty eased herself away from the two and started to edge behind the newcomer.
“Yeah?” Ryan said noncommittally.
The thug stepped closer. “I could use a pair like those, and they’re in my size.”
Ryan knew where this was going. No chance of him backing out, and he couldn’t just chill the man. He’d have to do this the hard way. Bending his fingers at the knuckles, Ryan kept his hand flat and started forward when he froze motionless.
Over the man’s shoulder, Ryan could dimly see minuscule flashes of light from inside the shadows of the skyscraper. A firefight was raging on the top floor, and the strobing muzzle-flashes could only be autofire blasters. The ville sec men he’d seen had only bolt-action rifles and revolvers. And they certainly would have used autofire blasters the previous night. Which meant it was J.B. and his Uzi, or whoever was using the HK G-12.
“Hey, I’m talking wid you!” the man stated gruffly, grabbing Ryan by the shoulder and spinning him. “Now gimme the boots, punk!”
Ryan bent over as if to comply, then stood fast and rammed his fingertips straight into the man’s throat. Gasping for air, the thug backed away. Swinging a boot, Ryan caught the man between the legs. Breath exploded from the thug, and as he bent over in pain, the one-eyed man raised his knee to catch him on the way down. The impact straightened out the thug, almost flipping him over. Arms flailing, he hit the ground like wet newspaper and lay there, bleeding from the ruin of his face.
Some gasps rose from the crowd nearby, but most kept moving, unwilling to become embroiled in a fight that wasn’t their concern. Some shopkeepers closed their doors, and a few folk turned into alleys to avoid the clear space that had magically appeared around the combatants.
“What’s going on here?” a man demanded, pushing a path through the milling throng. The man was big and muscular, wearing good clothes, with a revolver holstered on his hip, a stout club in his grip and a red band of cloth on his arm marked with a white circle and a big blue letter A.
But all of the identifying items of a sec man were unnecessary. As soon as he had spoken, Ryan knew it was a guard from his attitude toward the crowd. They weren’t people to serve or assist, but a problem the man had to handle quietly before he could get back to his interrupted drinking.
“All right, gleeb,” he barked, fixing Ryan with a menacing stare. “Did you attack this man? We got laws about fighting near the greenhouses. You bust a pane of clear glass, and it’s fifty strokes of the whip.”
Aside from an acknowledging grunt, Ryan didn’t reply, calculating his chances of making a break into the open doorway of the blacksmith shop. Once out of sight and over the bellows, he could ace the sec man and find someplace to hide. He noticed that Krysty had already gone, blending into the crowd. They had agreed upon that. If one got caught, the other stayed free to finish the job. The clock was ticking on Dean, and minutes counted.
Then four more sec men converged on the sleeping giant, and Ryan knew there was no escape. He’d have to talk his way out of this mess. A difficult matter when he didn’t even know the name of the ville or the baron who ruled there.