“The fact you have an heir now will slow them down some,” Brandon replied, leaning forward in his chair.
“Not by much,” Kinnison shot back, then slammed his bloody hand onto the desk. “Shitfire, I have no choice. Go the quartermaster and have him fill a hundred barrels with our best black powder, the stuff reserved for the castle defense.”
“Yes, sir!”
“Then fill another hundred with charcoal dust mixed with some fireplace ashes. That should look enough like black powder to pass a brief inspection.”
Brandon raised an eyebrow. “Sir? We’re going to sell each ville a combination of good and bad?”
“No. We’re selling the weakest villes the good powder, and that bastard O’Keefe the crap. The little villes will slaughter O’Keefe, removing a possible danger to the security of my son. Leaving only the small villes without the resources or sec men to ever challenge Maturo Island. Two problems solved, and we reap double the profit from one sale.”
“It will be done,” Brandon stated firmly. “I can refit my boat in a week and will personally escort the cargo to its destinations.”
“I can send some other PT captain to handle that,” the baron growled, glancing out the window at the bright sunny day. Lighting flashed in the clouds too far away to hear the rumble of its thunder. “Its more important to know if Cold Harbor ville is still standing. If it is gone, I’ll take it over. If it stands, then my Firebirds will level the ville, and again I take it over as abandoned.”
“And what about those outlanders?”
“I want them brought before me, dead or alive,” he growled. “And I prefer alive. The dead can’t be forced to talk. How did they get here from the mainland? Where did they find those rapidfire weapons? There is much I need to know.”
Brandon saluted. “I shall take care of it myself, my lord.”
“No need for that,” Kinnison said smoothly as he drew a pistol from under the desk. “Somebody else will handle the task, not you, fool. The last time we talked, I said that failure to secure the flash meant your death. Did you doubt my word?”
“B-but my lord!” Brandon managed to stammer, rising from his chair. “I have faithfully served you for fifteen seasons! And I brought you the news of the pirate fleet and the outlanders! Surely, that is much more important than one small mistake. I can reclaim Cold Harbor ville and bring you the bodies of the outlanders. Give me a chance! Just one chance, is all I ask!”
“No more chances,” the baron said, and fired twice. The man toppled over clutching his belly, the bones of a shattered knee showing white through the tattered flesh of his leg. Blood pumped freely from an open artery, and Brandon did what he could to hold the flow back with his bare hands.
A heartbeat later, the door was slammed aside and sec men rushed into the room with their blasters drawn. But they paused, uncertain what to do next at the scene of their baron with a blaster and their commander lying in a pool of his own blood.
“Baron, are you okay?” a corporal asked.
“Take that prick to the playroom,” Kinnison commanded, rubbing the sores on his hand. They were stinging badly from the discharge of the weapon. “And keep him alive while you peel off his skin. Let’s see if it fits me better than him.”
The leader of the man paled, but saluted. “At once, my lord!”
“No, please!” Brandon wailed, terror distorting his features. “Baron, don’t do this!”
Kinnison made no reply, his blaster held steady on the crippled man.
As the advancing guards converged, Brandon tried to draw his blaster, and a corporal slammed the wooden stock of his longblaster into the officer’s hand, shattering the bones. The weapon dropped from limp fingers, and Brandon made a mad dash for the window. But the troopers tackled him to the floor before he got ten paces, and ruthlessly beat the officer until he stopped resisting. Bloody and battered, the weeping lieutenant was hauled away, leaving a trail of blood on the freshly scrubbed floor.