There were five of them, four men clustered around a naked blond woman. The men were dressed in biker togs-leather jackets, ripped denims and boots. Each had his fly unzipped and was fully exposed. The sobbing woman was on her hands and knees, a sweaty biker pushing into her face, another eagerly pumping behind her. The others were laughing and whipped her with their belts, leaving huge red welts. Her breasts jerked at every violation and a steady trickle of blood flowed from her thighs. Nearby, a gleaming white tooth lay on the ground next to a pile of torn clothing.
Having seen enough, Ryan and Dean pulled out of sight.
Estimating the distance as twenty yards. Dean tightened the choke on the Mossberg to the minimum, the soft clicks sounding louder than fireworks in the whispering quiet.
“Let’s go,”Ryan whispered.
“And circle round,” Dean said, sliding a spare shotgun shell into his mouth for a fast reload. “Okay.”
“No. I mean leave. Go back to the others.”
The boy removed the shell. “We don’t need any help. We can take them.”
“Son, we’re not going to help her.”
Dean stared at his father. Ryan took the boy by the arm and pulled him farther from the corner.
“Our first concern,” Ryan stated sternly, “is staying alive. After that, fixing the tank and getting out of here. They’ll be busy with her for hours, mebbe more. Once we’re mobile, we can decide to risk returning to shoot them through the blasterports. Never risk your life for a stranger.”
“But-”
“Never.”
The discussion finished, Ryan turned to go. Dean started to follow, but unbidden, a picture of the young girl in the redoubt flooded into his mind, the smoking gun at her feet, the torn dress on her skinny body. Red anger filled Dean’s vision as he grimly stepped into the clear, raised his shotgun and fired. The spray of double-aught buck completely removed a biker’s head above his leather collar. The other men registered shock as the decapitated corpse thrust his hips one last time, then collapsed on top of the woman.
“Fireblast!” Ryan cursed, triggering his Steyr twice at the bikers as he joined his son. The SSG70 boomed louder than doomsday as the titanic rounds caught a man smack in the chest. Spinning, arms flailing, he collided with the others and the three went down in a tangle. Shooting with every step, father and son moved fast and in seconds the battle was finished.
“Damn fool,” Ryan growled, checking the bodies for any sign of life. “We were lucky. Four to two, even with the element of surprise, are terrible odds. Why’d you do it? Why?”
“Had to,” Dean said, kneeling beside the woman and helping her to stand.
“Th-th-a-ank you,” she mumbled past puffy lips. Dean grabbed a shirt off the pile of clothes and offered it to her. The woman gratefully took the garment and weakly pulled it on. The shirt barely covered her loins, but it would have to do. The rest of her clothes were slashed to pieces.
A movement caught Ryan’s attention, and he found a biker still breathing, so he slit the rapist’s throat with his pangs. Cleaning the blade on the man’s shirt, the one-eyed man noticed a colorful tattoo on the dead man’s chest, a knife stabbing the sun. Exactly the same as the coldhearts from the Ohio redoubt.
Chapter Nine
Different styles of car seats lined both of the long metal walls. Resting on some bricks, a small block V-8 engine, gutted of all moving parts, served as a cookstove, with some chicory browning in a low pan. Mixed with burned bread crumbs, it made crude frontier coffee that was better than nothing, but not by much. A wide rack for longblasters stood in the corner, two bolt-action Browning rifles and a semiauto M-l carbine rested there. Ammo boxes were stacked neatly on an iron shelf. A couple of poorly cured animal-skin rugs were on the metal floor, the fur coming off in patches. Brittle yellow centerfolds adorned the ceiling.
“Holy shit!” Monk cried out from his vantage point on a stool near a peephole in the wall. A lit cig dropped from his lips. “I don’t believe it!”