“Okay.” The boy lifted the weapon and peered along the sights. “This will take some getting used to.”
“But it’s the best thing for .22 rounds,” J.B. told him.
There was a tap on Dean’s shoulder, and he turned.
Jak was holding a box of 12-gauge shells and the pump-action Mossberg. “Mine now.”
“Fine by me.”
“Wonder who our benefactors are?” Krysty asked, sliding the Ruger into her belt. “And why aren’t they here to greet us? Obviously they’re on our side.”
“Mebbe, mebbe not,” J.B. said. “Could be fattening us up for the kill.”
“Winter hogs?” Jak asked, tucking a knife into his boot.
“Exactly.”
“And who says they are not here with us?” Doc countered, holstering the LeMat. With his frock coat on, pistol holstered and swordstick in hand, the old man felt safe again, the alien cold that sometimes caressed his soul and threatened his sanity kept at bay.
“We’ve been rescued, cleaned, washed, our wounds bandaged and given back our weapons.”
Ryan looked around them, studying the walls. “I think we’ve been hired as mercies.”
“For what job?” Dean asked.
“To kill the ward,” a strange voice said, “and his hellish children.” With a rumbling noise like a hungry stomach, a section of the rock wall disengaged and swung aside. A tunnel beyond was filled with people in the patched clothing of slaves.
J.B. and Dean dropped low, their choppers at the ready, as the rest of the group assumed a combat stance. Fingers rested on triggers, ready to fire on Ryan’s spoken command.
A group of five people entered the cave, their hands raised. “Don’t fire, we mean you no harm,” a lean tall man said.
“That remains to be established,” Ryan replied coldly. They were dressed as slaves, but also wore blaster belts and knife sheaths. Empty at present. Making a decision, he lowered his rifle barrel.
“However, you have definitely grabbed our attention for a while.”
“If you are the ones who rescued us and brought us here,” Krysty added, her eyes narrow slits of concentration.
“We are,” said a tiny redheaded woman.
A hand still on his weapon, Ryan waved them toward the chairs. “Sit, and let’s palaver.”
“Thank you, Mr. Cawdor.”
Ryan stared at her.
“Yes, we know your names,” she said, taking a seat. “We have known about you since the lady ward brought you here in your own tank.”
Jak hawked and spit on the stone floor.
The large man with the square jaw curled a lip in disdain. “I see you feel toward the heirs as we do.”
“Bullet in the head,” the teen said with feeling.
“We would prefer something slower, and much more painful.”
“But her death is more important than revenge,” the slim brunette hastily added. The other visitors agreed.
“And who exactly you are?” Mildred prompted, holstering her blaster and leaning against the wall, arms crossed.
The brunette touched herself. “I’m Lisa, the large man is Tray, the thin man is Clifford, the hawk is David and the redhead is Kathy.”
Ryan and the others had no problem putting faces to names. And the hawk was right. David carried an expression like an attacking bird of prey. Ryan had a feeling he would be a difficult man to beat in a fight.
“No numbers?” Krysty asked.
“We’re the resistance,” David said proudly, thumping his chest. “We’re free people, and people have names, not numbers like vehicles.”
“Hallelujah,” Doc rumbled in his stentorian voice.
“We have a proposition,” Lisa said, resting her elbows on the table.
“I’m listening,” Ryan told her.
Krysty stayed behind him, her .38 plainly in view, while Tray stood to the rear of the brunette. He was balanced on the bails of his feet, his large callused bands hanging half closed at his sides, seemingly capable of anything. The others moved a little bit away from the leaders. Nobody spoke for a while, and the tension grew thick in the air.
“Where are we?” Mildred asked. “In a deadhead?”
The people looked at her in surprise.
“That is correct,” Kathy replied. “This is a tunnel of the coal mine that was exhausted decades ago. The heirs ordered it sealed off, but we left an air shaft open.”