parked back to back in a circle, facing outward. War Wag One faced the road,
which was handy. If all went well.
Beside the war wag stood another of Strasser’s trucks, close to the huge
vehicle. Although Ryan couldn’t see it, he knew there were men inside peering in
at the war wag’s cab, watching for any sign of life from those inside, any
twitch or jerk that would signal an awakening.
He glanced to the east. A few klicks up the road was the land wag train. Those
on it would never waken.
He said, “Tell me one thing, Strasser. Where’d you get the nerve gas?”
The gaunt man gestured irritably.
“Don’t piss around, Ryan. You’re in no position.”
“No, really. It’s been bothering me. It isn’t going to hurt you to tell me.”
“The weirdo with the steel eye,” snapped Strasser. “Now move it!”
The weirdo with the steel eye.
Oh, yes. Oh, yes, indeed.
The shadowy figure who was akin to the bogeyman mothers warned their kids about.
The guy very few people had ever seen. The guy who sometimes called himself the
Warlock, sometimes the Magus. The guy who was said to be able to appear in two
places at once. The guy who had a liking, once in a blue moon, for suddenly
appearing in far-flung locales, handing out fantastic, sometimes wildly
grotesque, trade goods that no one could ever figure out how to use, and then
disappearing as mysteriously as he’d come. The guy the Trader said had to be
sitting on a major Stockpile, although the way he actually used whatever he was
sitting on seemed to be a strong argument for saying he was off his goddamned
head.
So he had nerve gas. It figured. It also figured that he should have presented
it to Jordan Teague, probably on a plate. He seemed to take a positive delight
in creating mischief, usually of the more malevolent kind.
“Ryan…” said Strasser dangerously.
Ryan’s eyes took in Krysty, her face set, her long hair flicking at her
shoulders in the light wind, both arms gripped by two heavies. There was
something odd about her but he couldn’t think what it was.
“What about the girl?”
“What about her?”
“What does she get?”
Strasser frowned, his eyes narrowed to slits.
He said softly, “Ryan, why are you wasting time like this? Can it be that you
know something I don’t?”
Ryan knew that it was time. Now. Only three or four minutes had elapsed since he
and Krysty had been rolled out of the truck, but all at once he knew that he had
to get free, and fast.
“Okay,” he said resignedly, “let’s do it.”
“Well?”
“My hands,” said Ryan pointedly.
“Just tell us what to press, Ryan,” hissed Strasser, his face now uglier than
ever in the murky crimson light. “What to pull, what to touch, what not to
touch. You just tell us.”
“Not as easy as that. One mistake and you’re dead. We’re all dead.”
He could see Strasser mentally wrestling with the notion of having him walking
loose with his hands free.
The gaunt man thrust his parchment-colored face close, his eyes blazing. His
whisper was malignant.
“The girl suffers, Ryan, if you do anything stupid. I promise you. I’ll keep the
bitch alive for a year.” He turned, nodded to one of his minions. “Cut ’em.”
Ryan winced as a blade began scraping away at his bound wrists. The guy didn’t
seem to give a damn where he cut.
There was a muffled grunt of pain. Ryan jerked his head up as Strasser whipped
around an oath. The sec men holding Krysty were holding her no longer. Instead
one was on the ground, groaning, the other clutching his groin, his mouth
sagging, nothing coming out of it but a prolonged croaking. The thought shot
through Ryan’s brain that she sure knew where to hurt a guy and then he realized
she was free.
Not only free but deadly. She’d snatched an auto-rifle and was dancing away,
firing at sec men who sought to grab her, sec men who jerked backward in
sequence as lead hammered them away from her. Three down and her way was clear.