Strasser snarled an obscenity, dragging out the automatic pistol at his belt. In
the bad light it looked to be vintage Colt .454CP. He squeezed off two shots,
and the second whanged off the front offside wheel hub of one of the trucks as
Krysty dived out of sight around its fender, still firing short bursts.
“Maim her!” yelled Strasser. “Don’t kill her! I want her alive!”
Ryan couldn’t locate her but knew she was on the far side, somewhere, of the
line of Strasser’s vehicles parked by the road. Then four men running for the
rear end of the line were bowled over by a burst of fire at ground level. She
was shooting low, from beneath one of the trucks. It was as though the men had
been scythed.
Ryan strained at the cords gripping his wrists as Strasser began to run, and
then everything stopped dead as the murky darkness of the east burst apart with
a terrible fire, a vast wash of fierce eyeball-searing light, orange cored.
Sprays of scarlet jetted high into the sky, great tongues of flame that smeared
the dazzling illumination. The dull roar of the explosion, long drawn out, was
followed by a thudding reverberation and the distinct sound of rounds popping in
a frenzied and continuous stammering rattle. More explosions. More eruptions of
scarlet fire boiling up into the night. A kaleidoscope of colors as different
kinds of illue rounds rocketed high, spraying the sky green, red, white. The
noise went on and on.
Ryan back-heeled viciously at the guy behind him and his boot cracked bone. The
man’s cry was lost in the thunder of sound that crashed around their ears. There
was a lot of good shit aboard that train, Ryan thought. He felt within him
almost a kind of pride.
He raced for the war wag. Light from afar danced on its side.
The rain was heavier now, but Ryan knew it would have no effect whatsoever. The
land wags and the other vehicles in that rain would continue to self-destruct
until all that was left was glowing scrap metal.
He heard a shriek behind him, a howl of fury, and the crack of shots, three in
all, and he began dodging, weaving, as best he could, at the same time
desperately trying to keep himself upright. His arms were still wrenched behind
him and there seemed no damned give whatever to his wrist cords. Then his boot
caught in an animal hole and he was flying through the air, cursing. He rolled
as he landed, automatically, and cursed some more as his roll took him onto his
back, crushing his arms beneath him. He rolled on, hit the huge near side front
wheel of the war wag and struggled to his feet. A round thudded into the ground
next to him and he dived around the side of the big MCP.
The priority was getting into the war wag, and that could only be achieved by
canceling the boobies, and that in turn could only be achieved by accomplishing
a feat that was damned near impossible in his present state.
But not entirely.
He scrambled alongside the looming vehicle, now with mud splashing up into his
face. The heavy dabs of rain had been transformed into a smashing downpour of
water almost at the bat of an eye. Here, at the rear, were heavy caterpillar
tracks. At the front of these, under the chassis, was a covered switch. The
cutoff. Once thrown, the circuit that commanded the boobies was dead, and he
could climb aboard. But first he had to throw the blasted thing, had to ram his
shoulders against the side of the MCP and reach backward with twisted-up arms
and scrabble blindly for the unseen switch casing, pull it down with fingers
that were nearly dead, then grasp the switch, then push it over, then stagger to
the main door at the side, do likewise with the hidden lock underneath the war
wag’s body, then jump inside and slam the door closed, then…
Not entirely impossible—as long as he had about fifteen spare minutes, in
daylight, and no one trying to kill him.
He backed into the bulk of the war wag and bent over, bowing his back. His arms