back in the Apps. The LAPA had excellent performance, and Ryan preferred it to
any of the longer autorifles that because of their length were more unwieldy in
an urban situation. He carried the LAPA in a looped rig inside his long coat and
could pull it fast.
On his right hip was a SIG-Sauer P-226 9 mm, the automatic he preferred even
over the ubiquitous Browning Hi-Power that J.B. in particular swore by. Both had
considerable punch over a long distance; both were immensely reliable. But in a
hot situation Ryan had once had a Hi-Power MK-2 jam on him. That had not been
the gun’s fault as such, but to Ryan—a mild believer in signals, psychic
hints—that was a distinct nudge in the ribs from whatever gods watched over him,
and he forswore the Browning and took up the SIG, which had proved to be an
eminently satisfactory man-, woman- and mutie-stopper right when it counted. It
also, usefully, loaded two extra rounds over the Hi-Power, although J.B. argued
that what you could do with fifteen slugs you could just as easily do with
thirteen. The logic of this was by no means impeccable, but Ryan knew what the
tense, wiry weapons master—a superb marksman—meant. Despite his criticism, Dix
had machined one or two extra features on to Ryan’s SIG, including a fully
adjustable sight.
On his left hip was the panga scabbard, the panga itself now holstered within
easy reach on the buggy’s door. From his belt hung four grenades—frag—and three
mag pouches for the SIG. Inside his long coat, two each side, were four sticks
for the LAPA.
Behind the drive seat was an Ithaca 37 pump S-shot with pistol grip and stock
and a Mossberg 12-gauge bullpup 8-shot with sights fore and aft and compacted
stock. Canvas panniers on both doors sagged with cartridges.
The buggy itself, like all the buggies run by the Trader, bristled with external
and internal weaponry: cannon at the front and a fixed mortar, and two M-60s,
one poking out from behind an armored shield at the front, and the other
rear-mounted through a roof blister with a wide traverse. Pierced steel
planking, double thickness, had been fixed to the buggy’s exterior.
In firepower at least Ryan felt reasonably safe, reasonably secure; that was the
most you could feel in a hostile situation. And this was most definitely a
hostile situation.
The fronts of most of the shops and bars here had been boarded over, glass
clearly being in short supply. Where doors were left open, light from kerosene
lamps and candles spilled out onto filthy sidewalks strewn with trash. Men stood
in the open doorways, staring out at them, faces bleak and cold, uncompromising.
He saw a couple of guys spit in their direction as the buggy edged its way
along.
There was both tension and hatred here that he could feel even through the
pierced steel planking. It was something palpable. He’d had no idea Mocsin had
reached such a state, such a grim pitch. He’d been under the impression, if he’d
thought about it at all, that Jordan Teague’s grip on the town was steel strong,
that any hint of opposition to his rule had been squashed flat over the years by
Strasser’s security force. Now, tooling along this garbage-and car-strewn
street, he was not so damned sure.
Hovak, the kid who manned the mortar but who was now squatting behind Hunaker’s
seat, gazing over her shoulder, said, “Why d’you say that, Hun?”
“Say what?”
“Running out of control.”
“Hell! All this crap on the road, on the sidewalks, dummy. Guy like Teague
oughta know by now, after twenty years or whatever, you don’t let all this shit
pile up like this. Asking for trouble. Perfect sniping positions. You wanna hold
a town, you have nice wide roads, nice clean thoroughfares so the opposition
can’t hide.”
She reached inside her jump jacket and took out a pack of ready rolled. She
offered one to Ryan who grunted and shook his head. She poked one in her mouth
and lit it, then pushed a hand through her bright green hair. She said, “Am I
right?”
Ryan said, “Yeah, as always.”