snarl.
Images of her in the mutie-camp barn, smoke smudged, disheveled, her clothes
just rags on her, driven by a dynamism he admired in any woman or man; then,
having done what had to be done, utterly weary, almost defenseless. And then in
the war wag, by turns argumentative, amused, angry, sardonic, sorrowing: so many
emotions, so many different facets. A complex and fascinating woman. It had been
a case of instant attraction, he had to admit, although that was no big deal in
itself. So often it happened, and you took what was offered—if it was offered—
and a course was then run to a terminal point beyond which there was nothing
else, and that was that. But with Krysty there had been more, far more, even
though he had only known her for—what? A couple of hours? Not longer than that.
There had been a promise there, a promise of depths he could only guess at, of
aggression, submission, self-possession, great intelligence and a deep
sensuality that proclaimed itself quietly, with no unnecessary fanfare, in her
eyes. Her fathomless eyes.
Well, he thought angrily, the hell with that. The hell with it all. Forget it.
Put her out of your mind.
Hunaker whispered, “Here comes J.B., Mr. War Chief Buddy.”
Ryan noted grimly that Hunaker was still her usual bouncy, caustic self. She’d
said nothing about the massacre, nothing about the loss of one who was to all
intents and purposes close to her. But then they’d all lost comrades of one kind
or another, and this was not the first time a disaster had occurred, although
never on such a scale. Still, he thought, it boded ill for any of league’s and
Strasser’s goons who got in her way in this town. And that was fine by him.
He turned on the crouch, saw three figures threading through the gloom toward
them, coming around the side of the house.
J.B. eased close, the tall, blond Koll and Samantha the Panther in tow.
Ryan said, “We can either blitz in fast or do it quiet. If we do it quiet, at
some point we’re gonna hit opposition and we’re gonna kill. And although we’re
using suppressors, they’re not. There could be plenty of bang-bang, and even
those dummies in town’ll get to thinking there’s something up when that
happens.”
“I go for initially quiet,” said J.B.
“Same here. Once we have Teague, fuck it. Doesn’t matter. Make as much noise as
we like. The louder the better because I want Strasser up here and talking.”
Built on a knoll, the house was big, rambling. The man who’d owned it so many
years before must have been prosperous, a power in the town. In the windows,
lamplight could be seen through chinks in the closed shutters beyond the glass,
but there was no sound of revelry or celebration. Jordan Teague was having a
quiet evening at home. Probably among his loved ones, although that wouldn’t
include such mundane items as wife and kids. Word was, the Baron was barren.
J.B. said, “Outhouses at the rear and a lot of old garbage. There’s two side
doors but they ain’t been opened in a hundred years. Rear door opens, passageway
to it. There were two guys.” He didn’t bother to mention that the two guys who’d
been muttering to each other and smoking beside the rear door were now shapeless
bundles among the garbage.
“Main door’s not locked,” said Ryan. “You go in the back, head upstairs, check
that out and hold the upper story. We’ll go in the front, wait for you. Two
minutes. Any goons, kill ’em quick.”
“Women?”
Ryan shrugged.
“If they pull on you, sure. If not, disable ’em, tie ’em up, whatever. We’re not
animals.” He turned to the tall blonde. “Koll, you stay with me.”
Most of this, he knew, was unnecessary. All his combatants were highly trained,
knew how to act in a crisis or a battle situation. It was simply a matter of
working out the approach and after that they were on their own. He’d never yet,
in ten years, had one of his men ice another by accident in kill chaos.
He gave J.B. his two minutes, then turned to the porch. As he’d said, the door