up.”
The others laughed, but not with conviction. The leader turned again to the
three prisoners. Their weapons were piled by his feet, and he pointed down at
them. “Good,” he said. “I wish a further supply, if you please. Or I shall be
forced to complain to your superior or manager or floor walker.”
It was one of the most bizarre episodes in Ryan Cawdor’s life—a life that was
well studded with bizarre experiences.
He considered whether to say that they had many powerful friends in the area.
But if he did that, the Russians might ambush the others, and they would all end
up being wiped out. He decided it was safer to pretend they were alone and take
the consequences of such admitted weakness.
“We have no more guns.”
There was a delay while Uchitel translated and digested that. “Nyet,” he said,
shaking his head. “Where are guns?”
“No,” replied Ryan, standing up, stretching his legs. Krysty and J.B. also rose.
All around them was a general movement of guns, muzzles edging in their
direction. Putting up any kind of fight would be utterly suicidal.
“Give gun. Not gun, I give—” he found what he wanted on a page headed At The
Hospital “—bad pain.”
“No guns. These are all we have. No more.”
Uchitel was becoming angry. Yet again, his careful plan was falling apart. These
Americans were either poor and stupid or wealthy and stupid. At least these
three had good clothes and guns, and the truck held all manner of treasures. He
beckoned for Pechal to come to him.
“I want—” he began.
But Sorrow interrupted him. “The girl, Uchitel. Let me do the girl! Her hair is
so—”
“Nyet. Not her. The man with the glasses. The others will watch.”
Ryan and the others watched the exchange, guessing from the expressions on the
men’s faces what was going down. The gray-clad Russian with the soft voice had
been licking his lips and staring at Krysty, rubbing his fingers together—long,
strong fingers with long, hooked nails.
“Bad news time,” said Ryan.
“Yeah,” agreed J.B.
“He tell us guns where.” Uchitel pointed at the Armorer and rattled off orders
to his men to bind him. In moments J.B.’s hands were tied tightly behind his
back, and he was brought to his knees and held there. Two dozen guns covered
Ryan and Krysty.
“Are they going to torture him?” asked the girl.
“Seems they want guns like these. Must have come over as a raidin’ party.”
“Take my glasses off for me, Ryan,” called J.B. “Don’t want these stupes to
break ’em. Had ’em for eight years. Don’t know how I’d get on without ’em.”
Watched by the Russians, Ryan did as J.B. asked, folding the glasses and putting
them in his top pocket. The beardless Pechal moved in close to the kneeling man,
looking down into his eyes. He touched J.B. on the side of the cheek with a
forefinger, and the little man winced despite himself.
“Tell guns,” said Uchitel.
“There aren’t any more fuckin’ guns you stupe bastard killer,” shouted Ryan.
Uchitel nodded to Pechal.
Ryan watched, his face set like stone; the girl looked away. Pechal began
gently, almost caressing the helpless J.B. He touched and pinched, twisting the
soft, tender skin behind the ears and along the inside of the upper thigh. His
nails dug into the Armorer’s lips, pulling them until blood filled J.B.’s mouth
and he spat it out in a fine spray over the Russian.
“Where guns?” asked Uchitel.
Ryan looked at him, his face showing none of the hatred and anger he felt. “I’ll
tell you this, you blood-eyed dog. You’re fuckin’ dead, friend. You’re walkin’
around, but you are dead as a spent bullet.”
“What?”
Ryan shook his head in disgust. Krysty shuffled closer to him. “What can we do?”
“Nothin’, lover. They got all the blasters. Man has the firepower, he gets to
call the game. We watch and wait. Any half chance, take it and get the fuck out.
Henn and the others must be comin’ close. Head for ’em. That’s all I can say.”
Uchitel stepped in and swung an open palm across Ryan’s face, knocking him on