J.B. blanked his mind. His grasp of weapons was so instinctive that he wanted to go with it, and trust his gut feeling.
Now.
He squeezed the trigger of the Uzi and started to spray the oncoming wag. There were sparks as bullets ricocheted, and the wag swerved as the driver tried to take evasive action. But he swerved too hard, and the front wheels hit a ridge of rock at the side of the road. The wag tilted and tipped, the near-side wheels turning on air.
Slugs from the Uzi sprayed the underneath of the wag, severing the fuel line and igniting the fuel. The gas flickered to flame, spreading to the tank and making it combust. The explosion was doubled in a fraction of a second by the plas-ex that the wag was carrying.
“Dark night!” the Armorer cursed, flattening himself in the hut to take cover from the force and heat of the blast as it swept over the structure.
He picked himself up as it subsided and looked out of the window at the blazing hulk of the wag.
So much for trying to take a mercie prisoner. Maybe someone else was having that kind of luck. J.B.? At least he was alive. There was nothing more important than that.
Chapter Twenty
Ryan and Krysty made their way to the well and derrick on foot, having tethered their mounts in their rostered positions. Both moved swiftly on foot, keeping a watch for each other as they approached the site. Krysty was sure that the saboteurs were at a safe distance as her hair flowed wild and free, not curling to her neck in the manner it adopted when there was danger present.
So it was that she knew instinctively that the approaching footsteps—light and almost inaudible on the still night air—were Ryan’s.
“So you got here, then, lover,” she said softly.
“Yeah, and with time to spare, I’d say. There’s no sign of anything going down yet.”
Krysty shook her head. “When they come, how the hell do we take one alive to nail Baron Silas?”
Ryan shrugged. “I don’t know. In the middle of a firefight it’s not going to be easy to just stop one of the coldhearts and say ‘Excuse me, would you mind coming with us.’ Guess we’ve just got to hope, and mebbe hope that one of the others can get us a mercie.”
“Not much of a hope, is it?” Krysty queried.
Ryan shook his head. “I reckon we might just have to battle our way out of this, like every other fireblasted situation.”
“At least we’re ready for it,” she replied.
Ryan pointed out the two areas of the wellhead where there were hiding places. One was the small blockhouse used to house the main valves and stopcocks for the wellhead pumps—where J.B. and Jak had previously encountered saboteurs—and the other was in the heart of the derrick itself, over the hole where the main shaft of the pump would fit when it was restored. A smaller, test borehole stood to one side of this, and the casing around it would provide cover for the one-eyed man to use in the event of a firefight…which was an inevitability.
The two companions took their positions and waited. They didn’t have long to wait before the distant roar of the wag engines became audible. As with all their companions, they were able to hear the change in pitch and harmony of the engines as they veered off toward their differing destinations, and were able to pick out the sound of one individual wag as it moved toward them.
From his position on the derrick, Ryan was unable to see the wag until it was upon them, but Krysty had been able to observe its approach, and identified it as yet another of the jeeps that the saboteur parties seemed to favor. She could tell that it had three occupants—a driver and two passengers, one of whom was holding what looked like a Heckler & Koch G-12 caseless rifle. Even in the darkness, Krysty was able to identify the shape because Ryan had once used such a blaster.
Krysty waited in the blockhouse, her Smith & Wesson .38 in hand. She was sheltered in the shadows cast around the doorway, but had enough of herself showing to be able to get a good view of the outside.