Just then the doors slammed open and the guards rushed into the throne room waving blasters. Taking cover behind the rows of chairs, J.B. mowed them down with the Thompson. The ancient blaster chattered a stream of .45 rounds at the startled men, tearing them apart.
As the last man fell, J.B. and Doc raced to close the doors and dropped a heavy locking bar into place, only moments before something heavy hit the doors from the other side.
Reinforcements are here! J.B. announced as he and Doc started piling benches, chairs and anything else they could find in front of the double doors as a barricade .
This will hold for awhile, Doc stated, busy hands already purging the spent chambers of his weapon. But I fear not for long.
Riffling the still living baron for spare ammo, he found several shells for the Webleys and reloaded the blasters. Roughly hauling the baron off the battered throne, Ryan fired a round right next to the man’s ear, the muzzle-flash washing over the appendage. Writhing in pain, Withers gurgled incomprehensibly, clutching the blistered flesh.
“Where’s your escape route?” Ryan demanded as the main doors thudded again across the auditorium. There was no response, so he shook the man hard. “Show me!”
Weakly, Withers pointed, still unable to properly breathe, much less talk with his ruined throat. Ruthlessly, Ryan dragged the dying man along to show the way. He didn’t like torture, but it was the baron’s life or their own. No contest. Desperately, Ryan wanted to ask about Krysty and the others, but since Withers couldn’t speak, there was no point.
A heavy red curtain covered the wall behind the throne, and hidden under a second tapestry was a small door made of old steel, pieces of metal bolted into place for additional armor.
“Found it!” Ryan announced when Withers got loose with a burst of strength and managed to pull a derringer from his shirt. The baron shoved the tiny blaster into the outlander’s face, just as Ryan triggered both Webleys at point-blank range. The double blast literally blew the man in two, his face a rictus of shock as the derringer harmlessly discharged toward the ceiling.
Shoving the warm body aside, J.B. rummaged in his munitions bag and got busy with his lock picks on the door, while Ryan stood guard, Dean and Doc dragging over the table and the throne for protection. Minutes ticked by and the main door remained quiet, which only meant that the pirates were trying something new.
“Got it,” J.B. said, and Ryan leveled the twin Webley blasters while the door opened.
The brick room beyond was small and dark, lacking even a window. Doc flicked a match into life on the wall and the tiny flame revealed an arsenal of Masters flintlocks, revolvers, longblasters, shotguns, pepperboxes and a dozen huge barrels of black powder. There were even a few cases of grens.
As they filled their pockets with ammo, Ryan paused for a moment at the sight of a bolt-action long-blaster, a Weatherby .460 Nitro Express. The bullets looked even bigger than the man-stoppers used by a Barrett 1A. He debated the matter for a precious moment, then grabbed the Weatherby and passed it to Dean.
“Try this,” his father suggested. “We’ll need the extra firepower.”
Without a word, Dean slid the longblaster over a shoulder and raided the boxes for the bulky ammo. The balance of the heavy Weatherby was odd, but the boy was sure he could handle the recoil.
“This must be the treasure trove of the pirates,” J.B. said, keeping a watch out the door. “Stuff they got off all the ships they raided and sank.”
“Take the grens,” Ryan directed, stuffing his pockets. “Then find a fuse. We’ll need a diversion to help us get out of here and find the others.”
“No prob,” J.B. said, leaving the door to rip the top off a wooden crate to reach the HE grens packed in soft straw.
“Old friend, I fear to offer the suggestion,” Doc rumbled hesitantly, accepting a few of the checkered globes. “But the others may already be across the River Styx. In the arms of Morpheus eternal, as they say.”