The flames from the burning building to the north of the ville gave enough light for Ryan to see that all three of his rounds had hit the man.
The first one, aimed as the stopper, caught him in the chest, high on the right side. The second one clipped Ferryman’s right shoulder, his instinctive dive for cover nearly throwing Ryan’s aim. But he instantly adjusted, and the final .357 round smashed into the falling man’s face.
Ryan heard the beginnings of a scream, saw the Star .45 spin for a moment in the air, then hit the left-hand wall, yards away from where the sec-boss had gone down. Ryan didn’t rush in, knowing that someone like Ferryman could easily have a hideaway somewhere on hima small, concealed pistol, maybe a .22.
But his experience also told him that nobody could fake the sort of noises that were coming from the thrashing figure on the heap of rubbish. Three magnum rounds slowed a man down.
Ferryman was yelling, crying and choking. Ryan could hear cans tumbling and rattling, as well as bottles splintering. The sec-boss held both hands to his face, as if he were trying to hold it together. Ryan couldn’t see clearly what damage that third bullet had done. He rose cautiously and took a couple of steps toward the stricken man, the Ruger preceding him, covering Ferryman.
The fire outside was dying down, and he noticed that the shooting had become even more sporadic. There was still enough light coming through the shattered windows, though, for him to see his victim.
The sec-boss was locked tight into his own nightmare world of pain and horror. He rocked from side to side like a child with a toothache, kicking out his legs in front of him, stiff, as though he were having a fit.
Through the clasped fingers, Ryan was able to see enough to appreciate the rending damage the last round had caused. From the blood on the man’s chest, it was probable that the first bullet would be the one that eventually killed him.
But it was the last round that had destroyed him.
From what Ryan could make out, by the hellish glow of the burning ville, the bullet had hit the sec-boss as he was diving for cover. It had struck him on the left side, where the jaw articulates, below the cheek. Its progress then became random, but it had almost certainly smashed the joint, dislocated the jaw, angling sideways, and took out most of the upper teeth on that side. The splinters of bone would have shredded the tongue. The bullet, tumbling and distorted, must have gone spinning upward, ripping through the soft palate. Ferryman’s left eye was missing from its bloodied socket, which meant the round had exited there, smashing the cheekbone again on its way out.
The frantic scrabbling and kicking was slowing down as the sec-boss became sucked into the mystery of his own ending.
Short of putting him out of the final misery, there was nothing Ryan could donothing that he wanted to do. The coup de grace bullet remained unfired beneath the hammer of the Blackhawk.
The entire ville was now covered in a smothering shroud of gas smoke, several fires blazing uncontrollably. The shooting had stopped, and some of the crew of War Wags One and Two were going around checking for anyone hiding from the Trader’s righteous vengance. Bodies were being dragged into piles, and the wounded were being treated.
The Trader was standing in the center of the plaza, with J.B. and a few of the senior crew members. Standing in front of him, arms folded, was Baron Alias Carson.
Ryan walked toward the group, knowing that the drama was nearly played out.
Chapter Thirty-Six
“FERRYMAN?”
Ryan flicked his right thumb downward in the universal gesture for someone chilled.
“He say anything about the fires?”
“No.” He looked at Carson. “How about the baron? He start them?”
The Trader shook his head. “He’s saying plenty of nothing.”
The baron spoke in his slow, sardonic drawl. “Only thing I’m interested in right now is whether any of you terminal fools have a supply of an immortality drug. If not, then I guess I don’t have too much to say.”