“And there’s the guard station,” Ryan said, sounding disgusted. “Some fool is smoking on duty.”
Without a comment, Krysty started to crawl that way, but he stopped her. “Wags first.”
Rising, they darted across the street, hitting the wall, and waited for a response. None came. But now they could faintly hear the strains of a badly played harmonica. Moving to the sandbags, they climbed over to find a dozen vehicles draped with window curtains and carpeting. Krysty stood guard while Ryan opened the gas cap of each vehicle and slid a thin block of C-4 into the gas tank, the tiny timing pencil sticking out of the top like the wick on a candle.
Crossing to the bank, Ryan stood guard while Krysty dug a small hole in the sand in front of the front door, placed a wrapped package gingerly inside, then smoothed the sand again. This process was repeated four times as they crossed the street.
Reaching the sidewalk, the companions straightened their jackets, boldly walked over and knocked on the door to the liquor store. Nothing happened, so Ryan knocked harder to be heard over the gusting winds. There hadn’t been any lightning for a while, and that was making the man anxious. If the storm died now, their attack would completely unravel. Without the masking effect of the dust clouds to hide them, this was a suicide mission.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m coming,” a male voice said, and the door swung aside, showing a sec man with a napkin around his throat and holding a can of spaghetti with a spoon sticking out. “What the fuck is it now, Sarge? Rotation ain’t for another hour.”
“Thanks for the info,” Ryan said coldly.
The SIG-Sauer coughed, and a hole appeared in the man’s forehead. The corpse tumbled off to the side, and they pushed their way into the store.
The wall shelves and refrigerated cases were empty, along with the racks and displays. Not a speck of food remained anywhere. Even the cash register was broken, apparently from a sledgehammer blow judging from the damage.
A fast recce revealed a back room with a couple of folding chairs, a table piled with supplies and a snoring man in an old Army cot against the far wall.
“Wake up,” Ryan said loudly, kicking the cot.
The sec man awakened and froze at the sight of the strangers. His hand darted for his belt and found the empty holster at his hip. His gaze flicked to the table, then back to the masked people standing with a wad of rags swaddling their right hands.
“Who the hell are you gleebs?” he asked, the ragged edge of sleep blurring his words slightly. “What’s with the bandages—you hurt? Burned?”
“Not important,” Krysty snapped.
“Talk to us about the baron, and you can live,” Ryan added.
“Whatcha gonna do, hit me with your bad hands? Fuck this,” he snarled rising off the bunk. “Hey, Sal! Sal!”
Ryan moved closer. “Sal is dead. Shot through the head.”
“With invisible blasters?” The sec man laughed.
“Our blasters are protected from the storm.”
“Yeah? Show me.”
A head shake. “Takes too long to wrap them.”
He smiled tolerantly. “Of course.” And with that, the man darted across the room toward a table covered with clothing and equipment.
“Stop or die,” Ryan warned, raising his shoe box.
The man shoved an arm into the pile, and as he started to withdraw something, both companions fired. The sec man buckled under the double assault and fell, sprawling to the floor.
“Never considered the possibility he wouldn’t believe us,” Ryan said, sounding annoyed. “Stupe.”
Spotting an Uzi on the table, Krysty checked it over to make sure it was a 9 mm, then slid the spare ammo clips in her bag for J.B. Ryan slid his panga into its sheath and took the Uzi itself.
“Well, we can’t uncover,” the woman said. “It would take forever to get the strips right again. Want to try and capture another one alive? Mebbe we’ll have better luck with the next guy.”
“Don’t believe in luck,” he said, awkwardly setting the Uzi for full-auto with one hand. “Besides, we can’t risk it. The baron or a sec boss has got to notice that something is odd soon, and then it’s show time.”