“Ah, you shot out another skylight,” J.B. stated, then he glanced about, “Where?”
Doc pointed. “There, a few blocks over. A most prudent expenditure of ammunition, I can assure you.”
“I agree,” J.B. said with a smile. “But do you honestly think the muties might be smart enough to recall that Dean fell through a skylight, and will check out the other instead?”
“Ryan often remarked that the Trader stated when you underestimate the enemy, what you really do is overestimate yourself.”
“Sure sounds like the Trader.” J.B. laughed, then paused and stared hard at the streets below. A dust cloud was coming their way. “Incoming.”
The two men moved to the corner of the roof and studied the approaching vehicle.
“The Hummer, I see,” Doc said, frowning. “And, pray tell, who is that riding with our young Mr. Lauren?”
J.B. scowled. “Beats me. Let’s go and find out.”
“STOP HERE,” Wu-Lang snapped, his blaster pressed hard into Jak’s side. The Cajun didn’t reply, but brought the Hummer to a stop a few stores down the street from the pawnshop.
“Hello!” a voice called out from the roof.
Trying to hide the blaster, Wu-Lang craned his neck, glancing around. Nobody was visible.
“Hello down there,” the voice said again. A man wearing glasses and a hat appeared over the edge of a roof, waving in greeting. “Jak, I see you have company!”
“Answer him,” Wu-Lang ordered, putting on a friendly smile.
“So can kill friend?” Jak asked, hands motionless on the steering wheel. “Fuck you twice.”
Viciously, Wu-Lang dug the barrel of his S&W .357 deeper into the teenager’s ribs. He expected a whimper of pain, but got only a soft grunt.
“Just do as I tell ya, Snowball, and both you and your buddy will live to see another day. All I want is more fuel and some food so I leave this stinking ville,” he snapped. “Get me the stuff and I’m gone.”
“We live?”
“Of course. You’re still breathing, ain’t you?”
Jak glared at the man out of the corner of an eye. “Need me get fuel.”
“Hey, something wrong?” the man from the roof called out.
“Wave and tell him to come on down,” Wu-Lang demanded, twisting the barrel of the gun. Jak grunted again, a reddish stain on his vest slowly spreading out from the spot.
Beaming happily, Wu-Lang clicked back the hammer. “Do it or die. I have nothing to lose.”
“No problems!” Jak called out, snapping off a friendly salute. “Come down, Bruce. Want meet old buddy from bayou!”
“The bayou, eh?” J.B. smiled, doffing his hat and waving it twice. “Great! Is this your cousin Charlie?”
“Brian.”
The man cupped an ear. “Eh? What was that?”
“Brian. His name is Brian.”
The conversation was taking an odd turn, and Wu-Lang was starting to get suspicious. He debated chilling the albino and driving off immediately when a bizarre noise sounded, sort of like a zipper unfastening, only much faster and louder.
Instantly, the windshield of the Hummer shattered into a million pieces and white-hot pain stabbed Wu-Lang as a flurry of 4.7 nun rounds ripped into his chest. Jak dived from the Hummer just as the coldheart fired his blaster, blowing a hole in the canvas door. Another flurry hit, and Wu-Lang jerked about madly, his chest spouting crimson like a punctured water balloon. The dying man worked his mouth a few times, trying to speak, blood flowing freely over his lips, and he slumped over and hit his head on the dashboard.
Sporting the HK G-12, Doc stepped from the doorway of the federal building. “How are you doing, Jak?” Doc called out, staying in the cover of the partially open doorway.
“Name’s Alvin!” the Cajun answered, dusting himself off. Doc relaxed and waved at the roof. J.B. returned the gesture and disappeared from view. By the time he reached the street, Jak and Doc were already hauling the corpse into the back of the Hummer.
“Good idea hiding the body,” J.B. said. “The smell of blood will attract animals for miles.”
As the hijacker slumped limply into the cargo area, Doc prodded the corpse with his ebony cane. “And pray tell, who was our uninvited visitor?”