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trapped outside with those damn dogs, the Bradley unreachable and now the keep
was obliterated.
"Back to my suites in the east wing," Overton ordered, turning and striding
away.
"We must smash the radio and kill the pigeons."
"We've lost?"
A fluttering piece of flaming table crashed into the street in front of them,
and the blue shirts were forced to detour around the crackling obstruction.
"Lost? Corporal, you're a jackass," Overton stormed. "We're simply retreating
to regroup. And when we return, no more of this diplomacy shit. Everybody
dies!
End of discussion."
STANDING BEHIND the columns at the front of the fortress, Dean grabbed Jak and
pulled him into the building and behind a giant tapestry. Holding their
weapons tight, the youths listened to a parade of boots going into the main
hall and out of range.
"Who?" Jak demanded softly, peeking out from behind the heavy velvet tapestry.
There was nobody in sight.
"Overton and some troops," Dean answered excitedly. "Should we go after them?
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We have the element of surprise."
"How many?" Jak demanded.
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"Twelve, mebbe fifteen. But it could be more. I didn't get a good count.
"Too many." The albino teenager gave the boy a shove. "Get Ryan. Move!"
Pausing only a moment, Dean took off at a spirited run. When his friend was
safely outside, Jak went up the stairs to the second floor and proceeded along
the servants' hallway, switching the selector switch on his Kalashnikov from
single shot to full-auto.
Reaching the balcony, he peeked over the ornate railing and saw Overton
crossing the dining room surrounded by a gang of his blue shirts. Jak leveled
the blaster, but the chandeliers blocked a clear shot. Dashing down the
hallway to another balcony, he stepped boldly into view only to find the enemy
gone.
Cursing, Jak debated going after them or staying there for an ambush. It took
only a moment to decide, then he lurched into action.
A WHIFF OF FRESH AIR bringing a moment of relief to her aching lungs, Krysty
lifted her throbbing head from the rough floor. A yellow cloud floated in the
garage, hovering a few feet off the floor like mist above a lake. Vaguely, she
realized the breeze from the broken door was keeping the gas at bay. There
were a hundred holes in the wood paneling, almost as if a firing squad had
been using it for target practice. Had to be shrapnel damage from the C-4
explosion.
Looking for Orin, she spied the man sprawled on the floor, his clothes darkly
stained. Crawling closer, Krysty checked for a pulse, but there was no
question he was dead. The wounds appeared to be from bullets, not shrapnel.
Whispering a quick prayer to Gaia for the brave sec man, Krysty searched
wildly for the pulley rope used to open the garage door. She found it on the
wall directly above the sergeant. In pure bad luck, Orin had stood to get the
door open so they could escape and been shot for his struggles.
Unfortunately, the breeze from the riddled wood was forcing the yellow cloud
to hover in place above the man, with the rope dangling tantalizingly just out
of reach. Knowing there was no other way out, the bruised woman took a deep
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breath, closed her eyes tightly and leaped for the pulley. She made the catch,
fingers wrapping tightly around the old rope, but the garage door only moved
an inch, then stopped, the wheels in the guiding tracks caught on the loose
splinters from the damaged paneling.
Tugging feebly, Krysty hung suspended from the rope, the gas painfully searing
into her exposed skin and hair.
WEAPONS AT THE READY, Nathan and Ryan walked through the streets of
Front Royal with the sec men fanned out in a patently offensive formation.
Finally, the troops were on the hunt
After the destruction of the keep, the ville sec men rallied and invaded the
lower levels, executing the stunned blues without mercy. Now the victorious
troops were doing a fast recce of the main streets, shooting every blue shirt
they found.
Some fought back bravely, some hid or ran away, but it made no difference. If
the blues outdistanced the blasters of the brown shirts, then Ryan chilled
them with a 7.62 mm round from the Steyr SSG-70. Inside the walls of the
ville, if
Ryan could see it, then the target was in range, and not one blue escaped.
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However, a few suspicious men were encountered not wearing any shirts, one
stark naked, and the cowards were taken into custody for later judgment.
"Hey, J.B.," Nathan said, studying the rooftops for snipers as they walked on
patrol, "any chance you'd stay and work for me? I need a new sec chief."
"Don't like staying any one place too long," the Armorer replied, his Uzi
balanced in both hands. His munitions bag was stuffed with the Veri pistol and
the last three rounds.
"Besides," he added, "Ryan can't stay here, and where one of us goes, so does
the other."
"We're a team," Ryan stated in unaccustomed frankness.
Adjusting his glasses, J.B. grinned. "Sure are, Chief."
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A blue shirt popped into view from behind a water trough and was cut down by a
volley from the browns.
"Well, at least design me a new keep," Nathan said, shaking the bolt of the
Kalashnikov to work loose a jammed round. The ammo was good, but it seemed the
blues had never cleaned their weapons, and constant maintenance was the daily
price you paid to have a working blaster.
"Use smaller windows," Ryan said gruffly.
"And store the dynamite in metal boxes," J.B. added. "Glass cases let you know
how much of the stuff is left to use, and that's good, but much too
vulnerable."
"So I noticed," the baron replied. "And that's it for the next keep, smaller
windows and metal boxes."
"Yep."
"Fair enough. Thanks."
There was a sudden motion in an alleyway, and the men fired their weapons into
the shadows. A bleeding blue shirt stumbled into view, and some of the browns
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