Prophecy. James Axler
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he really relax.
“We ain’t gonna catch ’em in time,” he murmured.
“We will,” Corden drawled. “Jase ain’t let no fucker get away yet.”
“Always a first time,” Thornton muttered. “Just not today, Jase, just not today.”
Corden’s smile broadened. “You got some more gambling debts to pay?”
“Win some, lose some.” Thornton shrugged.
“Lose some, lose some.” Chambers added. “This guy’s good. Knew this ’un would be hard.”
“Nothing beats Jase for pace,” Corden chuckled.
“Never has, never will,” the wag driver said softly.
RYAN COULDN’T SEE the ruts before he was on them. The land ahead looked smooth; that was why he had opted to leave the blacktop behind to try to outrun the wag on their tail. Outrun enough to circle and take the offensive. Except it wasn’t quite working out as he had hoped. It was all he could do to keep the wag from tipping. The scrub—dark browns with a glimmer of green and some purple and blue to echo the sky—went by them in a blur, both near and in the distance. Over to the horizon, depending on which way he spun the wheel to try to ride another rut, there were the low outlines of hills leading to a plateau. Good cover, but too far away.
They were exposed. Ryan couldn’t see behind him, but from the terse epithets dripping from the lips of his companions, he was in no uncertain mind that their pursuers were gaining, with little hope of effective fire to push them back.
Their wag was powerful, with a tuned engine that was only now beginning to whine at the strain he was putting on it; a solid body with roll bars; no windows—bar the windshield—to either obstruct firing out, or to injure with flying glass from incoming fire; no roof; not armored, but a good, thickly steeled body and a four-wheel drive system. So, it was a wag made for endurance and a driver who knew how to pilot the vehicle. Ryan had escaped from too many similar situations to be caught easily. By the same token, he also knew that his pursuer was a wag jockey who was far, far superior. More importantly, he knew the territory too well.
“Gaining,” J.B. said shortly. “Mebbe a few more minutes, then they’re on us.”
“Can’t get a decent shot at them,” Krysty gasped, her breath coming short after a swerve had flung her against the wag’s central column.
“I would venture that perhaps these coldhearts are so per…sistent because they know what we carry,” Doc stammered between jolts, his frame flung around the interior of the wag.
“That’s not rocket science,” Mildred breathed. “I’d just like to get my hands on the bastard who talked.”
IF ONLY SHE KNEW IT, Mildred Wyeth would have been too late to extract revenge on their betrayer. Tilson was chilled, his sightless eyes staring into the sky as his corpse lay behind the bar he had, until a few short hours before, tended, the bar where he kept his eyes and ears open for any information he could sell.
Ling and Smith had been the inadvertent source of his tale. The two sec men for Big Bal Hearne, baron of Brisbane, had been admiring of the people they had so recently worked alongside. Too admiring, and too mired in brew.
“Still don’t see why Bal didn’t trust us with the job,” Smith had muttered.
“Specialist job needs specialist worker,” Ling slurred. “Look at it like this. We know these people. Mebbe Bal figured we were too close to things, couldn’t see what was going on under our own noses.”
“Fuck off. We’re good sec. Best there is. Wouldn’t keep jobs otherwise.”
Ling shook his head so hard he nearly fell off his stool. “Shit,” he muttered, grabbing the bar for support and looking around before he said anything else. He beckoned Smith nearer. Neither of them noticed Tilson. No one did. That was the secret of being a good bartender. And the secret of learning secrets.
“Doesn’t matter what we are. Mebbe Bal was right. How would we know? Point is that he got to be the baron he is by being careful. Eyes in his ass. Eyes on everything. Suspects every fucker. Trusts none of ’em, either. That includes us.”
“So why does he trust them?” Smith asked, his brow furrowing as he tried to make sense of Ling’s words through the fog of alcohol.
“Reputation. Word spreads by trader. Traders live or get chilled by how they run their convoys. Coldheart cheating bastards don’t last long. These guys rode too many convoys. Simple.” He shrugged and nearly fell off his stool. Righting himself again, he added, “Besides, they got it right, didn’t they? I wouldn’t have thought Alex had it in him to sell us out like that. Too stupe, for a start. ’Cept we were the stupes not to see what he was doing.”
Smith sighed heavily. “Sure could have done with that jack as bonus.”
Ling barked a short laugh that turned to a cough. He hawked, then said, “That ain’t all. Good wag and supplies for the six of them, too.”
“Fuck’s sake, why they get that?” Smith questioned, his eyes wide.
Ling shrugged. “Dunno. Guess it’s ’cause they missed the convoy out of town. Figure Bal would want them to go rather than wait for the next one.” He grinned when he saw the puzzled look on Smith’s face. “Know too much. Know Bal’s weak spot. Know the whole story. We don’t. Would you want them still around, knowing what they do?”
Smith’s puzzled frown grew more intent. “That’s a fuckload of knowing,” he muttered.
One thing Tilson knew: neither man would remember what they knew come the morning. Neither would, in all likelihood, remember a word of what they had discussed this night. The pair had drunk far too much. Tilson knew them well: not as men, but as customers. He knew their limits, had added shine to their brew when he realized their tongues were loosening. Knowledge was power. That was what “knowing” really meant.
It was late. The bar was quiet now. Only a few solitary drinkers and the two sec men remained. Tilson cast an eye over the dingy interior. He could slip out for a few moments and not be missed. Big Bal Hearne made his people work hard, in return for which they had a reasonably secure life. There was little else in this territory. Few people stayed out late when they had backbreaking work come sunrise.
Tilson left the drinkers and made his way to a rooming house down the sidewalk. It was a pretty fair bet he wouldn’t be seen, but he still maintained a level of caution.
The main door to the rooming house was unlocked. The hall was dark, but he knew his way along it by feel. His boots greeted each sagging floorboard and splintered crack like an old friend. On the steps, he knew which ones were liable to creak, and which ones he could tread securely.
Second floor. Third door on the left. As he reached it, he could hear the low murmur of voice within. Softly, he tapped on the door. Two quick, pause, two slow. The door opened a crack, the face in shadow from the dim glow of the oil lamp within. But the high-pitched giggle was unmistakable.
DEMETRIOU GIGGLED again. “On ’em soon enough.”
Corden looked over his shoulder and into the rear of the four-by-four. Chambers was wide-eyed, intense concentration on his face. He was cradling a blaster in one arm, the hand of the other unconsciously stroking the barrel. Thornton looked almost asleep, heavy-lidded eyes masking his expression. A remade Glock and an old PPK .38 were lying loosely in his lap, his hands barely touching them.
Corden’s weathered skin creased as he looked from one to the other. ‘Get ready, boys. Showtime.’
Thornton sat forward, his eyes barely opening any farther. “’Bout time. I’ve got a hot date with some craps, and this is taking way too long.”
Chambers shook his head. “Man, you’re gonna lose that before it’s even dented your pocket. Might not get a payday like this for some