Desolation Crossing (16 page)

“Hell of a firefight,” Ryan said shortly, every word seemingly an effort to overcome fatigue, “but it’s been quiet since. Why didn’t he stop?”

“Fool wanted to do this run nonstop, and when he said that he meant it,” Mildred stated. “Makes you kind of wonder if he lost his other sec men in exactly the way he tells it.”

“I would venture that nothing that issues from Armand LaGuerre’s lips should be taken as entirely truthful,” Doc muttered darkly. “If one was of a suspicious nature, it would be worth inquiring to one’s self what those sealed containers really held.”

“And what, mebbe, he’s really going to be doing when we get to our destination,” Krysty added.

THE ARMORER HAD BEEN on the point of leaving the armored wag and heading back to check on Ryan and Jak when he had heard Doc’s voice come through the comm receiver. He turned, half his attention on the trader and half on wondering if there was a way he could chill the receiver before someone said something that would cause a problem. He’d had every intention of sharing his concerns with his friends, but only when he’d made sure that the comm mics were removed from both Jak and Ryan. The tech was so small that it was easy to forget it was there, especially as the noise of the convoy had rendered it useless for so long.

What he heard next just proved that he was too late. If Ryan and Jak had been alert enough to realize that their mics were still live, then Mildred and Krysty had just simply forgotten about them.

The words were damning. J.B. stood in the middle of the wag, watching the impassive faces of both LaGuerre and Eula.

“Good to know what your people think of me,” LaGuerre said over the relayed conversation, his tone amused. “Of course, they’re only agreeing with what you think, right? And they’ve got a point. I work my people hard, and then we play hard. That’s how we get ahead and stay there. If your people don’t want to take those risks, then you know what the hell you can do. But I’d say neither of us has a choice.”

J.B. listened, but as he did so his attention was focused on the woman. LaGuerre was a coldheart, but he was also
obvious. He had no real guile. Eula was different. She was the one who J.B.—that all of them—had real cause to watch. She had guile in plenty, and the masked motivation to drive it.

“Go and talk to them, tell them what the hell you want,” LaGuerre continued. “Man, what you gonna do? Stay out in the middle of this pesthole with no transport? Or carry on with me and hope for the best?”

He was right. Their options were less than zero.

J.B. turned and left the wag, feeling Eula’s eyes burning into him, making his way to the rear of the convoy. The cabs of the two large containers were empty, their drivers making the most of the opportunity to stretch their legs and piss in peace. The same was true of the crews of the other two wags, taking advantage of downtime that would be brief but welcomed for its unexpected appearance.

His approach had an urgency that made the others look up. Maybe—just maybe—it would stop anyone else from saying something they would regret. As he drew near, J.B. tapped his cheek. He was greeted by puzzled expressions until Jak reached up to his own face, touching the mic and cursing softly as he realized they had been overheard.

“Stow the bikes on the rear wag,” J.B. said loudly, indicating that the mics should be removed and stored in the bikes’ saddlebags. There was a silence that fell over them until this was done. And then, stepping away, Ryan said softly, “How much?”

“Everything. Clear as if you were standing in the wag with us.”

“Shit.” Mildred spit. “How—”

“Do not berate yourself, or any of us,” Doc said calmly,
“for what is done is done. The question is, what was our trader friend’s reaction?”

J.B. shook his head. “Bastard wasn’t at all surprised. But that’s okay. He’s not the dangerous one. He wasn’t going to stop, but he’s just a coldheart, and one that’s easy to read. It’s the woman that’s really dangerous. She wants me chilled, I’m sure of it. But in her own time.”

“Why?” Mildred asked simply.

“If I knew that, I’d have a better idea of how to handle her,” J.B. said thoughtfully. “It’s not just her and me, though. She’s got something on LaGuerre. Scum like that doesn’t just trust a person like he does her, not unless there’s something in it for them. Mebbe if I could find some way of getting her to open up about where and how she knows me…”

“Listen up,” Ryan interjected hurriedly. He had seen Eula approaching from the front of the convoy, and knew there was little time. “Be triple careful, J.B. Rest of us be the same. We know what LaGuerre’s capable of, but she’s an unknown quantity. Got to be prepared for all possibilities.”

J.B. had turned as soon as Ryan interrupted him. The one-eyed man would only do that for a reason, and it was obvious as soon as she caught his eye. He had stepped toward her, partly to block her, and spoke loudly over Ryan’s last words.

“What’s the hurry? Afraid we’re saying nasty things that might hurt your feelings?” he almost yelled.

“Nothing you could say could hurt me, John Barrymore. Not anymore. But we’ve got to get moving, so get the riders into the wag, get everyone else back at their
posts, and let’s get moving. I don’t want us getting caught because you people want to conspire among yourselves.”

She turned and ran back to the armored wag, leaving J.B. to puzzle over her first words.

What had hurt her so badly? And what did it have to do with him?

Chapter Ten

The Past

His head hurt. Badly.

As J.B. opened his eyes—as slowly and carefully as was possible—the slightest hint of light made him want to close them again. The light was like needles in his eyes. Bastard stupe phrase—how did you know what needles in the eyes were like unless some coldheart had plunged them in? In which case, the light wouldn’t mean anything to you anymore.

Wandering—his mind was wandering, and he needed to concentrate, so he could at least remember where the hell he was.

Well, he could remember where he had been, if nothing else. The woman who had been haunting him for the past few days, the gaudy slut…No, wait, she wasn’t that. He could remember her saying something about a husband who never paid her any attention. Shit, some crazie with a blaster coming after him because his wife had been bedded by another man was all J.B. needed. Hell, he was confident he could best anyone in Hollowstar in a one-on one showdown. The trouble was, it wouldn’t stop there.
Trader would get involved, that fat bastard Baron Emmerton would stick his flabby paws in, and it could turn into a real situation.

Wait, Dix, he cautioned himself, don’t get too carried away with the possibilities yet. Try and piece together what actually happened.

It came back to him, hazy at first, but starting to make sense as he was able to put pieces together. She’d asked them if they would buy her a drink.

Them?

Shit, he was supposed to be babysitting Hunn, seeing that she didn’t get out of hand. Trader would have his ass for that.

It had been early, the bar hadn’t been full. He could feel Hunn itching to get at the woman as she had come over. Hunn offering her whatever she wanted in a voice that made it clear she wasn’t talking about brew. Hunn making no effort to show her displeasure when she was lightly rebuffed and the woman had introduced herself to J.B.

“Sorry, sugar, but when I was asking for a drink I was kinda looking at the one with the dick. I’m just not that kind of a girl. But, hey, I can’t just call you the one with the dick, can I? So what does everyone else call you?”

J.B. smiled—the effort making his face hurt—as he remembered Hunn shaping some smart-ass answer before his eye caught hers.

So the Armorer had introduced himself, feeling less at ease than at any time he could remember for a long way back. That was one of the reasons he’d drunk so much. Why, when he’d faced more situations of danger than he could think of, should talking to a beautiful woman have caused him so much anxiety?

Because she was beautiful. Because she liked him. And maybe because he was aware of Hunn simmering in the background, getting more and more drunk, more and more bellicose with each round that slipped down her throat.

Her name was Laurel, and she had a voice like molasses—dark, low, slow and smoky with a sweetness laying over it all. Hell, that was about as poetic as J. B. Dix ever got, and even if it wasn’t that great, she’d seemed impressed when he told it to her.

She asked him what he did, and why she’d only just noticed him. He told her, and had noticed her face change when he explained that he was Trader’s armorer. He asked her what the matter was, and she replied only that it meant he wouldn’t be sticking around. He hadn’t known what to say to that, and she laughed in that low, smoky voice, saying that quiet men were a weakness of hers.

They talked about where he’d come from, and what he’d seen. He told her things that he hadn’t even told Trader. Why, he couldn’t say. Even in his inebriated state, he’d never felt the urge to unload his past onto anyone else.

She listened. Hell, she’d even been interested—or so it seemed. And yet, when he asked her about herself, she’d been less forthcoming. All she would say was that she was married to a man in the ville who had jack, but who neglected her. He was so absorbed in his work, and the little world he’d built around it, that he didn’t even notice whether or not she was there. J.B. had asked her who would be that stupe, but she hadn’t answered. She had remained silent, staring into his eyes, stirring up feelings within him that he wasn’t sure he had ever felt before.

Then she had leaned into him, and they had kissed. He could taste the alcohol on her breath, and the urgency. He knew that she wanted him like he wanted her.

Oh, yeah, and then Hunn had started a fight. All the while he and Laurel had been talking, Hunn had been drinking, and the bar had been filling up as the night drew on. At the edges of his attention, he had been aware that Hunn had been arguing with some big guy with a port wine birthmark on his face about who was the better hunter, who was the better shooter.

He had a loud, bragging voice, and had told her that women were shit at everything except cooking and fucking. Hunn had asked him how the hell he knew, as he was too ugly to get a woman cook for him, let alone fuck him. His answer was to pull out his cock and slap it on the bar, saying she’d soon change her mind if she tasted his meat. Her answer, unsurprisingly, had been to unsheathe her knife and nearly circumcise the fool.

J.B. had seen all this on the periphery of his attention and had ignored it. Hunn always picked a fight, when she was roaring drunk, and it was exactly why Trader had sent him out to babysit her. His job was to head this kind of shit off at the pass, not to be distracted by women and let Hunn practice amateur surgery.

He remembered pushing past Laurel, putting her behind him and telling her to take cover or get the hell out, before trying to get between Hunn and the big guy, who had just pulled his dick out of the way in time, and was reaching for his blaster—with his dick still dangling—while Hunn was trying to pry her knife from the bar surface, where it had
stuck when she had rammed it down. A stinging, ringing blow to the side of the head was all he got for his pains.

And then it had broken loose. The blaster had gone off into the ceiling, plunging the bar into semidarkness as some of the lamps were knocked over in the rush to escape the shot. The bar was too well contained for anyone—apart from the enraged victim of Hunn’s anger—to risk letting off a blaster, it had become a battle of knives, blunt objects, fists and boots. J.B. was already too drunk to keep track of what was happening, but he did remember getting hit on the head.

So that was why he hurt so much—not just the brew. Scant consolation, but at least Trader would see that he went down trying to stop the fight.

He risked opening his eyes again and rolled over on the bunk. Hunn was beside him, covered in blood splatters that were not her own, snoring softly.

And there he had been, expecting to roll over and see Laurel. Maybe that was just as well, in the circumstances. J.B. risked pulling himself upright and was surprised, as his eyes focused properly and the room ceased to spin, to see Abe standing on the other side of rusty bars, watching him. A faint smile creased the rangy man’s face.

“Lucky for you that Emmerton prefers his men to take prisoners. Lot of villes would have seen you and Hunn buying the farm for this.”

“Mebbe the farm would be better than how my head feels right now,” J.B. countered.

“Don’t think that kinda shit will work with Trader.” Abe grinned. “Wake that stupe bitch up, and let’s get out of here before Emmerton changes his mind.”

“Eh?” J.B. rubbed his aching head with one hand and
prodded Hunn with the other. She mumbled and moaned, but refused to awaken.

“Works like this,” Abe explained. “Hollowstar is pretty small, and they’re rich compared to a lot of villes because they make the most of what they’ve got, which means everything is stretched as far as it’ll go. Emmerton starts chilling people for bar fights, like most places, he ain’t gonna have much of a workforce before too long. And that’d fuck everything up. So if they step outta line, they get punished by a few days in here, stuff taken, working without jack for a while…anything to make their life harder, make them think before they do it again. Called ‘restitution’ or something. Ask Trader. He explained it to me once.”

“I figure he may have a few other things to say to me,” J.B. murmured, attempting once more to awaken Hunn.

Abe chuckled. “Yeah, you might be right at that.”

Hunn had moaned like hell when he had managed to get her awake, partly because she felt like shit, partly because she knew what Trader would say when they got out of jail. But she had to face it sooner or later, and once it was done it was done.

J.B. wasn’t as resigned. He knew he’d let Trader down, and as a man who prided himself on holding on to some honor in this pesthole of a world, he felt that he’d let himself down, too. The confrontation with Trader wasn’t something he was looking forward to with any kind of relish.

Yet there were some consolations. The memory of how Laurel tasted when he kissed her. And, more importantly, the fact that when he left the jail building with Hunn and Abe, and made his way across the town square, he could see her. Everyone else was too wrapped up in their every
day business to notice. Anyway, why should they care? Abe didn’t know who she was. And Hunn was too concerned with her aching head and the thought of having Trader rip into her.

But J.B. noticed her, standing on the sidewalk on the opposite side of the square, near the old storefront next to Luke’s. She was leaning against a stanchion, and when she caught his eye she blew him a kiss and mouthed “thank you.” For saving her from harm last night, he assumed. She had to have been waiting—for how long?

After that, anything Trader had to say to him wouldn’t matter.

PUNISHMENT WAS NOTHING more than a few harsh words and some detail cleaning out the wag latrines. Hunn had it worse—stripped of jack and her shares on this trip. She accepted it, and she accepted that J.B.’s punishment should be the lesser.

“Trader should have known putting a lightweight like you in to cover my ass was a mistake, John Barrymore,” she said with a grin as they stripped and cleaned yet another cesspool wag latrine.

“If you weren’t such a stupe, it wouldn’t matter,” he replied.

She looked up and away from the encrusted receptacle, glad to get some fresher air into her lungs. “All the same, you want to watch that bitch.”

“Why, because she prefers me to you?” J.B. questioned, with good humor.

Hunn shook her head. “Because you like her a lot. I see it all over your face, even though you’re in the middle of
shit and piss. But soon we’ll move on, and she’ll still be here. Don’t want the iron man of the convoy distracted at the wrong moment. It could chill us all. Anyways, she’ll still be here. She’s always been here. That means she’s got people here, and people that could be trouble if they don’t like you messing with her.”

J.B. paused in his task. “I’ve thought of that, don’t you worry,” he said softly.

And he had. There wasn’t much else that had occupied his mind since he left the jail and had seen her waiting for him. Not that it was going to make a blind bit of difference. The Armorer was stubborn and single-minded when he fixed on an idea.

And he was fixed.

“I DON’T KNOW how much longer we’re going to be here,” J.B. said.

“Hon, it could be an hour, it could be a week. Emmerton’s an asshole when it comes to getting the jack rolling in. Shit, he never pays my old man when he should, always has to chase it. That don’t improve his temper none.”

She rolled over to face him, propping herself up on one elbow, squinting against the ray of light that penetrated the thin drape over the window. Her hair tumbled over one eye, the other screwed up, the better to see him. She had a thin sheet over her, and he could see the line of her breast beneath it. Her arm moved beneath the sheet, her hand reaching for him and squeezing.

“Mmm, you recover quick,” she said with a raise of the eyebrow. “Bet you’re real popular up and down the trade route.”

J.B. laughed. “You’d never believe me.”

“Try me.”

“I don’t usually do this. Mebbe a gaudy house now and again, but never like this. Never getting distracted from work. Keeping Trader’s armory in condition, building it for him, checking ordnance for trade…keeps me busy.”

“Why?”

“Because there’s a lot to be done.”

“No, I mean why work so hard for him?”

J.B. didn’t really have to consider his answer. “I owe Trader a lot. He took me out of nowhere, gave me something to live for. It’s a hard world to live in, and being with Trader makes it a whole lot easier. ’Sides, I like my work. Always been fascinated by blasters and explosives. Ordnance makes the world tick. Not much survived skydark, but those little beauties did. Machinery, engineering…intricate pieces that could survive anything. Got to admire work like that. And then there’s what they mean. Ordnance is power. It means you can get it, then keep it. Man with the best armory is the most secure, can run the best convoy, the best ville.”

It was as close to a philosophy as J.B. had ever gotten, and from the look on her face he could see that it had an impact on her.

“Haven’t heard you talk that much before now,” she said, shaking her head.

“Been too busy to talk much,” he countered.

“Yeah, that’s true,” she answered with a grin. Then her face dropped into a more serious expression. “I know why it is I like you. Why I want you.”