The prisoners yelled at him, rattling their chains, and trying to break free from the tractor to which they were tethered. Capelli raised a hand as he stood before them. “Listen up.”
The noise stopped and they stared at him. “I’ve got good news for you. As soon as I finish collecting the things I need, you’ll be freed. And since there’s a limit to how much I can carry, there will be plenty of stuff left for you. How you divide it, and what you do next, is up to you. So please take it easy and I’ll turn you loose shortly.”
The prisoners didn’t take it easy. Some of them shouted demands and others pleaded with him as Capelli took what he wanted from the wagon. Once Capelli was fully equipped, he retrieved the key from Master Jack’s vest pocket. It was slippery with blood.
Capelli shouldered his pack and checked to make sure that the Bullseye was full up before going over to turn the donkeys loose. They grew very quiet, their eyes following his every move, as the big padlock fell free and landed in the dirt.
Capelli was backing away by then—with the assault rifle raised. “I’ll leave it to you to find the key to those collars. Bam-Bam and Inkskin are on the highway. That’s where I would start if I were you.”
Because the prisoners were hooked to the master chain, and Capelli was armed, they couldn’t prevent him from leaving. Bar said, “Thanks,” but the rest were yelling insults as Capelli paused to confiscate Jack’s Bullseye before backing out through the door.
Once outside, Capelli paused to check his surroundings. Where was the mysterious sniper? And more important yet, where was Alfonso? Especially given all of the gunfire. That seemed to suggest that Alfonso was wounded or dead.
But Alfonso was a cagey bastard, and a crack shot, so he couldn’t take anything for granted. Capelli crossed the open area between the barn and the highway in a series of short dashes and flopped onto his belly after each sprint. But even as the prisoners exited the barn and shuffled his way, no one shot at him.
The scene on the highway was just as Capelli had left it, with two bodies sprawled on the concrete. As he eyed the field to the east, he felt a strange crawling sensation, and wondered if he was under surveillance. Was the sniper there? Watching him? Yes, that was a distinct possibility.
Capelli turned and saw that the donkeys were only a hundred feet away and closing fast. That was when he realized that he would have to collect Inkskin’s Bullseye or run the risk that one of the prisoners would use it against him. Having scooped the weapon up, he lugged all three assault weapons through the ditch and into the field beyond. Then, as soon as he thought it was safe to do so, he removed the magazines from two of the Bullseyes and left the weapons behind.
Capelli had seen the bullet take the top off Bam-Bam’s head, so he had a pretty good idea of where the shooter must have been hiding. He began to walk in that general direction, but he hadn’t traveled more than twenty feet when he ran into Alfonso’s body.
The circus performer was lying facedown, and judging from the messy exit wound, had been shot in the forehead. Capelli’s Marksman rifle lay in front of the body. After slinging the Bullseye over his shoulder, he bent to pick it up. Once he’d straightened, he saw that a woman was standing thirty feet away.
She was tall. Maybe five-eight or so. A gentle breeze ruffled her light brown hair. She had green eyes, a high forehead, and a spray of freckles across her nose. “You have blood on your face.”
Capelli reached up, felt the crusty stuff, and remembered the way the top of Bam-Bam’s head had flown off. “Yeah, I guess I do.”
“That’s a nice weapon.”
“Yes,” Capelli replied. “It was mine before it was his.”
“Now it’s yours once again.”
“Thanks to you.”
The woman smiled bleakly. “You’re welcome. You took care of the rest?”
“Yes.”
“And the prisoners?”
“They’re free by now. Why did you do it?”
The woman shrugged. “I saw the fight in Tank Town. My brother had a tattoo identical to yours. There were a whole lot of things we disagreed on. But he was a brave man. So I freed you for him.”
“Your brother was a member of SRPA? What was his name? Maybe I knew him.”
“Hale,” the woman answered. “My brother’s name was Nathan Hale. My name is Susan Farley. Mom and dad adopted Nathan after his parents died.”
Sardonic laughter flooded Capelli’s mind. Surprise! the voice said. My sister saved your life. How weird is that? Are you going to tell her?
“I knew him,” Capelli admitted. “More than that, I reported to him. And you’re correct. He was a very brave man.”
That’s all? the voice wanted to know. Come on, Capelli. Tell her what you did. Maybe she’ll shoot you. Lord knows you deserve it.
The light had started to fade. “Which way are you headed?” Capelli inquired. The words sounded awkward. Like those of a schoolboy hoping to escort a girl home.
Susan smiled. “Was that an invitation?”
“Yes,” Capelli answered honestly. “It was. But I won’t try anything. I promise.”
“I’ll shoot you if you do,” Susan replied. “But I’d like to hear about my brother. If you don’t mind talking about him, that is.”
The last thing Capelli wanted to do was talk about Hale. But he didn’t want to part company with Susan Farley, either. “No, I don’t mind. Are you ready to go?”
“I will be as soon as I get my pack,” Susan answered.
Rather than return to the highway, and a possible confrontation with the newly freed prisoners, the twosome stuck to the fields. Half an hour later they entered a rocky depression where an overhang offered protection from above and a ring of fire-blackened stones marked the site of a previous fire. “So, what do you think?” Susan inquired.
Capelli raised a hand. Had there been a noise? The sound of a twig snapping? The answer came in the form of a joyous bark, followed by a blur, as a large dog bowled Capelli over. “Don’t shoot!” he yelled, as Rowdy licked his face. “He’s friendly! Most of the time, anyway.”
“I’ve seen him before,” Susan said, as Capelli struggled to his feet. “He was roaming the area when I caught up with the circus. What kind of dog is he anyway?”
“I’m not entirely sure,” Capelli said, as he gave Rowdy a pat. “But there’s some Rhodesian ridgeback in him. Or so I’ve been told. It’s good to see him. I thought he was dead.”
It was nearly dark by then, so Susan produced a flashlight. The beam played over the campsite. “So as I was saying! Does this look okay to you?”
“It’s fine,” Capelli said. “Let’s perform a quick check to make sure there aren’t any pods in the area.”
Susan agreed, and thirty minutes later they had a fire going, and were cooking a communal meal. The warmth felt good. “So,” Capelli said, in hopes of delaying the Hale conversation for as long as possible. “How did you wind up in the audience watching a Steelhead beat the crap out of me?”
“The Steelhead wound up dead, as I recall it,” Susan observed dryly.
Capelli served the food, and as they began to eat, Susan told him about the attack on her parents’ home, the dangerous trip through stink-held territory, and how she had been recruited by Freedom First. An association that led to a failed assassination attempt, prison time, and forced labor in the Lucky Buckle Mine. “So I broke out,” she concluded, “traveled east, and wound up in Tank Town.”
Capelli sensed there was more to the story. A lot more. But he figured she would share the details when and if she felt like it. “You’re lucky to be alive,” he observed. “Although skill clearly had a lot to do with it.”