But before Tre could respond, Fade burst in. She was disheveled and bleeding from a shoulder wound. “Voss is on his way! He has at least a hundred mercs with him, maybe more. We have no more than an hour to get ready.”
Tre felt a sudden emptiness in his gut as Crow stood. “Sound the alarm. We’ll meet them at the bridge. Somebody slap a bandage on Fade. She’s leaking.”
There was a plan. It had been in place for a long time. And the plan was to hold any invader down at the river, so every horse they had on hand was brought out, loaded with supplies, and taken down to what Patch referred to as the stump farm. That was where two machine guns and two mortars were set up in prepared positions. Veterans and new recruits alike took cover behind the stumps that lined the edge of the river.
Tre wanted to protect Lora, wanted to send her up to the mine, but knew she wouldn’t countenance that. So all he could do was give her plenty of ammo for the scope-mounted Winchester and hope for the best. He was carrying the M4 plus a hunting rifle on the theory that a long-range weapon could come in handy.
The bandits were still working on their defenses when the first shell came screaming in and exploded in the middle of the clearing. The dark shape of a stump could be seen through a mist of soil as it soared up into the air, paused there, and plummeted to the ground. “The bastards are using artillery,” a man named Fish said. “We’re dead.”
“Keep talking and you will be,” Hog said grimly. “I’ll shoot you myself.”
Crow shouted, “Dig in!” and the gang hurried to obey, some with their bare hands. Tre was fortunate enough to have a shovel and put it to good use knowing that another round could fall at any time. But it was a full four minutes before that occurred, suggesting that the attackers had only one gun. And that made sense, since hauling an artillery piece up into the mountains would be a difficult and time-consuming task.
But as the second round hit, it was closer to the area where Crow’s people were digging in. That could be a matter of luck—or it could mean that the enemy had a spotter. Tre was reminded of the “elk” he’d seen earlier. What if that had been a rider after all? A merc sent to find an observation point from which he could radio reports back to Voss’s gunners?
With that possibility in mind, Tre surrendered the shovel to Lora, brought the scoped rifle up to his shoulder, and began to look around. Where would he conceal himself if he was an observer? On the other side of the river. That was certain. And up high, where he would have a good view. There were trees, of course, many of which would serve. But if given a choice, Tre knew he would prefer a more substantial perch, a place where he wouldn’t have to worry about falling. And as scenery blurred through the scope, Tre saw something that made him swing back. It was a rocky prominence that was home to scrubby evergreens and high enough to overlook the stump farm.
Concerned lest the observer spot him, Tre took cover behind a stump, rested the rifle on top of it, and began an inch-by-inch examination of the target area. He saw nothing at first. But then, as Tre began a second sweep, he observed a momentary flash—as if sunlight had been reflected off a lens!
A shell screamed in from the north, struck the ground, and killed a mortar team. Tre bit his lower lip, glassed the spot he’d been looking at before, and waited. Then he saw it—a slight movement. The rifle seemed to fire itself. The sound echoed off nearby cliffs as a camo-clad body separated itself from the rocks and pitched headfirst into the river below.
A reedy cheer went up as the gang continued to dig in, but it wasn’t long before mercs appeared on the far side of the river and a desultory firefight began. It was as if the mercs had orders to engage but to stay where they were for the moment. The bridge was the obvious objective, so why wait? Another shell exploded, and that suggested an answer. If the mercs crossed the bridge, they could wind up victims of their own artillery fire.
Dirt was still falling when a group of riders appeared on the other side of the bridge. Someone fired at them, and Crow, who was peering through a pair of binoculars, ordered them to stop. “It’s Voss,” Lora said as she peered through her scope, “and Miss Silverton.”
“Miss who?” Tre wanted to know, but the question was preempted by a much-amplified voice.
“This is Luther Voss,” the man said as he raised the bullhorn to his lips. “I wish to speak with Anthony Silverton.”
Tre watched in amazement as Crow rose from his hiding place and stepped out onto the road. He didn’t have a bullhorn, but his voice carried well. “I’m Silverton.”
“I have your sister.” Their horses were side by side nearly touching.
Tre stood, made his way over to Crow’s side, and waited to see what would happen next.
“Cross the bridge,” Voss said, “and give yourself up. You will hang, but your sister will live, as will your followers. I can always use more slaves.”
“Don’t do it!” Sara Silverton shouted as she stood in her stirrups.
Crow was clearly torn. No matter what he did, other people would suffer. Then, as Crow opened his mouth to speak, Voss’s right hand came around. He was holding a pistol and it struck Sara’s forehead. Her body seemed to fall in slow motion. Crow shouted something incomprehensible, drew his pistols, and began to run. His intent was clear: to cross the bridge and kill Voss, regardless of the cost.
But Tre knew it wouldn’t work. The whole idea was to provoke Crow and to bring him into range. Bullets kicked up puffs of dust all around Crow as Tre shot him in the right leg. Tre shouted, “Blow the bridge!” and began to run.
Smoke had the remote. Would she obey? And if she did, would the charges go off? They’d been in place for a long time. There was no way to be certain as Tre grabbed one of Crow’s arms and began to tow him to safety. A woman named Dusty took hold of the other arm.
Both rescuers were thrown to the ground as a massive explosion tore the bridge apart. Splinters of wood whirred through the air like daggers, beams gave way, and wreckage splashed into the river.
The noise scared Odin, who reared up, brought both front feet down, and nearly threw Voss from the saddle. Maybe, if the horse hadn’t been moving, Voss would have noticed the arrow. Freak had fired it high, so that the shaft was little more than a speck at apogee but took on more substance as it fell. Voss felt the full force of impact as the hunting point sank deep into his flesh. Then, as the food lord wondered how such a thing could happen to him, he fell to the ground.
Tre was back on his feet by then. He looked at Freak with open admiration. “That was amazing.”
“He was a bad man,” Freak said, and walked away.
Tre was still in the process of absorbing that when Lora appeared next to him. “They’re pulling back,” she said. “You stopped them.”
“Freak stopped them,” Tre replied. “They’re mercenaries, and without Voss, there’s no reason to fight.”
Lora looked up at him, and just the sight of her was enough to make his heart ache. “I have to go north,” she said.
“Yes, I know,” he replied. His hand found hers, and together they stared across the river. A cold breeze tugged at her hair. Winter had arrived.
Coming soon…
ROGAN’S WORLD
by William C. Dietz
Chapter One
CONFIDENTIAL
Calag Inc. Board Eyes Only
…So by keeping sentient staff to an absolute minimum, and by making maximum use of robotic support systems, the company will minimize expense, maximize profits, and achieve an ROI of at least ten percent. With that in mind I think the board will agree that the negative psychodynamics described by PERSPSYCH STAFF will be more than off-set by Calag’s ability to build market share…