Outlanders 18 sargasso p.., p.1
Outlanders 18 Sargasso Plunder, page 1
Chapter 1
"Reminds you of the old days, doesn't it?" Kane remarked. "Busting down doors, busting heads. Hoping we didn't get busted up ourselves."
Kane studied the gaudy house built into the side of the red stone wall in front of them. It was more of a fort, actually. Whoever had first designed the building had buried three-quarters of it inside the cliff, and it was at least two stories high, judging from the front it presented. The construction crew had even taken time to cover the facade with tightly fit cut stone blocks.
Bullet scars pocked the stone, most of them old but a few of them recent. The right corner showed cracks, indicating a grenade or some other type of explosive had been used against it at one time. Two iron-bar-covered windows occupied the wall on either side of the metal entrance door.
Kane knew the windows were intended more as gun ports than for letting light into the building. A crooked sign stood on the arched roof on stilted wooden legs, proof against the heavy snows that sometimes came in the vestiges of the nuclear winter. Tyson's Y'all Cum Bakk Saloone stood out in dust-covered purple letters two feet tall.
More than two dozen wags sat in front of the gaudy house, clustered in groups. Hard-eyed men and a few women burned dark by the desert sun and dressed in leather and patched clothing sat in some of the vehicles. They kept their blasters at the ready, guarding the vehicles while their partners were inside.
"In the old days," Kane told Grant, "we didn't think there was a chance we'd get busted up."
Grant nodded, surveying the gaudy house. A thin smile twisted his lips. "Coming in without Mag armor like this, I feel naked."
"You are naked," Kane replied. "Don't forget that and mebbe we'll get out of here alive today."
"Cheerful soul, aren't you?"
Kane ignored the comment. The crowd around Tyson's was definitely rough trade He recognized the men and women as natives of the outer Cobaltville and Utah mining territories. But there were other men there, as well.
Chinese Tong, their vehicles identified by bright scarlet chops, had moved into the area lately, vying for the iron ore coming out of the hardscrabble mines. Kane knew the Tong were from the Western Isles by the chops, the scarlet Chinese characters marked on their vehicles, and he knew whom they belonged to because he recognized the symbols.
"Wei Qiang's boys have made themselves at home," Grant said.
"Not easily." Kane watched the various camps of men and saw the wariness each group had for the other. Some of the men belonged to the independent mine caravans that ferried the iron ore from the Utah territories to Cobaltville. Others were traders who'd scavenged supplies and tools the mines bought or traded for. A few of them were coldhearts, men and women who preyed on the weak living off the harsh land.
All of them gave the Tong members a wide berth. Wei Qiang, the warlord of Autarkic in the Western Islands, handpicked his men, and all of them were hardened killers. Their chosen weapon for close-in fighting was a single-bladed hand axe. They'd invaded the Western Isles sometime in the past and had set up an empire there.
Kane pushed up from the wag he and Grant had driven from the Cerberus redoubt in the Bitterroot Range. More than two hundred years ago, before the world had died in a nuclear inferno, the wag had started life as a mil-spec jeep. Since then, it had been pieced back together at least a half-dozen times by people with various degrees of skills and limited access to parts.
Metal patches welded over the body showed signs of rust, ripped open in places by dents and dings. Kane and Grant had captured it from a band of Roamers who'd been traveling through the Bitterroot Range near the redoubt a few weeks back. The encounter had resulted in some of the new bullet holes decorating the wag's body. But the vehicle provided good cover for their present op. They'd left the Sandcat all- terrain vehicle back at the redoubt for the same reason they opted not to wear their black Magistrate armor; the Sandcat and the armor would invite precisely the kinds of questions that they wanted to avoid.
"Let's do it," Kane growled, knowing his stomach was knotting up in ways it hadn't when he'd been a Cobaltville Magistrate. But he knew it was the waiting that took its toll on him. Once the action started, he chilled out. As a Magistrate, he'd worn the black armor of Baron Cobalt's enforcers and had been feared. Here in the Outlands, that black armor would have been a target for jackals who felt capable of taking down a lone wolf. Dying was a way of life in the Outlands. A survivor often paid for his or her life with the blood of others.
Grant stepped out of the wag holding the M-14 he'd chosen from Cerberus's extensive armory. The rifle was serviceable and fired a 7.62 mm round heavy enough to knock a man down, and it looked scuffed enough that no coldheart would kill him just to take it from him—if he could. As former Cobaltville Mags, both he and Grant were accustomed to Copperhead close-assault weapons and Sin Eater handblasters, but they would also have drawn unwanted attention.
Grant stood over six feet tall, massive and broad-chested. His coffee-brown skin gleamed with a sheen of perspiration from the heat covering the desert lands. Gray stained his short, curly black hair. A gunfighter's mustache curved around his lips and ran down to his chin. Smiles didn't come easily to him; usually, as now, he wore a dour expression.
He was dressed in faded denim jeans and a red vest that had once been a corduroy shirt. A scarred ammo belt looped his waist, carrying extra clips for the M-14, as well as extra rounds for the .44 Colt Magnum blaster riding in a cross-draw holster in front of his flat belly.
Kane slipped a Mossberg pump shotgun from between the seats and pulled the nylon strap over his shoulder. He let the riot gun hang down beside his leg, ready for instant access. He carried a .45 automatic blaster on his right hip in a cut- down holster, extra clips riding on the belt. He pulled twin bandoliers of shotgun ammo across his shoulders, an advertisement to everyone that they were well armed and equipped. The handle of a long-bladed military fighting knife barely showed above his boot top.
Without another word, he led the way toward the gaudy. He stood an inch over six feet, a lean wolf of a man who carried most of his weight in his arms and shoulders. His dark hair was matted from the hard days of road travel and clung to his nape. He wore a green denim shirt with the sleeves hacked off and denim pants in the same shape as Grant's.
His point man's senses swept the surroundings, picking up the attention from the hard men around him. None of them made eye contact, but he knew they were looking all the same. He and Grant were strangers in their midst, and the stripped- down wag they'd arrived in didn't give much indication of what they were about.
The land around the gaudy was broken and fell away in miniature cliffs that provided a clear view of the surrounding countryside for miles. Tyson's saloon didn't have many surprise visitors. Sparse vegetation, no trees, dug into the sand and rock and found just enough water to survive. A well-worn trail packed the dry earth in front of the building. The blue sky lay open and huge all around the area, smudged by orange-and-green chem clouds carrying deadly acid rain far to the south.
A fat man in soiled overalls sat on a three-legged stool outside the gaudy's front door. A machete hung at his side, and his thick hands held a cut-down double-barreled shotgun. The fat man's face was round, childlike, but the dark eyes carried malevolent glints. He raised the shotgun slightly, stopping Kane and Grant in their tracks just out of arm's reach.
Kane ignored the shotgun. The man had already let them too close to stop them, but he wasn't the real threat. He was only cannon fodder for the men on the other side of the door.
"Ain't seen you around before," the fat man challenged.
"We've been around," Kane replied.
The fat man shook his head "Not here."
Kane narrowed his flinty blue-gray eyes. "The gaudy open for business or not?"
"Depends." The fat man's gaze flicked between Grant and Kane.
"On what?" Kane growled irritably.
"On what business you got."
"None of yours," Kane replied.
The fat man's features remained placid, not taking offense. "I'm making it mine."
Kane grinned at the man coldly. "Even with all that ass filling those pants, you ain't got enough ass on you to lean on me."
"Son of a bitch," the fat man said without emotion. He shifted on the three-legged stool and the wooden joints creaked in protest. The shotgun started to come up.
"Up until now," Grant warned in a soft voice filled with menace, shifting a little to let the fat man know he had a clear field of fire, "you've only been guilty of being a social retard. Don't go adding stupidity to it. And you can take an ace on the line for that."
The fat man drew the shotgun back.
"I'm a man who's got scrip to spend," Kane said. "That's all I know any gaudy owner's ever been interested in."
"There's an entrance charge," the fat man said.
Kane paid the price for Grant and himself. "There a back way out of this place?" Kane asked: The idea of walking into a place with only one exit didn't appeal to him
"You get this door," the fat man said, poking the bills through a slot in the wall. When they disappeared, the fat man rapped his knuckles on the door. A moment later, the sound of locks being thrown ratcheted loudly and the door opened.
Kane stepped through the open door, his point man's senses flaring. As a Magistrate, he'd been through plenty of dangerous doors with Grant covering his six. He'd never gotten accustomed to the feeling of unease at stepping into potenti
Cool air bumped up against Kane, letting him know there were tunnels dug into the back end of the gaudy. Judging from the coolness of the air, he was willing to bet the tunnels led down to caves.
The massive earthshaker bombs that had destroyed the western coast of the United States and put most of California beneath the sea had also reshaped a number of areas above, as well as below, the surface. As a Cobaltville Magistrate, he'd had firsthand knowledge of the cave systems in the area. Staggers had often used the cave systems for hiding, as well as for storage areas.
Tables of all shapes and sizes filled the center of the gaudy's huge main room. Kane's boots scuffed against the stone floor as he continued inside. Whoever had built the place had taken time to put down a permanent floor rather than a wooden one. Still, the floor wasn't completely level and rolled underfoot in places.
A long mirror occupied the wall behind the bar. Bottles of whiskey and other liquors from scavengers' booty sat side by side with homegrown pop-skull and beer. The labels on the former easily identified them to those who could read, while the labels on the latter carried words and pictographs.
"My, my," Grant said softly. "Bet you get service with a smile here."
Kane followed his friend's line of sight. Two women worked the bar, looking enough alike to be sisters. They wore yellow silk blouses with belled sleeves, the buttons open enough to show a lot of cleavage, and shimmering dark red pants that clung to every curve. Both girls had short-cropped brunette hair that curved in at their cheeks.
Kane knew the hairstyle also served to keep an overly aggressive gaudy patron from grabbing them by the hair easily. The girls poured drinks quickly, taking scrip automatically; and chatted readily. It was easy to understand why so many mining caravan drivers and guards, traders and coldhearts made it a point to stop in at Tyson's.
Since the place was packed, finding a seat that covered the bar, as well as the door, proved difficult. The best Seats in the house had already gone to the first arrivals.
Kane chose a small round table that listed unsteadily underneath a mutie alligator head a full yard long that was mounted on the wall opposite a small stage. The table was uncomfortably close to the large fireplace where a cow and a pig turned on a spit over the banked coals. The heat from the fireplace baked into him, but it was still cooler than the noonday sun outside.
The orange glow from the coals washed out into the room until it was overcome by the yellow glow of the bear-fat lanterns hanging around the room. The black smoke from the lanterns eddied against the stone ceiling in drifting pools and filled the gaudy with an undeniable stench.
"They should do something about that damn stink," Grant groused. "This place is more than habitable, but that sure takes the edge off."
Kane silently agreed. He took a pair of cigars from his pocket and passed one to Grant. "Self-defense," he said. They lit the cigars from the small bear-oil lamp on the table.
Grant blew out the oil lamp's flame to avoid the stench, as well as drop the light level around them so they'd be even harder to see in the gloom filling the enclosed room.
Aware of the men around him and knowing how volatile their natures were, Kane didn't let his gaze rest on any of them too long. The gaudy's patrons sat segregated into groups, blasters in plain sight. Kane's point man senses picked up other watchers, as well. He took a deep drag on his cigar and scanned the ceiling again. The smoke was obnoxious but it worked against the gaudy in other ways, too. Smoke had a tendency to seek out higher ground.
He watched the smoke swirl around the stone ceiling, then move into holes in the walls at either end of the bar. He barely made out the rectangular shapes nearly hidden in the shadows. If the smoke hadn't fanned out and revealed the top half of the rectangles, he'd never have seen the men inside. He puffed, on his cigar, releasing a plume of smoke that joined the clouds already drifting overhead. He caught Grant's eye and cut his own toward the rectangles.
Grant shifted slightly and let his gaze slide over the walls He nodded. "No sign of our guy," he said.
"No," Kane agreed. "I'll get us some drinks."
"Let me know if they look as good up close."
Kane nodded and rose from his seat. With the cooling wind filling the room, the sweat covering his body was starting to turn to ice against his skin on the side not facing the fireplace.
He pulled up his shirttail and mopped his face, then scrubbed the grit and sweat from the back of his neck. More than anything right now he wanted a bath and a bed to sleep in. Those had been things he'd taken for granted as a Mag except when he'd been on an extended stay outside the vile. He leaned on the bar, feeling hostile stares scraping against his back.
"I said I wanted something stronger than the watered-down piss you been pouring in my glass." The speaker was a man three down to Kane's left.
Lean and leathery, a few radiation sores scabbed over on his face and neck, the man looked like a desert rat, one of the independent scavengers who worked the Utah territories. Kane knew the reputation of such men. They turned from scavenger to coldheart in an eye blink
One of the bartenders moved toward him. A brilliant smile formed on her full lips. "I'm sorry," she said pleasantly. "I didn't exactly hear what you said."
Kane picked up the razor-edged threat in the woman's voice, surprised that the rat didn't. He turned slightly, making sure he was out of the line of fire. He had no doubt that the rectangles in the walls held gunners responsible for covering the sec inside the gaudy.
"I said this shit you been pouring in my glass for the last hour is just a bunch of piss," the rat roared drunkenly. He looked like a bundle of sticks gathered inside his dusty clothing.
The woman leaned closer to the man, her cleavage threatening to spill from her blouse. The smile never left her crimson mouth. "You snipe bastard, you can't even keep your expressions straight."
The desert rat blinked at her once, and Kane knew everything was about to go to hell in a hand basket. Without warning, the rat came up with a long-bladed knife, slashing for the bartender's throat.
Gliding athletically on the balls of her feet, her eyes widening only a little with the sudden adrenaline flow, the woman dodged out of the way of the knife. Her right hand came up and a small blaster shot from the belled sleeve, filling her hand. Her finger tightened on the trigger.
The hollow boom of blasterfire filled the gaudy's main room.
Chapter 2
Brigid Baptiste halted the horse high on the hill overlooking the trail below. Moving slowly, knowing the trees around her wouldn't protect her from a keen-eyed observer who noticed a motion out of place in the surroundings, she stepped down from the saddle. The stink of sweaty leather and horse filled the still, humid air around her. It had stopped raining less than an hour ago, and she was soaked.
The dark gray shirt and black denim jeans she wore blended in with the brush and trees, and she knew she was only one shadow among others. A couple years back, while she was still an archivist working on the baron's projects in Cobaltville, she wouldn't have been able to move with such grace in the wild. She'd learned a lot because her life had depended on it more than once. She knew she'd probably never be able to move with Grant's or Kane's skill, but she was good enough for this.
Silently, she wished that Kane were there, even though she knew that probably wasn't a good thing to wish for. Kane would have handled the present situation a lot differently than she was willing to He didn't like to exercise the patience she knew he had unless he was forced to.
And violence had a way of turning up around Kane, as if he were some kind of magnet for it.
She opened the straps on the saddlebag and took out a pair of binoculars. Wrapping the bridle reins around a nearby tree limb, she tethered the horse and moved a little farther down the hill, staying well within the sheltering cover provided by the dense brush and low-hanging branches. Then she hunkered down to spy on Donald Bry, the man she'd followed from the Cerberus redoubt for the past two days.
Just under six feet tall, Brigid was slender and full breasted. Her red-gold hair normally hung well below her shoulders, but she had it up now in a French braid to provide less of a target for branches and brush. Her green eyes looked like dark emeralds in the shadows left over from the rain. A mini-Uzi was slung at her shoulder. She fitted the compact binoculars to her eyes and gazed down the trail.
