Wild Country

Dean Ing Wild Country

Chapter One

Death minus three minutes and counting: Rawson squinted through yellow sundazzle and displayed his Mex dental work as the stranger neared maximum range. The scope of his wire-stocked assault rifle showed only a single, helmeted rider, straight and tall on the hovercycle, its caliche dust trail writhing behind.

Had Rawson been a praying man, he might have prayed for this break. One well-placed round could mean the difference between Rawson afoot in Wild Country, with deputy marshals closing in. and Rawson sitting pretty in that hovercycle with a straight run to the Rio Grande.

On the other hand, a clean miss might alert the silly bastard, and several hasty shots might render that cycle useless. From his cover among the blistering rocks of South Texas. Rawson judged that his prey would cross within a hundred meters of him. If he waited an extra few moments, he would have a good headshot, and time for more if the first round missed. Rawson flicked his fire selector to semiauto, wishing he had thought to drop his beltpac near the tracks his boots had made. A nice fat beltpac would've provided bait to halt an unwary traveler. Well, tough shit; Rawson concentrated on the world as it was — or rather, as he thought it was. It did not occur to him that the target in his crosshairs might be bait.

Death minus two minutes and counting: For an instant, as the cycle passed below on its cushion of air, Rawson's imagination whacked him under the ribs. What if the rider gripped the throttlebar in his death agony? The hovercycle might just continue on out of sight, its whirr fading with the dust trail, a diesel- hearted horse with the bit in its teeth and a dead man in the saddle. The outlaw adjusted his aim to the base of the neck, let the crosshairs traverse to lead the target, and squeezed gently.

The rifle's muzzle suppressor was a custom job, so that the muzzle scarcely moved and emitted only a flat, whistling pop. The slug flew a trifle high, catching the erect rider behind the ear. Rawson sent two more rounds after it; saw the helmet jerk again, saw shards of plastic spray bright sparkles against the sun.

Death minus ninety seconds and counting: Rawson flung himself down from his prominence, bounding to flat, sunbaked soil, cursing the hovercycle as it continued. The damn thing had slowed a lot, but it was still under way, now wandering in a broad arc above the sparse brush of Uvalde County, Texas. The rider was well-zapped, but at this pace Rawson, carrying the heavy rifle, would never catch up. He made a snap decision, dropped the rifle, and sprinted hard. He willed his legs to pump harder. The goddamn rifle had done its job and in any case he still had his little Chink automatic, courtesy of World War IV, stowed in his breakaway hip pocket. In a long, gut-wrenching sprint he knew that he was gaining. And so, in a way, he was definitely losing.

Death minus forty seconds and counting: The rider had not fallen, though his head lolled loosely on his neck. Both hands still gripped the handlebars of the cycle, a scruffy, two-place McCullough with a tarp over the rear saddle cowl. Rawson's thigh muscles told him he'd spent too many summer days in the cantinas of Hondo and Eagle Pass, waiting for word that Sorel needed him for a shipment. Trembling, gasping, he drew on his last reserves of stamina and stumbled, nearly fell. But now the diesel stammered too. Rawson hoped that didn't mean the effin' thing was out of fuel.

He found out what it meant as he staggered forward, exulting. Everything became clear with the sudden emergence of the compact, green-eyed blond fellow from under the tarp. Rawson was only three-quarters surprised; in the smuggling biz, you learned to count on fuck-all.

'Michael Rawson, you're under arrest,' the younger man called. He wore the shoulder patch of a federal deputy marshal on his thin deerskin shirt, a shirt too nice to perforate, though Rawson fully intended to do that very thing.

'Well — ain't you cute,' Rawson puffed, stopping ten paces away, putting hands on hips while he fought for breath. Very 'cute indeed, wiring a cast-off android from Wild Country Safari into the front saddle and steering from under the tarp. The little deputy might be young but he had used guile, forcing Rawson to run from cover and tire himself with a long, exhausting sprint. Not cute enough to have a weapon in his hands, though. If he knew who Rawson was, he ought to know how fast Rawson was.

Death minus eight seconds and counting: The broad-shouldered little deputy saw something in Rawson's face. 'Don't do it,' he said equably. But Rawson thought something in the man's face was pleading, do it. Rawson did it while the deputy's right hand was fishing out a card, probably to read him his rights.

Rawson's rights ended with an impossibly liquid left-handed draw by the deputy, who flicked a seven- millimeter Chiller from its hidden armpit holster as he bounded from the cycle. Rawson got his sidearm out, began his trusted sidewinder maneuver, swung his weapon to intersect the spot where the deputy would land… and felt two paralyzing impacts in his torso.

Rawson crumpled, the slugs hurling him back. He lay with one leg buckled, both arms flung wide, the little automatic a full pace from his nerveless fingers. He understood a great deal more, now. There were maybe a half dozen bad dudes in Wild Country who could draw with Rawson, but only one whose freakish reflexes were said to be absolutely lethal whether fiat-footed or airborne; a regular John Wesley Hardin.

And the blond deputy was a wrong-hander. too. Ex-assassin for Search & Rescue, ex-rebel with Jim Street, now a part-time lawman in Wild Country: 'You'd be Ted Quantrill.' Rawson grimaced, now feeling thick fluid in his throat.

'And you had to find out the hard way,' said the blond, reseating his Chiller.

Rawson's eyes were beginning to defocus, but he never lost his courage. 'Well, I said you was cute.' he said, dying.

For the record, Quantrill noted that Michael Rawson's long countdown ended at 1:54 PM., central daylight time, on the seventeenth of September, A.D 2006.

Chapter Two

Quantrill finished rolling the body into a standard bodybag, spat caliche dust, hauled Rawson's bulk to the cycle, and retrieved his own Aussie hat, flopping it on his head after wiping a film of sweat and dust from his face. The old 'droid in the front seat had been emptied of its innards and was soon stowed in back with Rawson.

After he disconnected the rear steering yoke, Quantrill stepped into the front cowl, then pulled a cold bulb of Pearl beer from the right-hand cargo pannier. With his other hand he toggled his VHP set. A moment later, he had Chief Deputy Stearns on-line.

The complaints began almost immediately. 'Nope, I never got a chance to read him his rights,' Quantrill replied. 'He went for a Chinese sidearm; I'm bringing it as evidence.'

He waited, pressing the earpiece with two fingers, meanwhile scanning the innocent horizon. Then, 'It was Rawson's choice, not mine.' Pause. 'Sure. If my belt video was working, you'll see me with the chit in one hand and a handful of air in the other while he was drawing on me. I won't kill a man unless he forces me to.' Pause; a flare of nostrils below his broken nose. 'Well, I don't anymore, sir. You can tell Marshal Teague our Justice Department is still just. Anyway, you've got two more of Sorel's men for a nice showy trial. You'd never have gotten anything from Mike Rawson. Read his file.'

This time Quantrill waited longer. He was shaking his head in disgust when he replied. 'It's not my fault if they got sprung so fast. Did anybody plant a tracer bug on either of 'em?' Another pause. 'I'm sorrier than you are, mister; Espinel was a friend of mine. Sometimes I think Teague is sorrier to see a fugitive come in horizontal than he is when one of us gets it. No, cancel that. I'm just hot and tired and pissed off — sir.'