“There’s those fuckers now, creeping like weasels along the line of that derailed tram line. Think they’re going to get away from old Regers? Fat chance. There’s probably more of ’em, I count six now. Looks as if they’re carrying something. Probably parts scavenged from the APV. Fucking packrats. Yul must have bagged himself some new friends.”
Regers nudged Deakes. “You slip over there, head them off. Vincent and me’ll go straight in.”
With a grunt, Deakes disappeared on the left flank of the battered square.
Regers broke off in a dog trot. He spat a round of fire ahead of the skulkers, trying to hedge them toward Deakes, but they ducked into a back alley. “Shit.”
Vincent came up behind Regers, face grimed and blood-streaked, his voice hoarse. “Should’ve pegged those rats, boss, rather than try to take them alive.”
“Hindsight, Vincent. We’ll get them.”
Following like weasels on the hunt, they set after Yul and the others at a loping run. Deakes joined the three as distant booms echoed across the dismal cityscape. Mentera craft haunted the skies, long mantis shapes firing down stun rays like grasshopper spit. Sticking to the sidelines, Regers and his hounds dodged from rubble pile to pile or ruined vehicle or half crumbled building to building, tracking the fugitives to some shelled apartment complex with front windows blasted. “Bonzai,” Regers croaked between his teeth. “Deakes, Vincent, you first.”
Chapter 29
In the dim kerosene lamplight of Smacky’s den, Mick and Smacky peered over the scavenged ammo box and its prickle pod of wires on Mick’s workbench.
“Hurry the hell up, we don’t have a lot of time.”
Mickey rustled away at soldering some leads. “Yeah, yeah. Only so fast I can go, Smacky.”
Smacky darted anxious, half-slitted eyes at the door and the gloomy confines of the decrepit apartment as if every shadow was a foe in waiting. Marv’s weapon had been jammed, ever since they’d lost Spike’s in the free-for-all. Yul could understand Smacky’s anxiety. Only one working gun between them. Still, one gun was enough to keep him and Cloye from leaping at Smacky’s throat.
As if guessing his thoughts, Smacky waved his cleaver at Yul. “Keep those prisoners covered, Wilb. Don’t want them jumping us.”
“Why don’t we just fucking kill them?” growled Wilb.
“Because I said so, This Yab bastard’s given us some good intel. While he’s useful, we keep him. The woman—” he stared with an evil grin “—well, she can have her uses at a later time.”
“You should kill her too,” Lace wailed. “Fucked up my arm.”
“Quit your whining, Lace.”
Yul debated trying to reason with them, but dropped the idea. If Regers was still on the loose and caught up with them, he and his thugs’d make mincemeat of Smacky and this motley crew.
“What’s that?” Smacky whirled, ears perked, raising his hand.
Fire flare sprayed through the doorway. A grey muzzle poked out and a burly form’s bald head with it. Smacky gave a cursing cry, his cleaver raised. He charged the dull shape from the side.
Deakes, blood-grimed in his kevlar, caught the descending meat blade. He yanked his E1 about just as his muzzle picked off Mick who was scrambling in the background for a knife to hurl.
Yul sprang sideways to pull Smacky off Deakes’s back before he got himself wasted by crossfire.
Too late.
The next figure through the door blasted Wilb to ratshit as he raised his rifle. Another muzzle lifted and nailed Marv. Both slumped in puddles of their own blood. Cloye scrambled for the meat cleaver but Deakes kicked it away. Jennings stood mute, a ghost in human form. The girl, Lace, wailed, hands clutching her ears. “Stop! Stop!”
“Cry all you want, little girl.” Regers patted her on the head. “Momma ain’t gonna kiss and make it better.” He stared about in the dim, crypt-like gloom. “Deakes, you okay?”
“Yeah, just got half my finger chopped off by this chicken shit rooster boy.” He hoofed Smacky in the gut. The gang leader lay supine, deader than a doornail, riddled with shells from crossfire. Deakes worked at wrapping leather around his stump of a finger, stomaching the pain and muttering curses.
Regers chuckled. “You ought to be more alert, Deakes. Surprised you fell for the old chip and charge back there. These boys like to play rough.”
“Well, let’s just say I’m not as spry as I used to be, Regers. I’m off my game, after having a pressure blast in my ear.” He gnawed at his bloody knuckles.
“Happens.” Regers leveled his gun at Yul whose lips worked and his fists clenched. “Well, Yul, the happy deserter. Long time no see. How’s it feel, friend?”
Yul spit out curses.
Regers peered crosswise at Jennings who still stood mute, rifle down, pointed at the floor. “Jiminy, you’re quieter than a church mouse. Anything to say?”
Jennings just stared, unblinking, the whites of his eyes dull in the kerosene lamplight.
Regers gave a wry grunt, jabbing Vincent in the ribs. “See, Vincent, I told you Jiminy’d learn his lesson. Doesn’t even want to call NOA now, or cry for backup, or help that poor dying turd over there, crawling in his own blood.”
Vincent gave a raucous laugh.
Cloye, fingers twitching, itched to make a move but Yul flashed her a warning glance. He took a stealthy step sideways, looking for a weapon to grab, but Regers motioned him back. “Forget it, Yul boy. Don’t try it. You’re dogshit as it is.”
“You kilt Smacky,” the girl wailed, scuttling over to kneel by her gang leader’s side.
Regers frowned down at the shredded corpse. “Looks as if Smacky or Smokey or whatever the fuck his name is, ain’t going to
