Wentworth. He’s new in town; I’m doing some work for him.”
“Hi there Wentworth, pleased to meet you.” The man shook his offered hand and nodded. “This here’s Verizon.”
The other guard bent his arm out at an awkward angle and shook both their hands with exaggerated theatrics. “Pleased to do-ya for!”
“So what, you guys here with Vince?”
“Yeah, he’s in the Offices over there talking to the Councilman. Me and Verizon are waiting for him.”
“Well, we just came down to the market to grab a bite.” He craned his neck, “Tracy is still here.” He smiled with an exaggerated grin. “So how are you feeling gentlemen? Would you like to join us?”
Verizon smirked, “I could do with something other than trail mix.”
“Yeah, why not?” agreed Billy. “Then Raxx here can explain to me what he’s doing out here in Blackstock of all places!”
Vince walked out of the town hall, lost in thought as he tried to dredge up more details about the stranger. Despite urging the Councilman to stay calm, he was growing apprehensive. He’d lied about only having second-hand information; but he’d forgotten the details of the first-hand. All he remembered was the tone.
The younger merchant had been hushed, leaning across the table as if the story were illicit. His eyes had darted back and forth, glowing with excitement and pride. He’d come within a hair’s breadth of danger and survived to tell. It had been a grand tale.
But Vince hadn’t really been listening.
He’d heard dozens like it before, and this one took place at the far end of the North Route — nowhere he’d ever be travelling. All he’d been interested in was the price of steel, the pint in front of him, and the bronze-skinned girl working behind the bar.
Now he was kicking himself — what was the name of the group chasing the man? ‘The Regent?’ ‘The Revenants?’ And why did they want him? He shook his head, then looked up and came to an abrupt halt. Next to his cart stood his two guards, that boy Raxx, and a fourth man dressed all in black.
Wentworth.
The other three were animated; leaning against the cargo trailer, eating sandwiches, and talking with their mouths full. Wentworth stood off to the left, chewing slowly. His face was impassive, his eyes were hidden behind dark lenses, and there was a dangerous looking rifle slung across his back. His silent nods were his only response to the other three’s conversation.
Few caravan masters would hire this one, thought Vince. Compared to Billy and Verizon, Wentworth stood in sharp contrast. Where they were boisterous and full of bravado, his anima was cold and calculating. He looked capable, but no one would trust him. Something was waiting just beneath the surface in him, coiled like a spring.
His stance was relaxed, with the bulk of his weight on his right heel, but he stood like he was in Vince’s peripheral — as if he could slide away without being noticed. There was something else about his stance too, something that was niggling at the back of Vince’s mind…
It clicked, and a bolt of ice went down his spine. It was the way he held his sandwich.
The bread had come from a wide loaf, and the condiments were generous. Even with two-handed grips, the group was losing bits to the dusty asphalt — but Wentworth held his loosely. His left did all the gripping, while his right was only a guide. Subconsciously or not, he was keeping his weapon-hand free — free to draw the pistol holstered on his hip.
Vince grimaced. Nothing to do but see how this beast barked.
“Oy, Raxx!” he shouted, strolling towards the group, “How you been keeping up, lad?”
Raxx glanced over, his face splitting in a wide grin. “Vince! Not too bad! Actually, it’s going pretty good. I got an interesting commission today — this here’s Wentworth. He’s got a motorcycle I’m working on.”
“Well that’ll be interesting for ya,’” he tucked his thumbs into his belt, “pleased to meet you, Wentworth. New in town, aye?”
The man dipped his head in a nod, “Guess so. Lucky to find a proper Mechanic.”
“Don’t give me too much credit just yet — save that ‘till your bike’s running!”
“Yo, Vince,” interjected Verizon, “what’s the dilly-o? We gonna get set up so you can buy me and Prince Billington here a pint, or what?”
“Aye, that’s right. Everything’s sorted, we’re gonna set up over by that wall there. Oy, Raxx, we’re gonna have to catch up some other time.”
“Sure, no problem. I ought to get working on the bike, anyway.”
“Say Wentworth,” said Verizon, “You gonna join us for that pint after we’re done setting up?”
Wentworth didn’t move, but Vince could feel the burn of his eyes through the polarized lenses. “Nah… thanks though. I’m feeling a bit tired after that sandwich. Think I might go grab some rack. Pleasure meeting all of you. See you later, Raxx.”
Vince watched him walk off as Raxx made his farewells. The man was keen, alright. Hell, a merchant ought to be better at hiding his thoughts. “Alright lads, the oxen are no good to us now, we gotta lift the trailer off the hitch, and move her ourselves. You two want to get on either side?” Maybe his first impression hadn’t been fair. Maybe he’d been letting the locals’ paranoia get the better of him. The man had been polite enough…
But that was no hunting rifle on his back. And then there was the pistol. And that blade on his other leg.
He’d be keeping his eye on this one.
Chapter 5
The doe sniffed the air. She kept picking up that odd scent — piquant and harsh… it wasn’t a predatory scent, but it was out of the norm. Nudging her fawn, she guided him over to a crescent shaped copse of trees. Leaves surrounded the two of them, and hid them from sight. On an instinctive level she felt comforted, and returned to her grazing.
Through the scope of his assault rifle the two animals were nothing but brown blurs. At four-hundred meters that was all its magnification would do. The glowing bead of tritium in the center swayed back and forth in a lazy figure eight across the area they grazed.
Wentworth took a deep breath and watched his sight picture pan down, then back up onto the target area. He closed his eyes and took another deep breath. Opening them, he confirmed that his point of aim hadn’t changed. He rubbed his thumb across the grip’s cross-hatch pattern, and stroked his index along the trigger. His left hand gripped where the handguard met the magazine housing. His elbow was planted firmly in the earth below.
Taking his time, he breathed deeply, feeling his heart rate slow. The doe and her fawn felt safe, and stayed where they were. He blinked as his vision began to cloud, as it always did, then relaxed his eyelids, watching through slit-eyes. The wind swayed the grass in front of him and birds chirped all around.
He’d stopped breathing, he realized. His pulse sent a tremor through his weapon.
His vision blurred out in horizontal streaks. Other senses took hold of the weapon, silently placing it on target, as he began to apply pressure to the trigger.
He could feel the creak of the trigger-spring as he squeezed it, tightening as it neared the hammer. His vision had gone grey, and even his hearing had dimmed. He waited in bated anticipation, feeling the grind of muscle and metal working in sync. He had to calm; no tremor; no shake; he focused on remaining still when—
The scope shot upwards, the recoil spring hammered backwards, and the birds scattered. Rebounding on the cushioning force of his arms, the scope steadied, coming to a still on the original point of aim. He slowly released the trigger. It thunked into place. The copse was a mess of greys, blacks, yellows, and greens; there wasn’t a trace of brown to be seen in the softly swaying grasses.
