Lone Gunfighter of the Wastelands Page 2

She turned her gaze on the “recruit” standing between the two men. That hunter’s exoshield was scuffed and dirty after having put up what Cat had heard had been a decent fight against Cat’s collectors. The hunter wore no helmet, and she had a cracked, bloody lip.

  Cat wore no exoshield. As owner of the Iron Guild, she let her pale skin be on display as a sign of confidence while she was on Iron Guild property. No one would dare attack her on her own turf.

  “You’re younger than I expected, Wilco,” she began.

  The hunter who went by the call sign of Wilco jutted out her chin. “What do you want, Cat?”

  “Ah, I see you’re familiar with me.”

  “There aren’t a lot of people walking around the Midlands with bad tattoos of whiskers on their cheeks.”

  Cat ran a finger over the three horizontal black bars on her left cheek. “These are markings from my silo tribe. You don’t see them around here because my tribe is from the far north in the Freelands. But you’re not the first to have that misperception. After all, that’s how I came to be called Cat.”

  “So that’s not your real name, I take it?” Wilco asked.

  Cat wagged her finger. “Tut-tut, my secrets aren’t yours to learn, and certainly aren’t the reason you’ve been invited today.”

  “Invited?” The young woman spat on the floor. “Your goons here totaled my cutter and held a blaster to my head.” She turned and glared at the man to her right. “You should’ve pulled the trigger. You got lucky once. It won’t happen a second time.”

  He laughed. “You talk tough, little girl. Maybe if you had a partner, you wouldn’t have gotten yourself caught.”

  Wilco’s lip curled. “Partners have to split the bounty. Only weak hunters like you partner up.”

  “Believe that if it makes you feel better,” the man to her right scoffed.

  “We’re good enough to take you down,” the one to her left snapped.

  Wilco gave a sinister grin. “I may not be walking out of here, but at least I’ll go to my grave knowing that Reuben’s going to kill both of you.”

  “Reuben’s weak. You really think he’s going to be around much longer?” the first man sneered.

  Wilco snickered. “Long enough to put you down like the rabid mongrels you are.”

  The man on her left twisted her wrist behind her back, and she cried out.

  Cat pushed off her desk to stand before the trio. “That’s enough. Release her.” She took a long breath before continuing. “Wilco, I brought you here to make you an offer. I want you to work for the Iron Guild.”

  “Work for you?” Wilco guffawed, then pointed to the logo of a clenched fist on her bicep. “In case you hadn’t noticed, I already have a job at the Haft Agency, and I still have over nine years on my contract.”

  “I’ll pay off your exoshield as a signing bonus. You’ll be free of your contract. Besides, when did Reuben Tally last give you a bounty ticket? A week ago? More? His guild is failing, and his clients see it. More and more are coming to me with their needs because I’m not afraid to take any job.”

  “That’s because you’re a bunch of bottom feeders who are nothing more than guns for hire,” the younger woman retorted.

  “Not true,” Cat said calmly, even though her temper was simmering. “The guilds are the only form of recognized law to most citizens. Sure, there are the local administrators and their so-called cavalries, but we both know that they’re the real bottom feeders. We may have to take tickets that cross into gray areas every now and then to put food on the table, but all in all, what we do is pluck the bad apples out of the barrel before they rot the rest.”

  “If you say so,” Wilco said.

  “I do, and if you want to continue to make a difference, you’ll work for me in the Iron Guild. You’re young. The Haft Agency doesn’t have the longevity to offer you a career. That guild will be gone in under a month, I can promise you that. The Iron Guild will soon be the only bounty hunters’ guild in the territories, before long.”

  “And if I don’t accept your offer?”

  Cat’s lips thinned. “If you don’t accept, then you’re free to walk out of here.”

  Wilco’s eyes narrowed. “I have no cutter, and I’m in the middle of a desert seven hundred miles from Cavil. How am I supposed to get back home?”

  “I wouldn’t worry about the desert killing you,” Cat said coldly. “I compensate my hunters for eliminating any competition encountered in the Salt Flats zone.”

  The man on Wilco’s left chuckled. “Payday.”

  Wilco’s body became as rigid as an icicle. “I’m dead as soon as I walk through that door.”

  “Not if you wear the mark of the Iron Guild.” Cat tapped the logo of two crossed spears on her bicep.

  “Neither of these guys are wearing the mark,” Wilco noted.

  “They’re exceptions,” Cat said.

  Wilco gulped before stepping forward and turning her bicep toward Cat. “Fine. Sign me up.”

  Cat grabbed a small torch and burned off the Haft Agency logo from Wilco’s armor. Then, Cat switched tools, this time using a handheld paint printer, and stamped the Iron Guild’s mark where the Haft logo had been. A small thrill went through her. Stealing hunters from the Haft Agency was a joy that never got old.

  She stepped back and smiled. “Welcome to the Iron Guild.”

  Chapter Four

  The drive from Narrow Pass to Cavil took six hours on a good day. The problem was, this wasn’t a good day. What had started as a decent evening had given in to a dusk so crappy that a dark and stormy night sounded downright cozy.

  Monster’s headlights reflected the blowing silica sand rather than cut through it, and Joe had to rely on the cutter’s auto-drive feature—sensors that picked up the geo-trackers implanted along the route—to stay on the road. Even using the enhanced visual sensors in his helmet, Joe couldn’t see more than a few feet.

  The dust storms always came from the west, the winds carrying sands from the deserts of the Salt Flats. And that was the best possible scenario since the winds that came from the east brought death.

  He could hear the thunder from regular bursts of dry lightning, but the dust storm swallowed even the wildest of lights. The thunder rattled the vehicle, but Joe didn’t mind since it helped drown out Sikes’s angry tirade. The man hadn’t been in a good mood since he’d awakened. He pounded on the cab and yelled enthusiastic strings of insults, evidently unimpressed with his travel accommodations. The small bed was fully enclosed, so he wouldn’t die from exposure, and given how Sikes was able to continue spouting obscenities at the top of his lungs, the air must be decent enough back there.

  Joe glanced at the screen. At least another four hours on the road, assuming the storm lifted soon. He considered taking off his helmet to get more comfortable, but the idea was fleeting. He’d known too many hunters who’d been caught with their pants down—some, literally—and he had no intention of adding his name to the Killed in Action list. As long as he was on the job, he stayed suited up.

  He closed his eyes and let the howling of the wind lull him to sleep. As he entered his dreamworld, he also heard thunder, but in that place, he knew the sound meant something far more sinister. There, most thunderclaps were echoed by screams. An explosion took out the foxhole next to his.

  “Down!” he yelled and covered his head. Chunks of dirt and things he didn’t want to think about pelted him. Pain erupted in his forearm, and he looked to see a burning fragment melting through his jacket. He knocked away the bit and then noticed the soldier who’d taken cover in the hole with him. Shrapnel had sliced through her helmet. He lunged over and tugged off her helmet, and soon came to know how swift death had been for her.

  He leaned back on his heels, head lowered. She was a new recruit, just arrived that morning. He hadn’t even learned her name. With how the Shiprock War was going, he wouldn’t be far behind her. He tugged the red cape off her armor and tucked it into his pack. He remained there, try
ing to ignore her lifeless stare while the barrage continued around him.

  Something barreled into his side, his head erupted into a bright light, and he was yanked instantly out of his old battles.

  He grabbed at the wheel, but the cutter was rammed again. Sikes was screaming like a madman in the back. Joe’s head hit the window a second time, and the glass cracked. Without his helmet, he would’ve had whiplash or even a nasty concussion. He’d had both before, and wasn’t a fan of having another one. Monster was being pushed sideways, its drag-reducing fenders now the only things preventing the vehicle from rolling over.

  Joe blinked his eyes into focus as he pulled out his blaster. He looked through the window to find another cutter pushing Monster. The rig had a blazingly bright lightbar, which prevented Joe from making out the model, let alone its occupants. He opened the window and fired a random volley at it.

  It spun away, which Joe didn’t expect since his shots had bounced right off the vehicle. Unfortunately, he soon came to realize that it wasn’t them—it was Monster, who was leaning heavily to the right. For the briefest moment, his rig seemed to float before it lurched over and rolled.

  The vehicle tumbled over and over. The seatbelt held Joe in place, but he still tried to grab onto anything to better secure himself. The rolling stopped more abruptly than it’d begun, and Joe was thrown to the right, the seatbelt the only thing that kept him from slamming into the passenger door. The movement stopped long before Joe found his bearings. Gravity pulled him as he hung parallel to the ground. He tasted blood and hoped he hadn’t bitten through his tongue.

  Red warning lights flashed across the cutter’s control panel. Outside, water lapped at the windshield.

  He closed his eyes while he allowed himself to relax. No broken bones, but his left wrist complained…possibly sprained. He took a breath and opened his eyes.

  A sound of metal-on-metal movement came from the back.

  “You still alive back there, Sikes?” Joe called.

  There was no response.

  Pressing his left foot against the dash and his right against the passenger door, Joe unhooked his seatbelt. Finding his balance, he stood on the passenger door and grabbed the latch on the driver’s side door above him. The door wouldn’t open. He tried again, pushing harder this time, with no better luck. He grimaced, stood at full height, and stuck his head and arms through the open window. He braced his arms on either side of the opening and pulled himself up and through.

  He sat on the side of the rig and took in the scene. It was impossible to see more than fifty feet due to the dust storm, but the visibility was better here. Monster had ended up in a ravine, coming to a stop in the middle of a stream. The water was no more than a foot deep, and Joe was glad that the night had brought a dust storm rather than a rainstorm. He knew all too well the dangers of flash floods in the rocky hills of the Midlands. The steep embankments on either side blocked the harshest winds. He listened for sounds of the second vehicle but heard only the whistling wind.

  The sounds from the back of the cutter returned, and this time, Joe knew that Sikes was hitting or kicking something.

  Joe rolled his eyes. “I can hear you trying to break out back there. You’re not exactly being sneaky about it.”

  The sound paused for a couple of seconds before starting back up more aggressively. The screech of a metal door opening got Joe’s full attention. He hopped off the side of the cutter and landed on the rocky ground. He reached for his blaster and found the holster empty. Then he remembered that he’d had it in his hand when Monster was rammed off the road. Sighing, he pulled his backup blaster out of its off-hand holster. He winced as his left hand protested, gripping the pistol. He raised the blaster, considered grabbing his shocker, then fired.

  A moment of surprise registered when he missed. He frowned and fired again.

  Sikes collapsed with an impressive howl.

  Joe switched the blaster to his right hand and walked over to his bounty, careful to keep the weapon aimed at the now-injured man.

  Sikes was cradling his calf when Joe stopped before him. He looked up. His hair was damp with sweat, and he seemed covered in scrapes and bruises. “I can’t believe you shot me!”

  “That’s for being dumb enough to try to escape.” Joe glared. “I should shoot you in the other leg as payback for your buddies up there who tried to break you free.”

  Sikes frowned. “My buddies?” He seemed genuinely confused; then, his features fell into dejection. “Nobody I know cares enough to rescue me.”

  Joe looked up at the road at least seventy feet above them. He’d assumed that whoever was in the other cutter had come for Sikes, but then it made no sense for them to leave without their friend. Though, their attackers were just as likely linked to the Gillett clan, delivering vengeance against him for killing one of their own earlier that day. It could’ve been just about anyone out to do him harm. The number of people who wanted to see him dead was a whole lot bigger than the number of people who cared to see him alive.

  At least their attackers had cleared out, likely assuming he was dead, and not having the ambition to stand around in a dust storm to find out. His armor blocked the dirt from scraping his skin, but it gummed up the joints between the plating. He’d have to spend hours cleaning his suit once he turned in his bounty. Until then, he’d have to deal with the grimy joints.

  He turned back to his bounty and motioned with his blaster. “Back to the cutter with you.”

  Sikes guffawed. “I can’t walk. You shot me in the leg.”

  “You still have one good leg. Besides, that’s just a graze. It didn’t even break your skin,” Joe said, cocking his head at the singed hole in Sikes’s pants.

  His prisoner attempted to stand before falling dramatically back into the dirt. “I can’t.”

  “Move.”

  Sikes scowled. “You know, compassion can accomplish a whole lot more than cruelty.”

  Joe chortled. “You’ve never been in war.” He sighed and holstered his blaster. He bent down, wrapped an arm around the injured man, and helped him to his feet. Joe carried well over half of the other man’s weight as he assisted him back to the cutter. They stopped when they reached the back of the rig—or what was left of it. The back door had been broken off its hinges, and the cage was heavily dented. He was surprised Sikes’d even had to kick himself out of the cage.

  Joe let Sikes take a seat on the edge of the vehicle, and his gaze moved from his rig to his bounty with wonder. “How is it that you’re even still alive?”

  Sikes shrugged. “Just lucky, I guess.” His features then lifted. “Hey, how about we consider this enough punishment for my minor civil case, and you let me go.”

  “I can’t do that. It’s not my job to deliver punishment. That’s for the judge to decide.” Joe pulled out the hand restraints.

  Sikes kept trying. “But you could tell them that I was killed in the accident. Then we can each be on our own way.”

  Joe grabbed his prisoner’s left wrist, careful not to grunt at the tenderness in his own, and cuffed Sikes to the cutter.

  Sikes’s features fell. “Oh, come on.” He sounded depressed.

  Joe ignored him and went to work figuring out how to fix his ride and get out of the ravine.

  Chapter Five

  The dust storm gave way to a hot, sunny day. Joe had spent the first hour finding his tools, which had tumbled out when Monster rolled. In daylight, he could see that his attackers had rammed him off the road at the perfect spot, which spoke to intentionality: a tight outside curve with a nearly straight drop-off. The ravine was more of a canyon, which made sense since this was the area once known as the Badlands. He wasn’t sure why the area wasn’t called that anymore, though he figured it was because every place he’d ever been was just as bad these days.

  “It sure is a cooker today. Doesn’t it get hot wearing that armor and helmet all day?” Sikes asked.

  “Nope. Suits have temperature regulat
ors,” Joe replied as he tightened a bolt under the engine case.

  “Temp regulators, really? Would you happen to have an extra suit laying around? If so, I sure could use one. It’s a cooker out here today.”

  “The only suit you’ll be getting is one in jailbird red,” Joe stated flatly.

  “Red’s never been my color. Too many freckles. Do you really think they’ll throw me in prison for stealing a few bucks?”

  “Yep.”

  “It’s not fair, you know. Throwing people in prison after forcing them to steal to get by,” Sikes wheedled.

  “No one forced you to rob a market,” Joe said without pausing from his work.

  “Well, maybe not literally, but they don’t give us regular folks many options. Most of the jobs out there don’t pay enough to cover the bills. That kitchen where I was working only covered my room, and I had to work ten hours a day for that. How’s a guy supposed to eat?”

  “You still have fourteen hours in a day to do something about that,” Joe replied.

  “But I get tired easily. I have this adrenal thing.”

  Sikes rambled, and Joe continued to repair Monster.

  “What do you think?”

  Joe realized Sikes had asked him a question and raised his head. “About what?”

  “I said that I wonder why that store owner bought a ticket for my arrest when I hear of people stealing all the time without getting caught.”

  “Easy. You robbed a store owned by a murc. They have both the money and pride to pay for bounty tickets. Next time, rob a place not under MRC ownership.”

  “Oh. Good idea,” Sikes said. He thought for a moment before continuing. “I’ve been wondering, do you really go by Havoc, or do you go by a real name, like George or something?”

  Joe grimaced. “George?”

  Sikes shrugged. “Or something.”

  “I’m Havoc.”

  “Why are you called Havoc? Is there a story behind the name or something?”

  “Or something,” Joe said.