Men of Truth (The Wasteland Soldier #4)

“It doesn’t have to be this way for you,” said Pavla. “The world will change but things will not change for you.”

She unsheathed her own knife.

“You are at the bottom in this world. Like thousands of others. Jeremiah plucked you from nowhere and threw you into this.”

Calmly, she sawed through the ropes around Cali’s ankles and gently massaged her rutted skin.

“But you can walk away from it. Tell us about the robbery and the identity of the sixteenth man and you will leave here.”

“I don’t know who he is.”

“Is it the stranger?”

“Stone? No, he doesn’t know anything. Jeremiah hired him for protection.”

“Then who is the sixteenth man?”

“I swear I don’t know.”

“Then tell me about the robbery.” Pavla freed her wrists, once more caressing the skin. “You are not innocent. But you can be again, if you are truthful.”

She carefully lifted Cali out of the chair and lowered her onto the floor.

“Look around you, child. This is a horrible place to die. I do not want you to die for a man of lies. They are all men of lies where he comes from. I want to know why you stole that money. Please talk to me. What was the purpose of a robbery in the middle of all this?”

Cali ground her teeth, and looked away.

“I thought the beating and the burning had broken you. I was wrong.”

She directed words at Timo, speaking in her own tongue. She left Cali on the floor and poured a fresh cup of coffee. Timo lunged at Cali and yanked off her boots. She flailed at him, realising his intent, but he smacked aside her weak hands and tugged at her trousers.

“No, no.”

“Yes,” said Pavla. She drank a mouthful. “Timo will rape you until you talk. It is a very effective method of warfare.”

“It’s in Silver Road,” she cried. “Jeremiah found it. It’s in Silver Road. I swear. It’s a town … a second-world town, down south …”

Pavla spoke in her own tongue. Timo waited.

“You can find it off the fifty-five. It’s in Silver Road. In the town bank … the plan was to put the money in the vault, a payment, a con. I could get the layout, work out the security, and then we’d settle there, in town, take up rooms like regular folk do. I would rob the bank and no one would suspect us because we would’ve lost the most. We’d wait a week or so before disappearing with it.”

Pavla stood.

“It is real then?”

“It’s real. That’s why he recruited me. He needed a thief.”

On her back, face bruised and bleeding, Cali stared into Pavla’s eyes. There were acres of death. The woman had a black soul. Horrified, Cali knew the slow crawl was over. She had reached the end.

A solitary tear rolled over her cheek.

“Stone will find you both. It’s what he does.”

“Stone? This is the man you travel with? He is not that good.”

“You’re right,” she choked. “He’s not good. That’s why you cocksuckers will die ugly when he catches you.”

“I am better than him,” said Pavla. “I am better than all of you.”

She thought for a moment, and then reverted to her own tongue.

“Enjoy her, Timo. Then execute her. We will evacuate in thirty minutes.”

Cali whimpered.

And then the building was rocked by an explosion.

Stone had looked for volunteers. There was only one. Travis led him to the spot where he’d found the knife and the gun. Stone examined the prints on the ground. There had been two attackers and Cali had been carried. They hurried across the perimeter and through a recently made hole in the fence, the tracks leading to a building with a perfect vantage point of the surrounding streets.

There was no one on the rooftop, no sign of any lookout. The tracks led to a side door. No attempt had been made to conceal them. An unsettling feeling washed over Stone. He told Travis to wait but the young man reached for the door. Stone heard a distinctive ping, yelled a warning and threw himself to the ground.

The door blew outwards. Travis was hurled off his feet. He landed on his back, blistered and smoking. Stone rushed to his side and felt for a pulse. The kid was dead and his rifle was mangled.

Stone left him in the snow and edged into the building, sweeping the shotgun before him.

It was gloomy, dank, and thick with smoke.

He raised his face scarf, waited and listened.

The wind curled inside, whistling through the eaves. There was a dripping sound, snow melting from the roof, finding gaps.

He took a few paces forward, intensely vigilant, eyes left and right, up and down, seeking out more traps.

The stock of the shotgun pressed into his shoulder. His heartbeat accelerated. He’d left his coat and pack at the compound. His shirt was loose, hanging over his trousers, his head and upper left arm bandaged.

He crouched at the stairs and identified a trap on the third step, wired into a device he did not recognise.

Cautiously, he stepped over it.

The stairs climbed to a small landing. Stone reversed himself, slowly taking each worn step, cold brickwork whispering against his left shoulder, fanning the shotgun as he moved.

The landing came into view.

Empty.

He waited and listened, breathing hard behind his face scarf.

He heard a creak.

He dropped into a half-crouch.

Nothing.

There were dark corridors with water bloated walls, side rooms where he glimpsed old rubbish.

The dripping was louder, a steady plop from the pitted ceiling above.

There was a second creak.

Stone fired instinctively, letting rip with a single barrel, the blast shockingly loud in the cramped space, the hammer driving into the shell, expelling mangled fragments of lead and metal. He rolled toward an open doorway as a burst of automatic fire lit up the landing. Bullets raked the floorboards and gouged holes in the walls. Stone swung around the door and fired the second barrel, hitting nothing.

He broke the shotgun, popped out the spent cartridges, slotted in two more, and snapped it back.

He heard another creak. He already knew there were two of them from the tracks he’d followed, and now they would attempt to flank him in this warren of rooms and corridors that they knew and he didn’t.

A second burst of gunfire shook the landing. Stone hunched his shoulders and ran forward into another room, bringing himself closer to the shooter. There was barely any light. He moved through the gloom, stumbling against the remains of an old fire. Footsteps flashed nearby. The shooter had located him. Stone hit the floor as a line of bullets punched through the wall.

He fired twice with the shotgun, ripping holes in the wall. He drew his revolver and let off three rounds blind through the ragged openings. He jogged back, out onto the landing, right arm extended. The floor was scattered with spent casings. The shooter was gone.

He tucked the revolver back into his belt, reloaded the shotgun, and quickly moved deeper into the building.

There was the scrape of boots above. He blasted the ceiling. A shotgun fired back at him, showering him in plaster and tile.

Stone glimpsed a flash of movement nearby. There was a ping and a grenade rolled out of the blackness.

He hurled himself into another room. The explosion ripped through the floor. The building groaned. He got to his knees, coughed, and saw rooms and corridors fold and disappear in clouds of dust.

He heard footsteps from above once more and fired a second time. There was a cry, a thud and then movement again.

Panting hard, nose and mouth covered, pulse racing, head throbbing, Stone hung the shotgun from his shoulder and powered along corridors, tracking the abductors as he ran.

An assault rifle rattled on full-automatic. He took cover as bullets sprayed along a corridor dappled in moonlight.

He pushed into more derelict rooms and found a jammed door. He forced it open and stepped into a cramped stairwell. Wind howled through shattered windows. He swept his revolver up and down, gripping it with both hands. No one. He climbed at speed, finger on the trigger, arms extended. He reached the top floor. There were gaps in the roof and the sky was star-drenched. At the end of the landing was a single door.

He knew one of them was behind him, down below, and he guessed the second one, the one he’d wounded through the ceiling, was waiting for him on the other side of the door. He’d thought he’d got the upper hand on them but they’d manipulated his route through the building and placed him on the stairwell. He was boxed in, about to be caught in a cross-fire. But they’d have to do a lot better to take him down. He’d been in this life a long time now.

He released his left hand from the revolver and unsheathed his machete. He crept toward the door and kicked it wide open. There was a man with a bleeding leg and a pump-action shotgun. The muzzle lit up. Stone pulled back, cracking off two shots with his handgun.

The gunman pumped the weapon, spat an empty cartridge and fired again. Stone ducked from view. He jogged back along the landing. The other shooter was several floors down, an angular woman with a scarred face and dark hair fixed in a stubby ponytail. He pushed his gun hand through the grimy railing and fired down at her, bullets spearing the blackness. She unleashed a barrage of automatic fire and Stone jerked back.

The shotgun boomed once more, keeping him pinned. He heard the pump-action mechanism, a click and a loud clatter as the weapon was discarded. Stone grabbed the moment and rolled around the doorway, pouring lead into the room until his revolver was empty.

Timo was down on one knee, panting, a bullet lodged in his gut. He flapped at the side holster on his belt. Stone caught a split-second glimpse of Cali at the back of the room, slumped against the wall.

Clutching the machete with both hands, Stone tore into the room, howling. Timo drew his pistol and the muzzle began to rise but Stone hit him with all his force. He booted the gun from his hand and slashed down with the machete, tight and fast. The blade hacked into man’s neck and a fountain of blood spurted out. Stone chopped him again and again until Timo slammed against the floor in a rapidly spreading pool of blood.

Stone grabbed the dropped pistol, cocked it, and ran for the stairwell, blasting into the darkness.

The woman had gone.

He looked through the gaping windows. He could see the lights from the compound and the sprawl of Batesville.

She was nowhere.

He ran back to Cali. She shook her head, eyes wide open. Her cheek was slashed, her face was bruised, her hands were burnt. There was blood on her clothes, blood matted in her hair, blood on the floor around her.

They’d taped her mouth, tied her wrists and ankles.

Stone looked into her eyes.

Pavla waited in the gloom, staring up at the building. The assault rifle hung from her shoulder.

Timo had still not exited. She had given him explicit instructions. The plan was to eliminate Stone but if that failed they would draw him to the stairwell, in reach of the girl, and strategically withdraw. They had the information they required. They knew the location. There was no need to take further risks. Pavla continued to wait. It was clear to her that Timo had engaged and was dead.

She spoke aloud, in her native tongue. “I salute you, Timo. Peshkin will honour and …”

The explosion drowned out the rest of her words. The top floor of the building was engulfed in a giant fireball, scattering bricks and mortar. It began to collapse, going down in dust and flames, a huge black cloud of smoke coiling into the night sky.

A thin smile spread across her lips.

“I told you I was better.”