Men of Truth (The Wasteland Soldier #4)

The workshop was eerily quiet. The throb of the generator was clearer now, chugging away in an adjacent room.

Weaver fidgeted, hopping from foot to foot. He glanced ruefully at Stone.

“I hope you’re going to make this financially worthwhile, Mr Cartwright.”

Stone drew his revolver.

“I already have.”

“My pockets are not feeling any heavier with coin. Do you want to elaborate?”

“You’re alive.”

“That isn’t funny and you know it.”

“Remind me again what she promised you.”

“I told you, I accepted coins and goods as part payment.”

“And the other part?”

Weaver cleared his throat. “Well, she would spend one hour with me in my private room upstairs.”

“That was never going to happen,” said Stone. “She would’ve killed you and your mechanics and took the car.”

There was a whistle from the rooftop.

Stone turned to Cali. “You OK?”

“My stomach feels like shit.”

“This time we spring the surprise.”

Weaver sidled across to Yuan, who was crouched in the shadows. “When this is over would you like to see my private room? I have a bed with a beautifully stitched mattress and paintings from the city of Kiven. Have you ever seen a painting? I have one called Lady of the Heart. It’s stunning. I’d love to …”

She hissed at him. “Shut up.”

Pavla crossed the parking lot, boots clicking.

The footsteps stopped, abruptly.

“Mr Weaver?”

The voice was cold, blunt. Cali shivered.

Weaver emerged from the gloom.

The rain had eased off. The clouds were shifting, leaving behind a stark blue sky, streaked with red.

“Good afternoon,” he said.

He was the perfect salesman. Oily, confident and annoying. His voice betrayed nothing of the trap.

“Is the car ready?”

He cupped a hand over his eyes as the sun blinded him.

“It’s ready. I’m looking forward to our time together. Come in and have coffee with me. Then we can …”

“I want to see the car. I want to hear its engine. Have one of your mechanics bring it out here.”

“We have the matter of your outstanding payment.”

“I will see the vehicle and then conclude my business with you. Do not worry. You will have your one hour between my legs.”

Stone cocked his revolver.

“Fetch the car. I will not ask again.”

Weaver hesitated, for less than a heartbeat, but Pavla did not miss it.

Her eyes tightened.

“You made a terrible mistake,” she said.

Weaver dived clear as Stone broke from cover. He fired but she was already on the move and the bullet whistled past her head. There was no shock in her eyes. She had seen the burning vehicle and known it was him. He left them dead or left them alone. He had survived the booby-trap. He was still in the city with the girl.

Stone fired again, several rounds, bullets missing. Her right hand clasped the pistol grip of the semi-automatic assault rifle hanging around her neck and she squeezed the trigger, muzzle snarling as she retreated into the wrecks jammed around the parking lot. Crossbow bolts whipped from the rooftop, bouncing harmlessly behind her. Stone glimpsed her lean frame snake a path through rusted cars. He fired, gouging a hole in a windshield.

As Cali emerged from the workshop, pistol in hand, there was another burst of automatic fire, more concentrated and focused, the muzzle spewing bullets, casings pinging against the hard ground. Stone ducked behind a large sedan and pulled Cali down with him. They were pinned as bullets erupted all around them. They fired back, Stone’s revolver clicking empty. He tucked it into his belt and pulled out the pistol he’d taken from Kody.

Pavla angled her weapon and took out the crossbowmen on the roof, two bullets apiece.

Stone signalled to Cali. They would attempt to flank her. He moved to the right, powering forward as she reloaded her clip, taking the fight to her, his gun barking off rounds. The bright sun picked at his injured scalp. He gauged his shots, desperately low on ammunition, covering Cali as she carved a path around to the left, nipping between the cars.

There was a horrible ping and a grenade rolled toward him across the hard cement ground.

Stone hurled himself behind a car and hooked his arms over his head as the grenade exploded. Vehicles flew into the air. One car somersaulted and crashed into the chain-link fence, tearing it down. His vision blurred. His heart was thumping. He got to his feet, off balance, half-deaf, his face filmed with perspiration. Cali was firing a volley of ragged shots into the swirling smoke.

He saw Pavla, a blurred outline, and his finger went to the trigger.

Empty.

“Fuck,” he roared.

She disappeared. Everyone was shouting. But Stone couldn’t make out a thing. He lumbered across the flattened chain-link fence, yanking out his revolver. He dug out his last three bullets, dropping them in as he ran. He snapped back the chamber with a violent flick of the wrist.

He picked her out, on the street, running at full speed, heading for a row of deserted buildings, the assault rifle hanging from her shoulder.

He dropped to one knee, looked along the barrel, narrowed his eye and took her down with two shots to the back.

She was slammed forward but rolled onto her side and came up with her pistol, firing back at him. She must have been wearing body-armour. He’d seen it before, during the summer, a simple vest that could absorb gunfire. He was light-headed, his legs suddenly weak, angry he was down to his last shot. She was on the move again, but running stiff, the impact of his bullets had hurt her. He saw her cut into a building and a moment later he glimpsed her scrambling across overgrown backyards and then she disappeared from sight.

Stone caught his breath, wiped sweat from his eyes and saw the back of his hand was smeared with blood. He dabbed his scalp. The stitching had opened up.

Cali raced into view and went past him, firing her pistol at nothing. The magazine emptied and the final casing struck the road, landing with an ominous sound, defining their failure in taking Pavla out.

Grimacing with pain, she lowered the gun, and Stone saw trickles of blood weeping through the bandages covering her burnt hands.

They were in no shape to give chase.

Yuan washed the blood from his cropped hair and forehead. She used fresh stitches and covered the wound with an adhesive. Weaver looked on, the colour drained from his face. Stone had expected him to be pacing up and down, loudly complaining about his business, but there were bodies on the roof and burning vehicles in the parking lot and he’d almost bedded a woman who would’ve slaughtered him and his workers for the sake of four wheels. The day had warped into a surreal place and the automobile dealer had been stunned into silence.

Stone drank, and then handed Cali the whiskey bottle. She gulped hard, licked her wet lips and grudgingly offered it to Weaver.

He shook his head. “I don’t drink.”

She dug out a coin roll from her pack and tossed it at him.

“That should cover the car.”

He didn’t even count it.

“The keys are on the dashboard. You have a full tank. Please don’t come back. I really mean that.”

Stone ignored him, took Yuan by the arm and steered her outside.

“This is how it is,” he said.

“All of the time?”

“Enough of the time.”

“I’m not afraid.”

“You should be.”

“Stop trying to frighten me, Stone, I’m OK.”

“Look, we drive out of here and we don’t come back. Do you understand that?”

She nodded, gravely.

“I want to go with you and I think you need me at your side.”

“You’ll never see your family again.”

She bit her lip.

“I can drive you back there. It’s the least I can do.”

She tried to hide the spark of indecision. She was tempted by the familiarity of the daily breakfast, and a bunk to sleep in, and greenhouses with freshly grown fruit, and systems that filtered drinking water from moisture, and giant hangars to sit around in with faces she recognised. It was a trickle, at first, then a rush, pouring rapidly into the same thought process, one against the other.

No, she had to breathe and this was her only opportunity of something more and she needed more. Her heart ached for Stone and she was certain he felt the same. She could not turn her back on this man who had saved her life. She had been a trophy girlfriend for Deshi, a secret that he exposed when he needed to reaffirm his fading libido amongst the older men in the community, baiting his wife and tempting other women he sought. He had been a poor choice. She loved her father, despite his many faults, and hoped that one day he would understand that it was him that allowed her to rebel rather than made her.

Her voice trembled. “I’ve never felt more alive. I’m coming with you.”

Stone patted her shoulder.

“Keep that knife with you.”

She glanced at the triple-bladed weapon, nodded.

“Are you finally leaving, Mr Cartwright?” said Weaver. “Good, I’ll warn all my friends to avoid doing business with you. I’d hate to see them blown up.”

He thrust his hands into his trouser pockets, grinned, the cockiness slowly returning.

“You have nice clothes,” said Stone. “Kiven?”

“That’s right.”

The front of his shiny shirt was dirt-stained. He began to brush at it.

“Are you kidding me? Do you know how much this cost? This is rare material. Look at this, I only bought it last month.”

His hand tensed in mid-stroke.

His raised his eyes.

“Why are you pointing your gun at me?”