Men of Truth (The Wasteland Soldier #4)

All men broke.

Stone had tortured men in the past, he’d been tortured himself, and he knew there was only so much pain a man could take, a limit they would go to, no matter how well trained or hard they were. Some men lasted for days. Some lasted only seconds. With some it was all about the threat. He never enjoyed torture; it was a tool, nothing more than that.

Cali climbed into his head, burnt hands and slashed face. He wondered if Pavla and Timo been faced with the same dilemma, knowing that only torture would unpick the answers they needed from her.

He didn’t like the way his head was turning things around. He shut out all the noise.

But he bore the blue armband and that was a noise that demanded to be heard. The situation here in Silver Road was different. A few years ago he would have marched into town shooting anyone who crossed his path, and taken the bank by force before shooting his way back out until he was beyond the trees, leaving streets drenched in blood. That had been then, and this was now, and he did not want a civilian massacre. He needed a more subtle approach.

Besides, he was heavily-outnumbered by enforcement officers and forest marksmen.

Stone knew he had to follow their way of things to get answers. He kept his guns tucked into his belt, his knife and machete sheathed, his fists unclenched. The man sat on the edge of the bunk and answered every question with a sigh, an arrogant shake of the head or an overly long yawn. Once he even cupped a hand around his ear, as if not hearing the question.

Stone gritted his teeth, held the urge to take out his knife and whip off one of the man’s ears.

“The prison truck comes tonight.”

The bald-headed man gave a slow hand clap.

“Well done, it does.”

“That means you’re going to Starkville.”

The shirtless man in the end cell was on his feet now, wiping his glistening upper torso with a towel.

“A life sentence of hard labour,” said Stone. “Unless you talk.”

The bald-headed man stifled a fake yawn. “I don’t think so.” But Stone had chipped away a little. “I’m not going in any damn truck. Go and get Rawles. Right now. Hurry up.”

“You have a tongue then?”

“You’re making a big mistake. You’re non-approved. Get Rawles.”

Stone glanced at the other prisoner. He was shadowboxing; two punches, lean, two more, step back, four, lean, two, lean, another four.

He turned his focus to the bald-headed man.

“Why were you following her?”

“You’ve got your head screwed on wrong. I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

Stone got to his feet, looked around. There was a metal rack of wooden shelves against the wall, loaded with large square-shaped tubs, and an empty office with a large window, door closed.

He headed for the corridor.

“You don’t have a clue what you’re doing,” said the bald-headed man. “Get back here.”

Stone stopped, came back toward the cells but ignored his prisoner and headed for the cell at the end.

He growled at the black man. “You want something?”

The shadowboxing stopped. The man looked back at him. He was round-faced with cropped hair and a goatee beard, a solid mouth, clenched and unsmiling. He was in his late twenties, early thirties, his eyes stern and filled with bile. He had plenty of bulk on him and wore only black trousers. A dark green shirt was draped on the bunk with a pair of boots neatly arranged beneath.

Stone continued to stare at him.

The man never broke eye contact.

“You took an interest when I was talking to that asshole. Do you know him?”

The man lowered his clenched fists and shook his head.

“Don’t worry. They’re throwing you in the truck tonight as well. You can get to know him then.”

There was no reaction, nothing. Stone walked away, scraping a hand against his short beard. He moved quickly toward his prisoner. The bald-headed man looked up sharply as Stone thrust the key into the gate and yanked it open. Stone clubbed him with his revolver, dropping him to the ground, putting him out.

“Now we can talk.”

The black man said nothing.

“You got a name?”

“Palmer.”

“I’m Stone. Sheriff Rawles reckoned you killed that deputy by accident.”

Palmer said nothing.

“Doesn’t matter if you did or didn’t because they’re going to truck you out of here to Starkville.”

“We’ll see.”

“Do you know about Starkville?”

“I killed a law officer. We both know how that plays out.”

“What do you mean?”

“Do you think these people will stand by and let me get driven away?”

Stone nodded.

“Why are we talking … lawman?”

“I’m as much a lawman as you’re just a regular prisoner. You’re the sixteenth man. Why the fuck didn’t you stick with Jeremiah?”

Not a flicker.

“I can see it in your eyes. URA. United Republican Army.”

“I’m not in any army. You’ve got the wrong man.”

“You’re a soldier,” said Stone. “Like Jeremiah was.”

Palmer’s dark brown eyes caught hold of word was and realised its terrible implications.

“Yeah, he got himself killed by a drug gang.”

Nothing.

“I know where the weapon is, Palmer. But I don’t know what it is. I’m guessing you do.”

Nothing.

“I was told there are thousands of lives at stake.”

Still nothing.

“Listen,” said Stone. “I’ve been that side of the cage more times than I can count. I’ve never stood this side.”

He took the piece of paper from his pocket, unfolded it, and pressed it against the bars.

“It’s a code, isn’t it? What does it mean?”

Palmer nodded toward the unconscious prisoner. “What did that fool do?”

“He was following Jeremiah’s friend. Why did you leave him when you knew his list of rangers had been compromised?”

There was no answer.

“Timo is dead. I had two chances to take Pavla down. She beat me both times.”

“You know a lot of information, Stone.” He flexed his arms. “Open the cell and we can talk some more.”

Stone hooked his thumbs into his belt.

“Do I look like a fucking idiot to you?”

The man grinned.

“I’m not that stupid, either, Peshkin.”

The door in the corridor opened. Stone heard voices approaching.

“Peshkin?”

Rawles and Carlton marched into the holding area.

“Stone,” said Rawles.

“In here.”

There was a desk, and two chairs, and nothing else in the room. Rawles closed the door and dragged out one of the chairs.

Stone stood at the window, bristling with frustration as Carlton roused the bald-headed man.

The man straightened his jacket, tugged at his cuffs and looked over at Stone with a sly grin.

“Who is he?”

“I don’t know his name,” said Rawles.

Stone turned around.

“How does that work?”

“I don’t ask questions like that.”

“He was following Cali. He freaked her out. He broke the law.”

“He didn’t take anything. It’s not a crime to walk the streets of Silver Road.”

Stone fumed. “This is shit.”

“It is. But if you want to be approved to stay then you leave it alone. The decision is tomorrow.”

“Why do you allow a stranger to walk your town?”

“He’s not a stranger. He works for Mayor Jefferson. But I don’t know who he is. Do you understand me, Stone?”

“Yeah, I understand.”

“Good.”

Rawles got to his feet, slid the chair back under the table, and leaned against it.

“I like you, Stone, that’s obvious. We have a lot in common. We like talking guns and drinking whiskey, and we like doing the right thing. I might be a little less … robust … but I still want scum put behind bars and shipped out. This is a good town, a clean family town. There was a time it was bloody and ugly. But that’s in the past and we’re building something here and Mayor Jefferson is a huge part of that. Sometimes you have to suck it down, no matter how bitter the taste.”

He jabbed a meaty finger at the armband Stone wore.

“I chose you for that because you have the right skills and commitment. I know you’re a bit rough around the edges, your people skills need a lot of work, but I’ve put my reputation on the line because I have a good feeling about you. Now, I told you to take the day off. Go back to motel, get some rest. And don’t forget your meeting with the mayor tonight.”

Stone nodded.

“What does Peshkin mean?”

Rawles shook his head.

“I don’t know. I’ve never heard of that word.”