Men of Truth (The Wasteland Soldier #4)

THIRTY NINE

It was a modest estate for a town mayor.

A one-storey brick house with a picket fence and a hand-carved wooden sign set in the lawn out front. There were scattered wooden outbuildings, dark and bolted. There was no visible external security. Jefferson was extremely arrogant or realised that no amount of guns and defences would stop the most determined of men.

The front door was opened by a tall man with a beard. He was smartly-dressed and wore a pistol on his hip. He gave a short nod and held the door open, glancing down at Cali’s chest. Stone hit him, jabbing his right fist into the man’s nose, all the power from his shoulder and torso. There was the crunch of bone and a spray of blood. Stone hit him again, around the head, rendering him unconscious.

A second man appeared, the same attire, and reached for his pistol. Stone whipped out his revolver, cocked the hammer.

The man’s hand hovered.

“Take it out,” said Stone. “Finger and thumb, nice and slow.”

He stepped into the hallway and Cali moved around him, drawing her pistol from the back of her skirt and holding it with both hands. She closed the door with her hip, looked along the barrel and licked the perspiration from her upper lip.

Gingerly, the man lifted the gun from its holster.

“Drop it,” said Stone. “Kick it over.”

The man stubbed his boot against it and it skated across the cement floor.

“On your knees, face the wall, hands behind your head.”

He complied without protest. There was a painting hung above his head, a coastal scene, foamy waves crashing against a beach, people with blurred faces.

“How many more?” said Stone.

“Two more.”

Stone clubbed him across the head. He slumped sideways onto the floor. There was an open doorway at the back of the hall. A figure dashed across it, male, bald-headed, a bruised face. Stone recognised him at once. A muzzle blazed and the gunshots were shockingly loud in the narrow hallway.

Cali rolled through a doorway, bent around it, firing. Stone shouldered through the door opposite, slamming it wide, an empty room with rugs, paintings and bookshelves.

A second man appeared, armed.

Bullets whipped along the hallway.

A hanging lamp shattered, spraying pieces of glass on the floor.

Stone caught movement out of the corner of his eye, behind Cali, and swivelled. It was Rawles and his pistol was drawn.

He planted it in the back of Cali’s head.

“No more,” he said.

She twisted her mouth with disgust and eased her finger off the trigger. Her tongue flicked across her painted lips.

“Motherfucker,” she said.

“Put it down, miss. Get your hands up.”

She did and slowly lifted her arms. Rawles took a step back into the room. Stone kept his revolver on him.

Rawles called out to the mayor’s men. “Boys, hang back. I’m still the sheriff. Out there and in here. This is under control.”

“Get that fucking piece off me, man.”

“Just keep calm, Cali. I don’t want to hurt you.”

He stared across the hallway.

“Throw down the revolver and shotgun, Stone. You’re done here.”

“Shoot that cocksucker, Stone.”

“Be quiet, girl.” said Rawles, sternly. “Stone? I don’t want any more shooting.”

Stone could hear the two men in the hallway, to his right, moving cautiously.

“Don’t give up it up, man,” said Cali.

He tossed out the revolver. It clattered loudly. Cali swore.

“Now the shotgun,” said Rawles.

Stone eased the strap from his shoulder.

The bald-headed man was a few paces away, his companion tucked in behind.

“Please, Stone,” said Rawles.

Stone looked at Cali.

She looked back at him. Rawles sensed it.

“No,” he whispered.

Stone dropped, twisted and fired along the corridor. The shotgun boomed, tearing off the face of the bald-headed man and hurling him back. Cali whipped out her knife, lightning fast. She spun and slashed at Rawles, the tip cutting along his hand and wrist. Stone let off the second barrel and the last of the guards flopped down in a heap. Cali wrestled with the sheriff. The blade plunged into his gut.

He cried out through gritted teeth. She yanked the knife free with a splash of blood. Stone clubbed him with the shotgun and Rawles tumbled into a large room with a fire burning beneath a stone hearth, blood leaking through his hands.

Stone thumbed the lever to break open the shotgun. He tipped the barrels up and the empty shells popped out. At the same time, he fished into his pocket for two more and quickly dropped them in.

He followed the wounded man and suddenly became aware of more people in the room.

He snapped the shotgun, thrust it into his shoulder and swung round. He glimpsed the occupants and his finger eased off the trigger.

She had to be seventy or eighty years old. Her hair was white, skin gaunt, eyes dark brown. He hadn’t realised the mayor was an old woman. She was frail looking and in a wheelchair. A hand-rolled cigarette was clamped between discoloured fingers. She had trouble breathing but there was steel in her eyes as she dragged on the cigarette. She wasn’t alone. Jodie sat beside her, the two of them at a plain wooden table. They appeared calm, untroubled by the violence of the past few minutes.

Keeping his shotgun trained on them, he retrieved his tossed revolver and tucked it into his belt.

The white-haired woman sucked on her cigarette. A wisp of smoke curled around her thin lips.

“I’m Mayor Jefferson. I summoned you here tonight and you responded how men like you always respond.”

She wheezed, fought to catch her breath. Stone could barely hear her. She dragged on her cigarette, held within crooked fingers.

“Maybe you shouldn’t have had one of your men following me,” said Cali. “What the fuck was that all about?”

Jefferson lifted her arm and revealed the stolen wanted poster.

“Because of this. You’re a thief and a murderer. How do you benefit us? What part of our future will you be? You thought you could come here and march off with whatever you wanted. Did you think we’re that stupid? That ruse with the coins was pathetic. Silver Road has been here for centuries. We watch. We listen. We work people out. We are not naïve. We know all there is to know about people like you.”

“Calm down,” said Jodie.

But Jefferson was alive. The fire burned in her eyes. She focused her attention back on Stone.

“Your friends have loose tongues. We’ve heard all about the people you killed and the ones you would have killed had you had the means to do so.”

She cupped a hand around her mouth, coughed heavily. Her eyes began to water.

“You are no different than the monsters we send to Starkville.”

Rawles began to struggle to his feet, ashen-faced. He was clutching his bleeding stomach. Stone nodded at Cali and she pointed her gun at him.

“They’re not all bad,” he said, and grimaced. “Stone is a fair man. I’ve got to know him since he arrived.”

The two women ignored him. Blood pulsed through his fingers. Cali stared along her gun and saw Jeremiah, dying the same way at the hands of Triple Death. A wave of regret washed over her. She wanted to crawl inside herself and wished she hadn’t worn these clothes and painted her face.

Stone stepped toward the table, barrels pointed at the two women.

“You know what we want. Tell us the number of the box.”

Jefferson was silent.

“We want the weapon,” said Cali. “Or it’ll be the end of everything, including Silver Road. Don’t you bitches get it? This is for you as well.”

“Weapon?” said Rawles. “What weapon? What are they talking about, Mayor Jefferson?”

Stone looked at the sheriff. He chewed his lip and lowered the shotgun, grabbed a chair and forced the old man onto it. He ripped at his torn shirt, exposing the knife wound.

“Not this time,” he said.

He spun round, pointed at Jodie.

“You, help him.”

She didn’t move.

“He’s wounded. Get on your fucking feet.”

Jefferson nodded, and Jodie rose from the table, expressionless. Stone tracked her movement with the shotgun. There was a cabinet slotted into the corner with a vase standing on top of it. She opened it and took out a half-bottle of whiskey and a small black bag.

“Toss it over,” he said.

She threw it at him, folded her arms. He poked inside and saw bandages, adhesives, creams, needles, and thread.

“You ever stitch a wound?”

She nodded.

“Do it.”

She crouched beside Rawles, talking to him softly. Cali kept her gun on the pair of them as Stone confronted Jefferson once more

“Tell us the number.”

“I’ll never help a man like you.”

“Then we’ll tear the bank apart until we find it.”

Rawles fidgeted as Jodie rinsed his wound with whiskey. “What are we hiding in the bank? What is this weapon?”

Jefferson chose to ignore the sheriff’s question.

“That’s right,” said Stone. “Like all good politicians and people with power.”

She looked at the shotgun.

“Are you really going to shoot me, Stone? Is that the legacy of the proud wasteland soldier?”

“Your guards are dead, your sheriff is down and I don’t give a fuck about legacy. There are thousands of lives at stake. That’s all that counts. I don’t have time for your bullshit. Right now, there’s a woman in the wasteland, a trained killer with explosives and an automatic weapon. She’s coming here and wants the same thing. Only she plans to destroy it and won’t care how many innocents die in the process.”

He stared at her.

“Deal with me or deal with her.”

Jodie looked over her shoulder, hands bloody.

“Stone?”

He didn’t look round. “What?”

“It’s deep, I can’t stop the blood.”

He’d seen a fireplace with a brick surround at the front of the room, a low fire crackling.

“Cauterize it,” he said.

“Are you sure?”

“You know an alternative?”

Rawles drank from the whiskey bottle. He knew what was coming. Sweat poured down his face. He desperately wanted to become a grandfather. Cali handed over her knife and Jodie sterilised the blade with the last drop of whiskey before placing it on the fire. Cali kept her pistol on her. She didn’t trust any of them. The tip of the knife began to glow. Jodie twisted a cloth round and round and Rawles bit down. Cali had never seen a wound cauterized before. She wasn’t too sure she wanted to see it but couldn’t tear her eyes away. Jodie picked up the knife. Her hand was steady. Rawles kicked and squirmed. Cali grimaced. She looked away. She was with Pavla once more and Timo was burning her hands. She ducked out into the hallway, bile in her mouth, the smell of burning flesh in her nostrils.

She put her hand against the wall, bent her neck and threw up.

She panted, tried to catch her breath.

Her face was covered with a cold sweat.

There was sudden movement. It one of the two men Stone had knocked out. He stirred, dived across the hallway and snatched up one of the dropped pistols. Cali fired, drilling the bullet into his eye. The round popped out the back of his head with a spray of blood.

She swore, angry, and fired a second time, and then a third, and a fourth, and a fifth, and then she lost count.

His body crumpled, riddled with bullets.

“Cali?”

A pool of blood spread across the cement floor.

“It’s all good.” She dropped her voice to a hush. “It’s all good.”

Stone looked down at Rawles. His eyes were closed. “He passed out,” said Jodie. “I don’t know if …”

“Go and sit with the mayor.”

She shuffled past him but Jefferson shook her head as she reached for her seat.

“Show him,” she said.

She wheezed, pressed a hand into her chest.

Jodie shook her head. “No.”

“Show him, Jodie. Then he will understand and he will leave us. I will not allow him to take it.”

She looked at Stone, mouth straight, eyes empty. He frowned as she reached for the buttons on her cardigan. She slipped it off her shoulders, hooked it around the back of her chair.

She wore a ribbed jumper, long sleeves, roll-necked. She reached for the hem.

“What the fuck are you doing?” he asked.

Her fingers stopped.

“I will not surrender it to you, Stone,” said Jefferson. “You will understand.”

“Keep your damn clothes on.”

“Show him.”

Jodie peeled off the jumper. Her skin was pale white, freckled, and pinched against her bones. He could see her ribcage. Cali came back into the room, pistol in one hand, a painting in the other. She saw Rawles on the floor, stomach black, and Jodie at the table, exposed, hands at her waist, eyes blank.

“Oh, fuck,” she said.

The multiple scars criss-crossed her breasts and her stomach, long lines, curling, like the ruptures in the sky.

Stone lowered the shotgun.

“I’m sorry that was done to you,” he said.

She stared straight through him, picked up her jumper and pulled it over her head.

“A soldier like you did this, Stone,” said Jefferson. “A fighting man. Ten years ago. I will never surrender that weapon to fighting men.”