Men of Truth (The Wasteland Soldier #4)

Stone splashed through puddles, arms and legs pumping, eyes on the rooftops above and the alleyways ahead. He hated letting Cali take the bank alone but it could take her hours to locate the flag and he couldn’t be in two places at once. Palmer was the sixteenth man Jeremiah had gone into the wasteland with. He needed to bust him out before he was killed. He didn’t trust him, not yet, but he was the only connection to New Washington.

Lightning crackled through the black sky, illuminating shuttered buildings. Seconds later followed a boom of ground-trembling thunder.

Rawles trailed behind him, gasping as his boots hit the ground.

“I didn’t know Jefferson was planning to turn on you,” said Rawles, as he caught up, breathing hard. “I didn’t know until tonight.”

He clutched his stomach, and winced.

“You played me all week long,” said Stone.

Rawles fumed. “Were you doing anything different with me? You came here to break our only law.”

“I don’t give a shit about your law.”

“Then the mayor was right about you, about what you are.”

Stone tensed and whipped out his revolver. Someone was in the shadows.

“Get back.”

Rawles ducked into a doorway, without a word, glad of the respite. He mopped his drenched brow and fingered his blistered skin. He thought of his wife, his children and his future grandchild growing inside his daughter, Andrea. His head began to spin and he grew nauseous. He was glad Cali was not around. He couldn’t bear to look at her or hear her voice. She had driven that knife into him without hesitation. He couldn’t believe he was standing by and allowing her to rob the bank. He felt the past was crawling back into Silver Road, unravelling his wonderful town.

But he was in no condition to take out the man responsible. Not yet. He would have to see how the night played out.

Carlton turned up his collar, hunkered down inside his coat, and stood unmoving as a jagged arc of lightning split the sky. Through the pouring rain, he could see the blink of headlamps as the prison truck followed the road through the trees, heading for the bridge.

The creek below was black. He thought of Nicky, simple and kind and never really suited for this job.

Rawles should have been on duty tonight, with Stone, but the sheriff had told him there might be a delay in returning from his meeting with the mayor and that he was to proceed with the handover. Carlton looked over his shoulder toward the barracks. A group of men walked toward the building. It was unlocked. They went inside with hammers, pick handles and a length of rope. The handover was going to happen, just not the way the law stated.

Carlton kept his back to them.

A rain-drenched figure sprinted toward him from the bridge.

“Carlton?”

It was Guzman, six months a deputy, gangly and black-haired, light brown skin, a thin moustache, nineteen years old.

“Shouldn’t we fetch the prisoner?”

“No.”

He said nothing else. The rain dripped off the rim of his hat.

“But the truck is here.”

Guzman frowned, and pointed at the barracks. “Who are those men? What’s going on?”

Carlton grabbed the young man by his shoulders and forced him around, facing the bridge.

“What’s going on is there’s no one for the truck tonight. And I’ll have to live with that.”

Palmer stared at the ceiling, thinking out his moves. Rain hammered against the roof. He’d been in worse places.

Rawles had not lit the lamps and no one had brought him food but that was because they intended to ship him out tonight. It would be the first time he had left the cell since the shooting. There hadn’t been a single opportunity since he’d tossed his gun on the bridge and been taken into custody. He no longer thought about the man he’d killed. He’d killed before. That wasn’t the problem. But he’d overhead the man had been named Nicky and was considered backward. That left a tang of guilt. It was like killing a child.

But Palmer was an expert at compartmentalising. Nicky had been moved into a box with the lid shut for good.

Tonight they would have to open the cell gate, the first time since his capture, and that was all he needed. He had been chosen for a reason. This was what he had trained for. This was why they should have come to him and his unit first, not entrusted it with Major Cartwright and the 2nd rangers. The death of fifteen men and women from the ranks of the URA spiked his gut - this was the kind of work Palmer’s unit existed for. Those lives could have been saved. They should have been saved. Only Jeremiah had sought glory, calling in favours and coveting a place in history as the man who would rebirth a nation.

Lying on his bunk, legs outstretched, boots on, he looked across at the wooden rack of plastic tubs and his thoughts turned to Stone. The man intrigued him. The brooding stranger had seen through him within seconds. That wasn’t an easy thing to do. There was no scent of the enemy on him. He didn’t look or sound Peshkin and he’d asked all the wrong questions to be working for them.

A door creaked and the corridor splashed with lamplight.

Palmer swung his boots off the bunk.

He heard footsteps, whispering.

Here it comes, he thought, payback.

He got to his feet, shadow boxed, jabbing and swinging.

Lightning flashed through the barred window as a group of men filed into the cell area, holding weapons.

A hare-lipped ringleader stepped toward the gate, jangling a ring of keys in one hand.

“Nicky was a dumbass but he was our friend. Even if he wore the blue. You had no right to take him.”

The group of men whooped and jeered.

The ringleader stared at Palmer and raised a coil of rope, a swinging noose at one end

“Hanging time, colour man.”

Declan held his breath. He was the only one who knew how to handle a vehicle but he sorely wished he wasn’t.

The storm was unsettling him. It was turning his stomach in circles. The wipers swiped furiously at the rain and the tyres slid about on the greasy surface of the forest track. He was terrified the truck was going to flip over or skid off into the creek. The wind rocked it from side to side. He could hear the others moving around in the back. He could hear his Ma’s laughter above the ragged storm.

Rain sprayed through the splintered windshield.

Gripping the wheel tight, he bounced onto the bridge.

The headlamps shone over a large pothole, gushing with rainwater, and he swerved, jerking the steering wheel sharply, his palms sticky with sweat.

Sullivan yelled out as he was slammed about. Aye, serves you fucking right, thought Declan.

He righted the truck once more and stared ahead, not daring to look down.

Silver Road nestled in the belly of a huge canyon, streets and low buildings ringed by tall trees

There were two men waiting for him.

Stone twisted his revolver as Yuan burst from the darkness, arms wide. She rushed toward him and he lowered the hammer.

“What are you doing here?”

Her cheeks were stained with tears. Her black hair was plastered to her skull. She threw her arms around him but he peeled her off.

“I told you already …”

“Pavla is at the motel. Weaver is dead. She’s killing them all. All the people in the cabins.”

Rawles stumbled forward, placed a hand on Stone’s shoulder, pointed toward the barracks.

There were two men loitering outside, sheltering beneath the overhanging porch roof.

“They’re not deputies,” he said. “Something’s wrong.”

Stone grabbed Yuan. “Go to the bank. Rawles will tell you how to get there. Warn Cali that Pavla is in the town and tell her to make for the barracks once she’s done. She mustn’t wait for me there.”

“What is she doing at the bank?” said Yuan.

“There’s no time for questions,” he shouted.

He pressed his revolver into her hand.

“Forget the knife,” he said. “If anyone comes don’t hesitate with this.”