Deadly Powers (Tapped In Book 2) (29 page)

I couldn’t argue with that. I opened my weapon’s cylinder to verify it was loaded. “You ready?”

Carver nodded and drew both guns. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

We walked only three steps before passing an open alleyway. I spotted the glow of a cigarette first. As the cowboy’s hand touched his side, I pointed my Colt and pulled the trigger. The gunshot was loud, and echoed into the storm.

“Fuck!” Carver said, startled. “I didn’t even see him hiding in there.”

I hurried toward his slumped over body and checked his pulse. He was dead—a bullet hole in his left temple. I pried the six-shooter from his still-clenched fingers and holstered the gun. Spotting a second gun on his other hip I took that one, as well.

“So much for a sneak attack,” I said.

* * *

Pippa used the tip of her tongue to explore the crack in her lower lip, the result of a recent backhand from Palmolive. She saw her guard eyeing her.

“I need to go to the bathroom.”

“You went an hour ago. You can hold it,” he said, with a glance in her direction.

“Well I need to go again,” she said, holding up her bound wrists, “so how am I going to escape … there’s nine of you here and I’m tied up.”

“Fine. You know where the bucket is. But hurry it up.” He gestured toward the stall, adjacent to where she was seated on a hay bale. She stood and, with her ankles also bound, shuffled over to the empty stall. Two men, standing beside Palmolive, looked over at her, then back to their boss, who was angrily barking orders into what looked to be a satellite phone. She disappeared behind the wall, leaned her back against it, and lowered herself down to the hay-strewn ground. Tears filled her eyes as she recounted what had transpired hours earlier. She was forced to watch, from the street in front of the saloon, as Rob, hands bound behind his back, was manhandled up onto a second-story railing. A hangman’s noose was placed over his head, then secured around his neck. She could tell he was barely hanging on, suffering from the effects of the blow to his head, as well as undergoing withdrawal symptoms. How he was able to keep his balance for the few minutes she’d watched him was a miracle. Palmolive had assembled those left—the second group of men who’d safely exited the silver mine after the blast—as well as his own men.

“Take a good look, my friends,” Palmolive said. “This is what disloyalty looks like. I had such high hopes for Doc, hanging up there. Actually, he’s Rob Chandler, an agent of sorts, from an insignificant little agency that will soon cease to exist. Let this be a reminder to you how any deception, among those within the Order, is dealt with.”

As if accentuating his words, thunder cracked above, and it began to rain. They dragged her away, as Rob teetered on the railing high above them. Their eyes briefly met before she lost sight of him in the storm’s pending gloom.

There was no way he could survive this long. Right now, his dead body was surely hanging limp from that pole. She brought her arms up and hid her face in her tied together hands. Between gaps in her fingers she saw the small dog, staring up at her. They’d shot at him, laughing as the poor animal ran one way and then another—terrified. She was surprised to see him still alive.

In a hushed voice she said, “Stupid dog, why’d you come back here?”

The dog tilted his head, wagged his tail, then dropped something by her feet. Pippa studied the small object, lying before her, not sure what it was. She picked it up and turned it over in her fingers. As the beginning of a smile reached her lips, she heard a distant gunshot.

Gunshots erupted and Carver took a hit to his upper arm. I grabbed on to his shirt and together we dove and landed behind a wooden water trough. I didn’t expect to see men also positioned on a rooftop across the street from the barn, especially in this storm. Bullet rounds continued to pummel the ground all around us, and into the quickly emptying-out trough, now riddled with holes.

“They both have rifles,” I said.

“And they know how to use them,” Carver replied back, grimacing.

“How bad?” I asked, returning pistol fire in their general direction.

“Grazed
…
hurts like the devil, though,” Carver said.

“We need to get out of here
…
we’re sitting ducks.” I peeked my head around the side. Two more rounds impacted the muddy street, mere inches from my face.

“I’m open to ideas.”

I scanned the street and the next building, standing between us and the barn—where a large, overhead mounted sign read, O.K. Corral. I looked more closely at the barn. It was dark, nearly black in color, and made from distressed wood; its high-pitched roof topped a second story. Surely, that meant a loft was up there. A smaller access door was positioned four feet above the barn’s main entry door.

I looked over to Carver. He must have been following my sightline, because he said, “I think I can make it up there from the alleyway.”

“You?”

“Arm’s hurt but it’s working just fine. I was a gymnast in my youth. Wait for me to get into position … and give me some cover. I’ll enter from the roof. You find a way in from down here.” With that, Carver was gone, sprinting back toward the alleyway where the dead cowboy still lay slumped over.

I fired several more shots across the street, in the direction of the two gunmen. To my surprise, I next saw Carver precariously standing on a propped-up wagon wheel, as he pulled himself up to the lowest section of roofline. He hung there for a moment, before swinging his legs up and over sideways.

The gunfire increased, not just from across the street. At least two, maybe three, men were firing from the open barn door. As all traces of residue water drained from the trough, several rounds exploded right through to my side of the wood planking—one struck, lodging in my gun belt.

The rain was easing up now, the visibility better—enough that I could clearly make out one man, shooting from the barn. I had one predominant hope—that he was an idiot. My whole mind-control talent was limited to simple things—like suggesting someone scratch his nose, or inserting certain mental images to help in two-way communications. I discovered over the last year that the less intelligence a person had, the more easily they could be influenced to do things by merely inserting mental suggestions. Pippa, highly intelligent, was not suggestible in the least; neither was Baltimore.

A subsonic round flew past my right ear, leaving a
pssst
-sound in its wake. I zeroed in on the gunman, standing furthest to the left in the open barn door, and concentrated:

Run … run to the middle of the street … you’ll have a better vantage point … hurry … go now!

Apparently, he wasn’t very smart. In what seemed an impromptu show of bravery, the man darted from his position of relative safety, firing off three shots in my direction.

I fired once and watched him tumble over dead into the street. I turned back just in time to catch Carver crawling into the loft’s access opening.

Two men were firing toward me from the barn’s entryway, and another two from the roofline across the street. The emptied water trough was quickly turning into woody Swiss cheese. Using my toes, I eased up just enough to see around the trough, and got a good look at one of the gunmen on the roof. He, like me, was lying on his stomach, taking aim with his Winchester. I entered into his mind and saw what he saw—me—hiding behind the trough. Then, through his eyes when he glanced sideways, I could also see the others, positioned at the barn doors. As though his rifle was held in my own hands, I quickly readjusted his aim an inch to the left and pulled the trigger. I’d never made that kind of a mental suggestion before and allowed myself a quick smile. One of the men, standing in the barn doorway, staggered forward and grabbed his throat. I cringed:
a nasty way to go
.

Another gunman took his place and began firing—alternating between my position, and the rooftop’s second gunman. I tried several times to repeat my successful, remote-shooting technique, but apparently it was a one-time-only phenomenon.

Two more rounds erupted through the disintegrating wood planks and I decided I needed to make my move. I rushed back to the open alleyway, where I momentarily held up behind the dead cowboy. Almost immediately, his slumped body was riddled with a handful of bullets. I sprinted down the long alleyway, waiting for the next round to get me in the back. It never came and I didn’t stop running until I turned the corner. My intent was to move toward the backside of the barn, then enter through the fenced horse corral on the barn’s other side. There, hopefully, I could get a better angle at the enemy’s positioning at the barn doors.

Halfway around the back of the barn I held up to reload my three pistols with the spare bullets on my belt. With that accomplished, I moved off, but then quickly held up. There was a blackened section of siding and I could smell the acrid tinge of charcoal in the nearby air. I flashed back to what Johnny Ringo’d related of his foiled escape attempt from the barn. Apparently, he’d nearly succeeded.

Knowing seasoned gunmen could come running around the corner at any second, I used the barrel of my Colt to poke at the blackened wood siding. With almost no resistance, it passed right through. I continued scrutinizing the little hole. It all came down to this moment—I would either survive or not, but I had to try. I needed to crash through the siding, guns blazing, and hope I didn’t kill Pippa, or Carver … or the dog, in the process.

All gunfire outside the barn suddenly ceased and Pippa could hear Palmolive’s high-pitched voice reprimanding someone on the other end of the line: “Get your fucking men back here … No! … No! … let me put it to you this way, you have ten minutes; after that, you’re dead … you’re all dead.”

She guessed he was talking to his outlying security team—calling them back in to help fend off whoever was out there shooting at them. Several of Palmolive’s men had just been killed and he was quickly becoming unhinged.

Pacing back and forth and grumbling, every so often Palmolive strode past the opening of the stall she was sitting in. Pippa waited for him to pass by her again, then awkwardly flipped the small knife over between her fingers and began moving its blade up and down—slicing through the leather binding on her wrists. Stopping, just before cutting all the way through it, she inspected her handiwork. A good tug would tear the leather apart. She duplicated the same maneuver on the strap binding her ankles together. Frowning at her dirty bare feet, she realized that somewhere along the way she’d stepped in horse shit.

Startled, she heard a board creak directly over her head—someone was moving around up there. She might have missed it, but she couldn’t recall any of Palmolive’s men going up there. She tried to keep her hopes in check—that the delivery of the knife was … well … just a fluke. Maybe the dog was showing off a trick he’d learned or … no, that was no accident. Could she dare hope Rob was still alive? Was he one of the gunmen shooting outside?
But how?

“Hey! What’s taking you so long?”

Pippa nearly jumped out of her skin. Standing at the stall’s opening was her guard. She looked down at her hands and the knife was clearly visible. Then, most fortuitously, she realized the guard’s face was actually turned away—apparently, giving her privacy to pee.

Pocketing the knife, she stood. “I’m all done.”

The guard turned toward her and, gesturing with the long muzzle of his rifle, silently told her to return back to the same hay bale.

“Leave us,” came another voice.

At first obstructed by the bigger man’s form, Pippa now saw Palmolive—he was off the phone and standing by impatiently. He repeated the command again, “I said, leave us!”

The guard hurried away.

Palmolive’s face was flushed with anger, and he stared at her with murder in his eyes. “Who’s out there? Who’s shooting? Tell me now!”

“You’re asking me?” Pippa said with contempt, then laughed.

Catching her by surprise, he punched her in the face. The blow landed squarely on her left cheekbone—knocking her backward into the stall and up against the wall. With his fists up, like a boxer, he punched out again—this time hitting her in the mouth. She tasted blood and tried to raise her hands to defend herself. But the violent blows were coming faster and faster now. She was only slightly aware that she was losing consciousness.

She snapped awake, feeling as though her scalp was being ripped from her head. Palmolive was dragging her by her hair. Desperate, Pippa kicked and screamed and reached out to grab ahold of his tightly clenched fingers, then felt the leather strap on her wrists pull apart. He’d no sooner dragged her into the center of the barn than all hell broke loose.

Like an inward explosion … something … no … someone crashed through the back of the barn. In a blur, the man—a six-shooter in each hand—began firing.

Suddenly, she felt the grip on her hair release as Palmolive ducked away to take cover. She covered her head, curling into a ball, as the mayhem around her continued. More gunfire erupted from above in the loft. The man with the two six-shooters ducked behind a six-foot-tall stack of hay. Did Palmolive recognize him? … Oh my God!

* * *

Bursting into the back of the barn, I immediately assessed the situation. First, I caught sight of Palmolive, five paces ahead of me, dragging something behind him. There was a scream. Jude and Jordan were standing to my left, at a makeshift table of wooden planks supported by two sawhorses. Two of Palmolive’s armed cowboys stood by the barn doors; three others, all armed with rifles, were arbitrarily positioned around the large barn.

Palmolive ducked and scurried away as I shot the closest rifleman to my right in the chest. Gunfire came down from above—that would be Carver, joining in the fight. I scrambled behind a stack of hay bales to my left, as more gunfire, aimed in my general direction, erupted all around me.