Midnight (34 page)
The wailing grew softer, dwindling to one woman’s hopeless, anguished sobs. It was Maryann, who didn’t seem to believe anyone was coming to help them.
“Hang on,” she whispered. “I’m almost there.”
Rosa almost shot Singer as the girl careened around the corner. “What the hell are you doing out here?”
“I can’t find Rio. I thought he might be trying to protect the girls.”
So she did care about the kid. But this wasn’t the time for declarations of affection.
“I’m sure he’s fine, but he’s probably fighting. You need to get someplace safe.”
“And where would
that
be?”
that
be?”
Mierda.
Good point.
Good point.
“You got your gun?” In answer, Singer cocked her pistol. She wasn’t the best shot but better than nothing. “Stay close to me,
nena
. This shit’s gonna get ugly.”
nena
. This shit’s gonna get ugly.”
With a grim nod, Singer fell in behind her. They would defend the women Chris had rescued. The bravos were outnumbered, unprepared, and probably outgunned. Rosa’s only hope lay in surprising those inside the makeshift clinic. One day soon, provided they all survived this, she’d talk to Chris about erecting a permanent place where he could see patients. It would be a peace offering, a way to show that she believed in him, even if she didn’t share his crazy liberal ideas.
She and Singer crept around the corner of the adobe building, hearing cries, smashing glass, and the unmistakable thud of a fist hitting soft flesh. Rosa saw red. Gesturing Singer back, she kicked the door open and blasted the first raider she saw. Stupid assholes. If they hadn’t manhandled the merchandise, she wouldn’t have arrived in time.
Viv lay on the floor with a bloody face, a broken table leg beside her. Rosa guessed she had been using it as a weapon. They’d clocked her rather than kill her, maybe because she was too valuable to kill, even at her age.
We’re not trade goods,
pendejos
.
We’re not trade goods,
pendejos
.
“Don’t hurt them,” Viv pleaded. “Not these girls. They’ve been through enough.
Please
don’t hurt them.”
Please
don’t hurt them.”
“Rosa!” Maryann screamed.
A raider drew up his weapon and aimed at Rosa. “You killed Stan, you fucking bitch.”
“And I’m gonna get the rest of you too.” She took aim, knowing one of them would hit her once the firing started.
No cover. She would die. But she’d die like she did everything, with as much ferocity and fuck-you as she could muster.
Come on, then. Come. On.
“Don’t kill that one.” A bigger raider stayed his man’s hand, aiming the gun away from Rosa. The rest of the men stilled. Rosa did too, a creeping dread choking her throat. “She looks like she’s young enough to bear yet. Shoot
that
one as an example.”
that
one as an example.”
Everything slowed. Singer screamed. Rosa couldn’t look away. Not from this.
His pistol came up, a shot rang out, and crimson flowered from Viv’s forehead. The small woman fell limp, her hair spread against the pale adobe floor like black rose petals. Viv’s death sparked a panic in the other women, who all tried to run. Blind with terror, they pushed for the door. Thugs beat them into submission while drinking in their sobs like fine wine. The skirmish made targeting impossible, and the big fucker who’d ordered Viv’s execution laughed at the chaos he created.
He
laughed
.
laughed
.
Howling with utter rage, Rosa flung herself into the fight. She used her rifle as a bludgeon. A knife skated along her side, but she registered little pain. Too much other anguish already.
Not Viv. Not like this.
She’d been on the ground, begging for their lives.
She’d been on the ground, begging for their lives.
Rosa caved in a raider’s skull with the barrel of her gun, only to be grabbed by two more. They wrestled her rifle away from her and forced her to her knees. Someone pressed the cold steel of a gun against her temple, then nuzzled his face up close. It was the big man, of course. The one who found agony entertaining.
He gestured to his men, and she heard more weeping. “Get those whores out of here. I’ll deal with this slut myself.”
She held herself very still, listening to the movement and a struggle outside. More gunfire and cries of pain. There could be no good reason why he wanted to get her alone.
I will not break. I will not.
I will not break. I will not.
Once Rosa heard only his breathing, he yanked her head up, bringing her close to his grizzled face with its filthy beard and stained yellow teeth. “I’m thinking you’re more trouble than you’re worth, bitch. Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t kill you now.”
And she couldn’t. Not a single one. Death would be preferable to what these monsters had in mind. Rosa made her peace, closed her eyes, and waited for the bullet.
THIRTY-FOUR
Chris closed the distance between the caves and Valle, but another few hundred meters remained. He ran faster than he ever thought possible. Sharp spikes of adrenaline hit him like jet fuel. He had no weapon and no idea how many dust pirates attacked. The medical duffel slapped against the back of his upper thigh, as if he were an army medic charging into the fray. Someone had forgotten to tell the world that he was just Chris Welsh, not some goddamn hero.
Lungs crawling into his throat, he barreled past the main gate, which had been opened—whether by the bravos or the raiders, he couldn’t know. He didn’t stop when he saw the devastation. Six, maybe eight buildings were on fire. Several men from both sides lay dead in the middle of the street. Wicker was the first he recognized, slumped against the outside of the general store.
Wanting—no,
needing
—to find Rosa, Chris was tempted to keep running. But Wicker’s expression, twisted in anguish, could not be ignored. A rifle lay spent at his side.
needing
—to find Rosa, Chris was tempted to keep running. But Wicker’s expression, twisted in anguish, could not be ignored. A rifle lay spent at his side.
“You’re up too early, old man,” Chris said.
“Glad . . . you’re here.”
Wicker clutched a gash along his lower ribs. He was having trouble breathing, his face ashen.
Taking the man’s hand, Chris moved it aside to take a look at his injury. A knife handle still protruded from the wound. “And how does the other guy look?”
“I shot . . . his head off.”
“Good man. Now hold on. This is gonna hurt like a bitch.”
With a clump of bandages from his duffel at the ready, he grabbed the hilt. One hard pull, then he shoved the bandages in where the knife had been. Blood soaked the cotton red. He found another hunk of tangled bandages and layered them on top.
“Hold pressure here.” Chris stood and, hands tight beneath the man’s armpits, he pulled Wicker to where he couldn’t be seen from the main street. “Don’t move until I come back for you. I’ll stitch you up then.”
“Rosa . . .” the man gasped.
“Where? Wicker, where is she?”
“Town hall . . . the girls.”
Chris didn’t need to hear anything else. Pieces clicked in his brain as he ran. Of course they’d come for the women. And Rosa would fight to the death to protect those who’d been abused as she had.
A dead raider lay spread-eagled on the bottom step of the general store’s porch. His head was half missing, felled by a rifle blast.
Nicely done, Wicker.
Chris scooped up the man’s discarded weapons and checked them: a rifle with two slugs, an old-fashioned six-shooter Colt, and an impressive hunting knife. Its exact match had been responsible for rearranging Wicker’s guts.
Nicely done, Wicker.
Chris scooped up the man’s discarded weapons and checked them: a rifle with two slugs, an old-fashioned six-shooter Colt, and an impressive hunting knife. Its exact match had been responsible for rearranging Wicker’s guts.
Armed now, his fury boiling into something dark and unhealthy, he charged down the main street. On the far end of town, opposite the main entrance, an explosion rattled the bloody dawn. Heat blew back across his face, even from that distance, as did the stench of some unknown chemical.
Whatever they’d used, Peltz and his men had been planning for this day.
He had time enough to shoot one attacker, who staggered when the slug took out his right thigh. As much as Chris wanted to pick off anyone else trying to escape, Rosa and the women were all that mattered now.
What had been the last thing he said to her? He could hardly remember, not wanting to, knowing it hadn’t been kind or loving or in any way sufficient. Fear like he’d never known curled in the pit of his empty, clenching stomach.
Racing, he recognized bravos as they lugged buckets of water from the bathhouse to the fires. Others threw sand, their faces coated in soot. Stinging smoke fogged the back of his throat. Sparks littered down like flaming confetti. Little fires burned on the street, feeding off hunks of wooden debris. Valle had crumbled into hell.
“Doc! We need help here,” shouted one of the bravos.
“I’m going after Rosa.”
Within a few meters of the town hall, a raider ran into the open. Chris raised his rifle, steadied it against his shoulder, and fired. Whatever remaining qualms he’d had about shooting a man in the back died there on the street. He shouldn’t have come to wreck something good and decent if he didn’t want a bullet between his shoulder blades.
Female screams became the stuff of a slow-moving nightmare. Even as he flung the spent rifle aside, Chris wondered why he hadn’t dreamed this. What was the use of knowing
some
of the future?
some
of the future?
Down by the explosion, more shots rang out. He could see Brick and Rio, maybe Ex. They were being forced back by a raider perched on the defensive wall. Other attackers fled out into the desert, dragging a woman with them.
“Allison!” Ex shouted.
But the heavy fire continued. Brick grabbed Ex’s shoulder and shoved him behind cover. Only after Rio took out the gunman with a clean shot did Ex rush into the desert.
A gunshot inside the town hall incited another flurry of screams. A pair of grimy, shouting men slammed out the front door. Each held a woman to his chest. One had the balls to hold his prey by her exposed breast. Chris recognized the man’s hostage as Maryann, whose face was devoid of color, expression, hope.
Although he drew his newly acquired Colt and leveled it, Chris didn’t trust his aim—not with a pistol, not with so little distance between captor and human shield. Could he live with the image of Maryann’s head busting open because of his missed shot? Or would that mistake be a mercy compared to being taken?
In the end he didn’t get the chance to make that choice. A gun was pressed to his temple. The sound of the hammer being cocked sounded far away, as if muffled beneath a pillow. He realized that his ears weren’t working. His senses were rebelling. Sight blurred, sound fogged, feeling dissolved away.
“Put the guns down, cowboy,” came a savage voice.
Chris dropped his Colt.
Then his muscles snapped to action with such strength and violence that he didn’t know how his opponent wound up writhing in the dirt, clutching his gut. The impact of the blow radiated up Chris’s arm like an aftershock.
What the hell was that?
No time to think about it.
“Get those whores out of here. I’ll deal with this slut myself.”
The barked order sounded close. Dust pirates poured out of the town hall, dragging two more women.
Rage lit Chris from the inside. He charged up the two porch steps, right into another stinking, rotting piece of human filth. Bone met bone as he whipped his elbow across the raider’s face. The man’s jaw gave way beneath the blow. He spit teeth and blood. Chris grabbed the back of his neck and slammed his face into the doorjamb. Death claimed him in an instant, his huge, lumbering body going slack and collapsing across the threshold.
Two of the women stood just inside, their expressions matched in twisted horror. They wore blood on their clothes. No telling whose.
“Run for it,” he shouted. “Find a bravo or stay hidden. Go!”
The one named Beatrice did as she was ordered, but Sara stood mute and dumb, utterly frozen. Chris wanted to help her but needed to find Rosa. She had to be here. She had to be all right.
A raider pushed past. Chris shoved him, staggering backward. The bastard’s expression said he was as surprised as Chris to wind up in the dirt. But before the man could cock his weapon, Chris retrieved the hunting knife he’d scavenged. He rolled the raider onto his back, then thrust the knife upward under his sternum.
Chris jumped away from the dead man. From the porch, looking through the doorway into the town hall, he saw everything. In a blink he had every detail of that hideous scene.
Viv lay motionless on the floor, the back of her head wide open.
Rosa knelt, chin lowered, her shoulders bowed in defeat.
And a huge man stood in front of her. He held her nape with one hand and pressed the muzzle of a gun to her forehead.
“I’m thinking you’re more trouble than you’re worth, bitch. Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t kill you now.”
Pain closed over Chris’s mind. He dropped to his knees, felled by a paralysis that was as agonizing as it was infuriating. Rosa.
God, help me.
She would be raped, killed. And yet his body did nothing but surge and pulse with a torturous fire.
God, help me.
She would be raped, killed. And yet his body did nothing but surge and pulse with a torturous fire.
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