Men of Truth (The Wasteland Soldier #4)
Chapter 23

Stone stood in the rain, waiting for the killing to begin.

His breathing was calm, his head was clear. He was focused, prepared. His reliable six-shot was in his right hand, loose on his hip, the pistol in his left. There were eyes on him. There were whispers and mutterings and even side action. He wondered what odds had been pegged on him surviving. The crowd was thinner now. People knew what was coming and not everyone wanted to be around when the shooting started.

The seconds ticked by.

Kody lay on the wet ground, rain drilling his body. Cali and Yuan watched from the food stand, bowls untouched, appetites gone. Cali had made her intention to fight alongside him but Stone had held up his hand and warned her off. He’d made Triple Death his fight. She wasn’t alone against them, not anymore. They were his enemy and he wanted her in the shadows where she wouldn’t be seen and couldn’t be harmed. His clothes were soaked. The bandage around his head was soggy. The men in the big coats with the turned-up collars had cleared away the easy chairs and were gathering a safe distance from the building.

Stone heard one of them grumbling under his breath and guessed he might need to take care of him afterwards.

There was the whine of hinges as the whorehouse door was half-opened, followed by the sound of excitable voices and a burst of laughter.

The crowd hushed as three youthful men with beards and long hair stumbled out, shoving each other around. It took less than a second for them to sense that something was wrong. The laughter tailed off and they saw that Kody was nowhere and the crowd appeared to be staring at them in nervous anticipation.

There was a body lying on the ground, and it was Kody, oh fuck, it was Kody, and there he was, Kody’s killer, an outline in the pouring rain, a tall and bearded bastard with a bandage around his head and a scar down his face and two handguns loose in his hands and, oh fuck, he was lifting the pieces.

Muzzles flared, the bangs were shockingly loud. Stone took out the first one with a headshot. The man was thrown off his feet and slammed into the half-open door. The remaining two Triple Death gunmen split, one left and one right, drawing pistols and firing off rounds. Stone shifted, firing back, swinging his extended arms, blasting with both guns. Bullets ripped into a leg and lodged in a rib cage, spraying blood, and one of the gunmen spun and hit the ground. He crawled forward, spitting blood, his pistol shaking. Stone finished him off with a round into his skull.

A bullet speared past Stone’s head. There was no cover on the street, only people, and they were beginning to fan out. The last gunman had seen two of his crew cut down and Kody, the crew leader, had been wasted. He wasn’t stupid. The emblem of Triple Death was a life commitment but he was a long way from Kiven.

He ran, disappearing between two buildings, firing off shots as he sprinted along the alleyway. Stone flattened himself against the side of the building, edged forward. A woman was shouting at him. He ignored her.

The men in the big coats grew agitated. Blood and bullets were never good for business.

Stone peered around the corner.

There was a volley of bullets. He ducked back. One zipped into the crowd and a man screamed, blood jetting from his chest.

People began to scatter. All bets were off. A bystander getting shot wasn’t any part of the deal.

Stone glimpsed a flicker of movement from the corner of his eye. It was the man he’d heard grumbling earlier, slowly raising his rifle into a firing position.

“Stone,” yelled Cali.

He was already turning but she burst through the crowd, gun in hand, and slammed four bullets into the rifleman. The man arched. Blood streaked down his big coat. He slumped to the ground, rifle skating across the asphalt.

Big Red and his men hurriedly raised their hands.

“We don’t want any trouble, mister. Deano was hot-headed. We got no quarrel with you.”

“Go,” said Cali, her gun still pointed at the three men.

He looked at her bandaged hands and battered face.

“Nail that fucking asshole,” she said, urgently. “Time’s running out. I got this, man.”

Stone nodded and ran, bandaged head bobbing up and down. He threaded a trail from Panola Avenue into winding alleyways littered with rubbish. He weaved past rusted ventilation units, leapt across overturned trash cans, scattering mangy-looking vermin. He glimpsed the fleeing gunman ahead. The man’s pistol barked and Stone went to ground, returning fire with rapid bursts from both handguns. He lost sight of the man and almost slipped on the rain-soaked ground. He came into an empty street dotted with bare trees and ruined buildings.

No sign of the gunman.

Trees swayed, rubbish blew.

Half-crouched, weapons ready, Stone moved along the sidewalk, alert, combing every building.

There, less than a hundred yards away.

He quickened his pace.

The wind rushed against him, the roar of his beating heart filled his ears. The last Triple Death gunman burst from cover, firing off shots. Stone’s revolver cracked and the gunman yelled as a bullet sliced through his hip. He hobbled on and Stone fired again, bullets pinging off the asphalt. The wounded man was heading for a large brick building surrounded by a high chain-link fence. He limped toward an open gate and disappeared through it.

There were two masked men on the roof of the building, armed with crossbows.

Stone heard an engine gun to life.

“Shit,” he said.

A buggy burst from the building and skidded wide onto the road, tyres squealing. It was covered in mesh and razor-wire. Stone thrust the handguns into his belt and took the shotgun from his shoulder. He looked along the twin barrels, sighting the gunman who was pale-faced behind the wheel. The vehicle shot forward, sliding from side to side. Stone fired, blasting a hole in the windshield. The driver ducked the blast and leaned around the wheel, pistol in hand.

Bullets streaked through the rain, Stone took cover in the nearest building, landing in dirt and rubble. The buggy screeched past. He came back onto the street and lined up the shot, hooded eyes unforgiving. He squeezed the trigger and tore a hole in the back of gunman’s head. The man slumped forward and the vehicle spun out of control, crashing into a ruined house and igniting.

He took a deep breath as Cali and Yuan emerged onto the street.

They reached the gate and surveyed a parking lot filled with salvaged wrecks.

“This is the place the food vendor told us about,” said Cali.

Yuan glanced nervously at the armed men on the roof.

A dark-haired, clean-shaven man stood beneath an open metal shutter, keeping dry. He was five-eight, mid-thirties, slim build, legs slightly apart, arms folded, one hand holding a mug of steaming coffee.

A faint smile hovered on his lips. His blues eyes sparkled as he uncoiled his arms and gestured at the rising black smoke.

“That was a waste of a few hours work.”

He sipped his coffee, put one hand in his pocket and looked them over, remaining silent for the moment as they huddled in the rain.

A faded sign on the wall above read: ANDERSON TIRE & MUFFLER AUTO CARE CENTER.

Stone walked toward him.

“You Anderson?”

The man glanced up at the sign. He shook his head, grinned.

“I’m Weaver. I’m guessing Anderson is long dead. What do you reckon?”

The man wore city clothes, hand-stitched and neatly pressed, not patched together or frayed. The trousers were loose in the leg and around his waist was a leather belt with a decorative buckle. His shirt was shiny, a material rarely seen, the flaps tucked into the waistband of the trousers. It was open at the throat, revealing a curl of dark chest hair, and the sleeves were rolled back over forearms covered with wiry hair. His hands looked smooth, untroubled by manual labour. His skin was unblemished. No scars, no ink, no defects. There was an aroma to him, a pleasant one. He didn’t smell as if he’d been rolling in landfill. Even his teeth were unnaturally bright.

He swayed gently. “Why don’t you all come inside?”

Stone glanced at the masked crossbowmen on the roof.

“Sure.”

“Do you have a name?” asked Weaver, his back turned.

“Cartwright,” said Stone, adopting Jeremiah’s surname.

Weaver stopped, and turned on his heel. He looked even more pristine now he was surrounded by grubby mechanics. The workshop was hung with lamps, illuminating cars and stacks of parts. It was noisy, with men drilling and welding, hammering and beating and tightening. Stone could feel a faint vibration through the cement floor. He guessed there was a generator nearby, powering the tools.

“Mr Cartwright,” said Weaver, raising his coffee cup in a toast. “I’m pleased to meet you.”

He extended his hand but Stone ignored it.

“We’re looking for …”

But Stone didn’t get to finish his sentence. The man had spotted his companions.

“Good afternoon, ladies. I’m Weaver.”

He offered his hand once more.

“Yeah, we heard,” said Cali, matching Stone in ignoring the gesture.

Unperturbed by a second dismissive response, Weaver moved in on Yuan, his smile never faltering.

“There truly is a Lord in the Above. You are a light amongst the dark. Do you have a name, miss?”

“Yuan.”

He lightly kissed her hand.

“Yuan, that’s such a beautiful name. And unique. Do you know it means Lady of the Heart?”

Yuan’s mouth gaped. “Does it?”

“I think so.” He smiled. “It should.”

Stone prised Weaver off. “We need a car.”

“For driving or blowing up?” He laughed, patted Stone on the arm. “Let’s have some coffee first.”

Stone watched Weaver closely as he handled the coffee pot, making sure nothing extra was being added. A spiked drink was a clever approach at taking down a man as aggressive as himself. Weaver handed out the cups but Stone made sure their host took the first drink. Satisfied, he took a mouthful, enjoying the rich taste and the warm glow that spread slowly around his damp body. Weaver appeared to take no offence that the coffee might have been drugged. He was cocky, and smug, and oozed shiny charm, and the veiled implication rolled lightly off his shoulders. There was always a place for a man like Weaver, even in such a cut-throat area as Panola Avenue. The man had his own skill set and it was clearly transportation. Stone counted seven cars and one pickup but only two of the cars looked anywhere near roadworthy.

“This is what I have for you,” said Weaver, indicating a four-door. “Reinforced panels, steel covered wheel arches. We’ll be adding a few more defences before it’s ready.”

The hood was raised and a mechanic was fiddling with the engine. “I can have this up running in …”

He left the sentence hanging and clapped his hands at the mechanic. The working man put down his tools and straightened. He was in his fifties, his brown skin heavily lined. His hands and arms were smeared with grease. Weaver made a simple gesture with his hands, imitating driving. The mechanic thought for a moment and then held up a single finger.

Weaver smiled at the mechanic, gestured for him to return to work.

“One day, let’s say this time tomorrow. I can give you a full tank of bio-fuel. The stuff stinks but it keeps the wheels turning.”

“Too slow,” said Stone, lowering his coffee. He strode past him. “What about this two-door?”

The windows were grilled. There was a hatch in the roof. A mechanic was behind the wheel, revving the engine.

“Sounds healthy,” said Cali. “Hook us up with this one, man.”

“The two-door is already sold. I’m sorry.” He didn’t sound sorry. “I can’t go back on a deal. I’ve never gone back on a deal.”

“Don’t bullshit us, man, we need wheels and we got the money.”

“I can’t break a deal. Can you imagine what would happen to my reputation and that of Panola Avenue? Even if you paid double.” He laughed. “Not that you would, of course. Why would you? You can come back tomorrow and take the four-door. I’m not about to dilute the reputation of my business.”

He turned to Yuan.

“Do you understand my predicament here, Yuan? I want to sell you a vehicle. That’s what I do. I sell vehicles. And I will sell you a vehicle. But I can’t sell you something that has already been sold. That wouldn’t be right, Yuan, would it?”

“No,” she said. “It wouldn’t.”

Cali rolled her eyes.

Stone put down his coffee.

“You see,” said Weaver, opening his arms. “Yuan understands. She is an intelligent woman. And a very attractive one.”

He winked at her.

“Heart of the Lady,” he said.

Yuan blushed.

“Wasn’t it Lady of the Heart?” said Cali.

“We need wheels now,” said Stone. “We’ll pay double what your customer paid. That’s what you’re angling for, right?”

Weaver crunched his knuckles. “You don’t understand, Mr Cartwright. It is Mr Cartwright, isn’t it?”

“It is,” said Stone.

“Well, as I said before … Mr Cartwright … Panola Avenue has a reputation and that reputation is built on honouring deals.”

“I said we’d pay double.”

Cali could sense that Stone was growing frustrated. Weaver was making a play for more money, she understood that, respected it, but it was time to cut to the chase and name the price. The clock was ticking. Time was being wasted. They needed to get to Silver Road and then onto New Washington before a shit storm erupted across the townships. They had to replace the weapon and get it there and this asshole didn’t realise the kind of man he was messing with.

She shut out Weaver’s voice. The dude was too pleased with himself. She watched the men working on the vehicles, noticing how most of them were Jeremiah’s age. The world seemed a sadder place without him. Major Cartwright. Major Cartwright. Shit, she’d known an important person. He’d opened her eyes. Kiven thought it was so damn important. It was a speck. It didn’t get it. But she got it. He called her a name once. She didn’t really understand its meaning but it seemed to carry a lot of weight with him.

“You’re a patriot, Cali.”

“What’s that then?”

He’d smiled fondly. “Get some sleep.”

Those had been his last words before the Triple Death crew broke into their room, blades drawn.

She rotated her head and massaged her neck. She stared absently at exhaust pipes, exhaust boxes, brakes and tyres. There were rolls of wire, metal panels, and boxes of pads, brackets, hinges, discs and spikes. Her head was beginning to spin and she could hear Pavla’s voice. Sweat ran down her face. She screwed her eyes tight and gritted her teeth. Timo was above her, pulling at her clothes. The bastard was dead but he would suffocate her whenever he chose to.

Her coffee cup smashed against the cement floor. Heads turned.

She rushed outside, bent at the waist and retched. Stone beckoned at Yuan but Cali was having none of it. She shoved the girl away. She was ashamed. Her marked skin would forever be a reminder of how they’d crushed her in that room.

She wiped her mouth, spread her arms. “What the fuck are you all looking at?”

No one replied but she saw Stone half-smile. He could see right through her. He knew she was hurting and not just physically. The dude knew everything. She took deep breaths and wandered as he continued to pressurise Weaver into selling them the two-door car.

She found a gloomy corridor with closed doors and a metal stairwell winding to an upper floor.

There was no one around. She could hear the hum of the generator.

She tried the first door on her left, wandered into an office with a row of windows that looked out across the workshop.

Weaver was still messing Stone around. The automobile dealer was a fool. Stone would just as easy kill the man for the vehicle.

“Asshole,” she muttered.

Her eyes dropped toward a desk cluttered with items. She saw a torn book, a bag of plastic shapes …

Her pulse quickened.

Weaver glimpsed her out of the corner of his eye. “Hey, what are you doing in there?”

Cali came back into the workshop, heading for Stone. She was holding a tin with a hinged and decorative lid.

“Pavla,” she said.

Stone looked at Weaver.

The clean-looking man shrugged.

“She never gave me her name.”

“When is she coming for the car?”

“An hour or so.”

“Give your mechanics the afternoon off.”

Weaver chuckled.

“You’re not serious. Are you serious?”

Stone grabbed the front of his shiny shirt. “What do you think?”