Men of Truth (The Wasteland Soldier #4)
Chapter 38

Clouds drifted in, the rain began to fall, a gentle patter amongst the trees. The spotters and snipers and watchtowers were in the distance, etched against the dark skyline, the night code underway, one tower to the next, no breaks in the pattern and no gaps for infiltration.

Stone stood on the porch, waiting for Cali. It was a cold evening. He listened to the steady fall of the rain on the roof above and the hiss of the nearby stream. His hand was balanced on the grip of his revolver and he carried a pistol inside his coat. The shotgun hung from his shoulder.

He was deep in thought when he heard the cabin door creak open but it was Yuan, and not Cali, that greeted him.

“Can I talk to you for a minute?”

He nodded, and waited, but she didn’t say anything. He realised she wanted more privacy than the porch and hustled her back to his cabin. He lit a lamp. Rain streaked against the window. He closed the shutters and she sat down on the corner of the bed. She could see his pack was propped against the wall. He had no possessions about the cabin. He was preparing to leave.

Her dark eyes looked into his scarred face and she thought back to the night he’d saved her life. She had rehearsed this moment for days but now it was here she didn’t know how to begin. He wasn’t an easy man to talk to. She realised whatever she said would have no impact because she saw the determination in his eyes and was crushed by it.

She steeled her nerves, took a deep breath and opened her mouth to speak but he got there first.

“I’m leaving tonight. I won’t be coming back. I think you should make a life here.”

He offered her no more words.

“What if they don’t accept me?”

“They will. You’ve done nothing wrong.”

“Are you planning on doing something wrong? Is this why you came here?”

The lamp flickered. He listened to the rain.

“Is Cali leaving with you? Is that it? You and her?”

“This place is better than Batesville. You’ll be OK here.”

“But what if I want to leave? Or have to?”

“You wanted to come here.”

“You don’t know what I want.”

She got to her feet, held his hand. “You’re what I want. From the moment you saved me from that gang.”

He prised her fingers off. He had no idea what she wanted him to say so he said nothing and left.

As the cabin door closed, she began to cry.

She was waiting for him beneath the porch, mouth twisted at the rain, and she was the dancing girl once more.

Her black hair was washed, combed through, and platted down her back. Her eyelids and eyelashes were painted, a shade of green, and her lips were shiny and sparkled dark red. She’d removed the adhesive from her cheek. Stone knew it had taken a lot for her to expose the knife wound. The skin was more pale pink than red and the swelling had reduced. The blade had cut deep and long and she would be left with a two-to-three inch scar.

She saw his eyes on her cheek, and turned her head, attempting to hide it, but he caught her chin, and angled her head around.

She wore her long coat and beneath it flashed boots and bare legs, her skirt riding high on her thighs. Her shirt was shiny and tight and slashed, exposing the sloping pale tops of her breasts. A small satchel hung over her shoulder and Stone assumed it contained her tools for breaking into the bank.

She became suddenly conscious of her appearance. “I thought with us meeting the mayor I should make an effort.”

She waited for him to say something but he simply smiled at her and she saw it in his eyes. He got it. Her appearance wasn’t for him or the mayor or any other man in Silver Road. It was all about chipping away at her experience at the hands of Pavla and Timo. She wasn’t going to be forced to hide in a hole and cry like a baby.

She tossed her hood over her head, wrapped the coat around her body, and followed Stone into the rain.

Yuan nudged open the shutter and watched the two of them leave.

Her tear-smeared eyes dropped.

She saw his pack once more.

He would be coming back for it later. There was still hope to persuade him to stay or for her to go with him.

She set about lighting the stove, knowing there was only one thing left to do.

Weaver closed the office door behind him. The rain was loud against the roof. He strode toward the desk, picking and arranging his hair and gliding his tongue over his teeth. He stood with his legs apart, arms outstretched, hands clutching the edge of the desk with the scratched plastic cover. He could hear the wind chimes jangling in the trees. He drummed his fingers, waited. He cleared his throat, waited. She was quite unappealing, on so many levels, which made her more attractive and a challenge. He liked a challenge. His life was filled with easy girls, swayed by his charm and good looks. He pushed himself off the desk, and paced, and looked at the dark trees, rain slithering down the window.

Restless and impatient, Weaver licked his lips and rounded the desk. There was a single door leading out back.

It creaked on old hinges and he saw a gloomy room cluttered with furniture.

“Jodie?”

There was no reply.

“Jodie?”

He stepped through the doorway, listened.

It was clear she wasn’t around. He glanced about the room and then trudged outside into the watery gloom.

He dashed toward his cabin and stuttered to a halt as something caught his eye in the rain-drenched trees.

He swivelled his head. Water cascaded off the high branches.

A lithe figure emerged out of the ground, wearing soil-stained black clothing and a balaclava. Only the eyes were visible, cold and dead looking, and Weaver knew in an instant it was the woman who’d tried to kill them in Batesville.

He raised his hands and called out but she was already angling her body, widening her stance and bringing up both arms, gripping a black pistol fitted with a suppressor.

She sighted him and fired twice, the muffled rounds burrowing into his chest.

Weaver sagged, legs buckling, mouth falling open. He slumped, choking, random images flashing through his thoughts with no time to arrange them or make any sense out of them. She came forward, the assault-rifle wrapped and strapped to her back. He twitched and coughed and tried to force out a few words but the pain in his chest was intense. He couldn’t seem to connect anything. The gun was still raised and he looked up at her as she squeezed the trigger once more.

His body went still.

Pavla moved toward the motel, the darkness behind her concealing the shallow tunnel.

Yuan heard the crunch of boots and opened her eyes.

The wood stove crackled and the cabin was warm and cosy. Her clothes were in the storage chest, neatly folded, and she was cocooned in his bed, goose bumps erupting along her skin. She couldn’t believe he had already returned. She must have slept and allowed the hours to slip by. She sat up, letting the blankets slip around her waist, and waited. Her olive skin glowed in the lamp light. He would soon be between her legs and there would be no more talk of leaving.

Her heart thudded. Her body trembled. Her nipples stiffened.

His footsteps stopped at the door.

She wet her lips.

Then she heard shouting, in the distance, a male voice, and the boots turned and changed direction.

She slipped from the bed, confused, and padded naked to the window. She nudged the shutter and recoiled, shocked. It was Pavla, pistol in hand, and there were bodies on the ground.

It was happening all over again. He had warned her. He had tried to stop her. She should have stayed behind. She should have listened. Why hadn’t she listened?

Pavla moved between the cabins, suddenly out of view.

Yuan grabbed her dress, pulled it over her head and stepped into her boots. She rushed back to the window.

Pavla was nowhere.

She put a shaking hand against the door handle, bit her lip and pulled it open.

Rain sheeted down. She could hear shouting and muffled screams and running footsteps.

She pushed herself forward, heart hammering, boots sliding on the wet ground, and ran for the trees.

She didn’t dare look back.