Chapter 9: A Lying Tongue
The sun had set, the streets lit with LED lampposts throwing garish light that exaggerated shadows. The townsfolk were retired, leaving the nightlife to the type of men and women mean enough to brave the atmosphere. Saloons were full of patrons drinking, gambling, and singing bawdy songs. Men and women stood on the balcony of brothels, carousing and laughing drunkenly. And as Bane made his last patrol, a man stepped out the shadows of an alley to confront him, one hand hovering over the revolver on his hip.
"You. You're the one they say can't be killed. Well, my name's Wyatt Kearny, and I aim to prove that ain't true. You ready to dance?"
Bane gazed silently, electric-blue eyes glimmering. Finally, he threw back his tattered poncho, exposing the hand cannon holstered at his side.
They stepped to the center of the street. People stopped and gathered around, grinning and shouting jeers as they anticipated the swift end of Wyatt Kearny. Wyatt didn't take notice; attention focused on his opponent. A rough wind shoved through, blowing his duster back so that it flapped in the gusts like a battered old flag. His eyes narrowed into slits, fingers twitching over his sidearm. Then like quicksilver, he pulled the revolver and fired a single shot.
Bane lurched, stumbling backward, one hand on the grip of his heavy pistol. Fiery sparks exploded from his chest; his eyes flickered like dying light bulbs. Gasps rippled through the crowds as he spasmed, staggering drunkenly. An electric whine rattled in his throat, he sank to his knees, and finally toppled backward, slamming into the ground in a cloud of upraised dust. The wide-brimmed hat fell off his head, revealing a face charred by fire, metal exposed where large portions of his head had been repaired and reinforced. His teeth were clamped in a skeletal snarl, his eyes flickering until at last, they died out.
The cowboy walked over; gun aimed at Bane's prone body. After a few seconds, he exhaled a sigh of relief, turning to the crowd with his arms stretched out wide.
"I'm Wyatt Kearney, y'all. Made a name for myself in Oklahoma City, where I was born and raised. Now I'm making a name for myself here, starting with being the man who killed Bane, the most vicious gunman in the Territory!"
The crowds cheered, wild with euphoria. They lifted him on their shoulders, celebrating and singing, shooting pistols and rifles into the air. People on balconies popped champagne bottles, showering the drink down on Wyatt's head and shoulders. He grinned, basking in their adoration, kissing women, shaking hands, getting clapped on the back and shoulders. The crowd swept him into the nearest saloon, where the celebration would continue all night into the morning. Later they would recall the sheer exuberance of the evening, the hero's smile on Wyatt's face as he soaked in their adoration. No one could have known that when he finally staggered outside for a breath of fresh air, it would be the last he'd ever inhale. A quick pass, a stabbing motion, and then he lay on the ground clutching his ruined throat, dying as people screamed and gathered around, shock and disbelief stamped on their faces. In the chaos, no one noticed when a crew of men in dark clothing came and loaded Bane's heavy body onto a hovering cart and quickly ushered it away. Everyone was too busy shouting, running around, searching for the coward who dared to take the life of the brave and gallant Wyatt Kearney, who came down all the way from Oklahoma City only to die before his time.
Gunner clubbed the guard across the back of the head with his revolver butt, dragged his unconscious body into the shadows of the alley, and robbed him of his clothes. Dressed in the uniform and his face covered by a bandanna, he walked to the mine entrance and rapped on the door, turning his back so the man on the inside could only see the uniform, not his face. The door buzzed and opened.
He stepped inside, pointing his Reaper at the guard. "Your gun. Drop it. Carefully."
The man quickly obeyed.
"The collars on the Ferals. How do I turn them off?"
The man stared. "Why would you want to—"
"Answer the question."
The guard pointed a trembling finger down the hallway. "Security room. Two doors down."
Gunner gestured with the revolver. "Let's go."
He followed the man into the room, where two guards looked up, eyes widening when they saw Gunner enter with gun drawn, closing the door behind him. He motioned with the Reaper. "If you don't wanna die, better drop your guns on the floor, cuff each other, and jump in the closet over there."
After they leaped to obey, he turned to the first guard. "Show me."
The frightened man pointed to the button on the panel. Gunner pressed it and looked at the camera feed. The Ferals stopped their work as the collars powered down and disengaged. Several guards ran into the chamber, shouting and brandishing long, pronged staffs glowing at tips. The Ferals leaped onto their captors, attacking with bestial ferocity. In just a few seconds, they overwhelmed the guards by sheer force of numbers. They streamed through the tunnels, roaring and shrieking as they made their way in the direction of the hidden exit.
The guard's mouth dropped open. "What the hell are you doing? The Baron will have a fit when she—"
Gunner pointed his Reaper. "You got more than the Baron to worry about. Jump on in the closet with the others. Someone will get you out sooner or later."
After locking the men inside, he walked back into the main tunnel and stepped into the motor control center room. Identifying the central power supply, he yanked the switch to OFF. Everything went dark as the mine shut down with a dying groan. Emergency lights flickered on, barely illuminating the darkened hallways as he walked up the central tunnel and out the front entrance, skirting to the side of the building as men shouted from the watchtowers and milled around in confusion. He ducked back into the alley and removed the guard uniform, heading back toward the center of the Town as the alarms blared behind him.
A voice hissed from the shadows of the crumbling building across the avenue. "Agni Chaya."
He stopped, squinting into the darkness, where a hooded figure was barely visible, yellow eyes reflecting the dim light. "Enya. This place is about to be crawling with guards. Get out of here and meet your people at the base of the mesa. I got the collars off."
Her head turned that direction. "Free?"
"Yeah. They're free. Get on over there before someone spots you."
She scampered deeper into the shadows, pausing to stop and look at Gunner. "I remember." Then she was gone.
Gunner took a furtive look around, quickening his pace as he headed further into Town. He heard the explosion a few seconds later, turning back to see a cloud of fire light up the nearby buildings. Gunmen in black emerged from their hiding places and ran that direction. The shooting started a few moments afterward.
Roscoe set a plate of steaming chicken, rice, and green beans in front of Gunner. "There was an explosion in the Baron's warehouse area tonight. Did ya hear?"
Gunner stabbed the chicken with his fork. "Heard something. Lots of gunshots. People running around. Just another night around here, right?"
"Not this time, bud." Roscoe looked outside the window, face pensive. "It's too quiet 'round here. You can hear a mouse squeak. This ain't normal. People are laying low. Afraid to come out. This ain't good. Not good at all."
"Figure it'll blow over. Tomorrow's another day, after all. Life will go on."
"I think you should take advantage of the quiet and get outta Dodge. I'm afraid of what might kick off tomorrow."
"What—you're getting sick of my company?"
"Not at all. Just afraid for your life. You come, and you go. But every time you return it's like the Town gets hotter. This place is one matchstick away from an explosion, and you're standing in the center. You don't know the history of this place. There has always been someone trying to take down the Judge. Blood spills on one side or both, but in the end he still wins. The fools involved in trying to remove him end up dead and forgotten. And then it's as you said—life goes on."
"It'll be all right, Roscoe. Ain’t nobody trying to take down t
he Judge. Tomorrow I aim to collect my belongings and be on my way. Marshal Wiley has something that belongs to me."
"Your missing Steed. Why not just go to him and get it back?"
"Because I think the Baron sent him to buy it in the first place. An insurance policy to make sure I stuck around long enough to be useful to her. If I'd gone in accusing the Marshal and demanding it back, she'd probably have gone with the plausible deniability angle. Might even have gotten rid of it before I could find it. I figure since she's in my debt right about now, she'll go ahead and cough it up since I did what she wanted."
"All of this was just for a motorbike? It must be very important to you."
Gunner set his fork down, staring across empty space. "You got no idea."
"Then I hope it works out for you. Still, think you should forget about all of this and get out while you're ahead of the game. Stick around too long, and you're a goner. I've seen it too many a time."
"Thanks for the tip, Roscoe. But I think I'll do what you suggested and take advantage of the quiet—and getting some sleep."
"Sleep? Who can sleep at a time like this?" Roscoe winced, rubbing his leg.
"You okay there, Roscoe? You got your face twisted up like someone kicked you in shins."
"It's nothing. Just my knee. Took a slug back in the day when I was out there busting heads and taking names." He frowned, glancing out the window. "Funny—it only starts hurting when a storm's coming."
The Town appeared back to normal the next morning. The clamor of the fusion generator, the rumble of vehicles, the shouts of townspeople over the din. Gunner walked onto the porch, coffee mug in hand, eyes flicking back and forth, taking in the movements of riders coming in from the badlands, riding lizard horses or rumble bikes, stirring up dust that hung in a haze over the streets. Drones hummed as they dropped off packages in front of doorways or on rooftops, dogs barked, townspeople hurried along their way with heads down and eyes wary. The morning sun sliced through gaps in the buildings, already blazing hot.
Something still felt out of place.
The tingle of an unseen menace crackled in the air like electricity, raising the hackles on the back of his neck. His eyes narrowed, scanning the nearby buildings. Faces peered between blinds and curtains before vanishing. Gunmen lounged against railings and banisters, armed to the teeth and looking just bored enough to be ready to spring into action at the given word.
"Did you double-cross me?"
Gunner glanced to the side, where the Judge sat in a rickety old chair, rocking back and forth with his hands folded in his lap, feet propped on the railing, white ten-gallon hat tilted over his eyes.
"No need to look around for bodyguards. I'm here alone. Surprised?"
Gunner took a sip of coffee. "A little."
"Bane was shot down yesterday, did you know that?"
"I was a little busy last night. You know—shutting the mines down."
The Judge went on as if he didn't hear. "I'm sure it was the Baron, but I can't prove it. Some out-of-town cowpoke made a one-in-a-million shot, or at least that's what people say. I can't ask him because someone conveniently slashed his throat last night."
"Guess someone wanted to take out your last line of defense."
The Judge laughed. "My last line of defense? That's hilarious. Bane was a symbol, that's all. A reminder of my strength. I can go anywhere in this town. Walk any street or alley, any time of the day or night, and not worry about someone trying to put a knife in my ribs or plug me full of daylight. If Bane was the only ace in my hand, anyone could rush in to take me out. But as you can see, no one's made a move. Do you know why that is?"
Gunner took a sip of coffee. "Ain't got the foggiest."
"Because anyone with the notion to try has to consider the consequences if they don't succeed. In the end, no one wants to bell the cat. It's the very nature of power. When you impress yourself on the very consciousness of your fellow man so strongly as to alter his decision-making process—that's when you have complete control. And when you have control, you can't lose. I own this Town. I own everything in it. It's like…being God. People here live because I allow them to. But they know at any moment, I might just wipe them from existence. That's power."
Gunner grunted. "Pretty sure God has a lot more territory to cover than one lousy town."
The Judge frowned. "A lot of my people were killed last night. The Baron knew they were coming. That displeases me. I'm greatly displeased, Gunner. Some of them were my family. My flesh and blood. I take that very personally. People are going to die today."
Gunner took a sip of coffee. "I told you the Baron had eyes on the inside."
"So you did. Waingrow believes those eyes are yours. He says you warned him a hit was coming."
"Waingrow is full of shit. For all you know, he's the inside man. I took a huge risk shutting down the Baron's mine last night. I don't know if she's on to me yet, but it's only a matter of time. I did my part. If things didn't work out, it's no fault of mine."
"Maybe not, but it was your plan. So you're gonna help me fix this mess."
"I'm inclined to pass on that offer. I'm leaving this Town. Just gotta collect my property, and I'm gone."
The Judge tilted the brim of his hat upward so that his cold eyes were visible. "You're not going anywhere. I called in the reinforcements, as you've probably noticed. Every hired gun looking for work in a hundred-mile radius. They're here at my beck and call, ready to unleash hell when I give the word. They outnumber the Baron's numbers two-to-one and await only my order to gun them all down. They also have standing orders to shoot you like a dog if you try leaving without my express permission. Which you won't get."
"Unless I do something for you."
A tight smile thinned the Judge's lips. "The Baron is boxed in. That makes her more dangerous. Plus, she has people in vital positions for the functioning of the Town. If I go in with guns blazing, they'll abandon their posts, leaving this place vulnerable and unstable. But with her mining operation shut down, she needs to make a move or the power plant will shut down. The townspeople will blame her, not me. I sent word to her this morning, informing her of my desire for a truce. I'll offer the use of my generator; she'll provide the shards and manpower to install it and run the operation—an equal partnership. We'll be meeting at a neutral location: just us and a pair of bodyguards. I want you to be one of my pair. I can't trust you at my back, so I want you by my side. I want to watch the Baron's face when she sees you. And if I don't like what I see, you're a dead man."
Gunner took a sip of coffee. "Why don't you just take the Baron out and be over with it?"
"What do you mean?"
"Seems to me you got the chance to solve all your problems. Say the Baron gets betrayed by someone she trusts. An outsider—not affiliated with you or your people at all."
"Someone like you."
"Someone like me. It would take a little creativity. You give me a crew of hired guns, we bust in the parley disguised as a rival gang, shoot up the place, and in the chaos make sure the Baron catches a bullet. Might have to hit one of your bodyguards to sell the whole thing, but in the end, you get what you want, and no one's the wiser."
The Judge rubbed his chin. "That's not a bad idea. Only it would require that I put my implicit trust in you. You could just as easily make sure I bite the bullet as well. So how do I know that won't happen?"
"Because I won't get paid. I'm not offering to do this for free. If the pay is good, you get my services. If I'm successful, you get your Town back. No challengers."
"How would you pull it off? Tensions are high, and you can bet she's on high alert."
"I'll go by to see her, pull my guns, and shoot her dead to rights. Then I'll shoot my way out and head for the hills."
"Just like that?"
"Just like that."
The Judge raised out of the chair, stepping off the porch. "I figure I'd like to see that. I'll give you two hours, Gunner. If you can't get it done, I
expect you to show up at my manor for the parley. Either way, I'm getting what I want out of you. Don't try anything stupid. My men will be watching your every move."
Gunner sipped his coffee, watching as the Judge strode down the street, immediately encircled by several men who only seconds earlier appeared to be casually lounging nearby. They marched at a leisurely pace, unhampered by the crowds that automatically moved to allow them passage. When they were lost to sight, Gunner set the mug on the railing, adjusted his gun belt, and stepped off the porch, headed toward the Bloody Mary. His boots trudged through red, dusty streets thick with weathered floating wagons, big-wheeled buggies loaded with wares from the trail carrying brown men with sombreros, leather chaps and long rifles in hand. Desperados from Texas riding lizard horses, mouths hidden by long thick mustaches, peering with sharp eyes, hands always nearby the big pistols on their hips.
Gunner passed by them all, senses alert, expectant of the gleam of a rifle at the window, the hidden gunman in the crowd. Every eye seemed focused on him; every face fixed into a murderous stare. It took forever to reach the steps of the Bloody Mary, where Marshal Wiley stood with a trio of deputies as if waiting for that moment.
Gunner flicked his eyes over the group, then back at Wiley. "You got something of mine. We gotta talk."
Wiley jerked his chin at the door. "Inside. It's getting downright hairy out here."
Gunner followed Wiley in the saloon, tailed by the silent, scowling deputies. The room was full of armed men and women positioned at the doors and windows. The place felt stifling, the tension thick enough to choke on. A pair of labcoats in the corner stood in front of a floating holographic screen, quietly arguing over surveillance feed.
The Baron waved him over from where she casually leaned against the bar. "The man of the hour," she said, raising a bottle of bourbon. "Thought you'd be in earlier. This place is getting thick with killers."
The Gunner Chronicles Page 10
