"How did they chill 'em?" asked Mephisto.
Tourment shook his head. "Don't matter. It's the redhead. She's got some real power. They got careless. They got dead. End of that story."
He lifted the barrel of his blaster, covering both women. His eyes searched Krysty's, until she felt he was somehow trying to suck her soul from her body.
"Go fuck a dead shark," she said, trying to provoke him again.
"Perhaps I shall allow you that pleasure, girl," he replied. "Or, perhaps a live gator. See how your power works on that. But I feel your power is exhausted."
Krysty knew she was right: the massive baron was a doomie. But he wasn't able to see what she was thinking. Her mind was locked too tight for him to penetrate. She said nothing, staring him out.
"We should find out where they are," interrupted Mephisto. "Get after 'em 'fore dark. IfТn we wait, they could be anywhere."
Tourment sighed. "Such haste, my dear sec boss. If they are in league with the snow wolf, they will have gone to his skulking place in the vid-palace."
"Said we should have blown that apart."
"Only last week one of our swampwags was taken by the little bastard. The time is not ready yet." There was a snap in his voice that made Mephisto hastily step back.
Krysty could feel herself strengthening. She'd expended much more energy in destroying enemies far more powerful than the two sec men in the past, and hence her recovery would be quicker. Lori, at her side, stood straight and tall. Only the faintest trembling told Krysty how tense the young girl was.
"Enough of this. Come with us, and I'll show you what happens to anyone standing against the anger of Baron Tourment, high priest of Lafayette, lord of Mardy, night-stalker and spirit-raiser."
"And all round shit," completed Krysty, relishing his hesitant stumbling toward her on the creaking frames. She saw the finger whiten on the trigger of the pretty M-16. "Come," he said, gesturing with the gun. "See how the kin of the snow wolf, your friend, is treated."
Outside, there were a dozen armed sec men waiting to escort them through the echoing basement corridors of the large motel.
His head bent to avoid some of the painted metal pipes that festooned the ceilings, the baron led the way toward steep iron stairs. He negotiated them slowly and with obvious difficulty, leaning, on Mephisto to steady himself. Krysty whistled, tunelessly between her teeth at the delay.
Jak Lauren stalked around the auditorium, the tiny pieces of metal sewn into his clothes glinting in the overhead lamp so that at times he seemed to be wearing a suit of dancing lights. They'd been talking for an hour, not even stopping when bowls of hot stew were brought in from the kitchen of a nearby house.
The meat was a light pinkish-gray, tough and salty, in a broth with fresh vegetables. Finn devoured his and asked for more. Only when he'd nearly finished the second helping did he ask what it was.
The woman with the scar across her neck grinned, but no smile could ever light up her stony eyes. "What's your guess, Finnegan?"
"Some kind of bird. Or mebbe horse."
"Nope. It's gator meat. Killed this morning, so it's real fresh."
If she'd expected disgust from the fat gunman, she was disappointed. Finn laughed and held out the chipped dish for a third helping. "Day or so back one of them fuckers tried to fucking eat me, lady. Nice to know I'm getting my own back."
The albino joined in the laughter, clapping his approval of Finn's response. "Same way chill baron and all," he said.
"Not unless we get the details of this plan worked out," called Ryan. "We got a lot of pieces, and none of them stick together. You showed us the plan of the Best Western and told us how many men and what kind of weapons they got."
"And you showed us what you got," added J.B. "You sure you told us all?"
Jak stopped pacing and turned toward the slight figure of the Armorer. "Sure. Blasters. Ammo. Grens. Some high-ex but not much. Two flamers we captured when we got the swamp wag last week."
"There's that gas-jelly, Jak," called a balding man with a drooping mustache.
"What?" snapped J.B. "How's that?"
"Yeah. Year or more back, three of us, one was Pa, near got jumped by sec men up near old highway. Hid in brush and found a war wag from before the winters. Army. Two smaller wags with it. Few blasters, fucked by water and rain. But in back was drums this gas-jelly."
"How many? How big?" asked J.B., glancing across at Ryan, who was searching, his memory for a long-forgotten piece of information.
"Twenty. All 'bout this high," he said, holding his hand about four feet, from the floor. "Opened one. Sticky. Fuck, was it sticky! Tried dipping a hunk of wood in it, and it burned like gas. But we couldn't see no use for it."
"Jelly that burns like gas," said J.B., turning to Ryan with a blissful smile. It was the happiest that Ryan had seen him in months. "Know what it is, Ryan?"
But it was Doc who replied. "I know, Mr. Dix."
"What?"
"It's napalm."
Baron Tourment led them onto a low concrete dock that jutted into an expanse of murky water. It faced west, toward a red sun that was sliding nearer the horizon, sinking behind bayous lined with stunted trees, their roots tangling above the brown slime.
The stone dock was mud-smeared, chipped and broken where it came in contact with the water. It stood about three feet above the swamp, on pilings of rusted iron. Several wide-bottomed metal canoes were tied to the pier. Across the water Krysty could make out the silhouette of a building, open on two sides, a stone table at its center. Her sight was exceedingly sharp, and she could see metal rings at each corner of the table and the thick stains that ran down from the top."
Sec guards ranged around them as they stood there in the cooling late afternoon, with the baron and Mephisto at their head.
"Now for you to meet an old friend, ladies. The father of your leader."
Krysty felt Lori stiffen, the word "Ryan" on her lips, and nudged her into silence. "Our leader?" she said.
"Jak Lauren, slut. The white wolf himself. We hold the coward's own father." Raising his voice and clapping his hands together, he ordered, "Bring him here. And the pitch."
The air filled with the tang of hot tar as four sec men struggled with an iron caldron that bubbled and smoked. Two others brought out a prisoner cuffed between them. He was short and frail, wearing only rags of cotton, with a pair of rubber sandals flapping on his feet.
"Father Lauren," said the baron. "Have you three met before?"
The man, who looked to be close to Doc's age, ignored the baron, staring stubbornly at his own feet. Lori shook her head and looked away. Krysty was puzzled. It seemed as though Tourment genuinely thought they knew each other. If it wasn't a trick, then what did he think was going on? She knew the leader of the other gang in West Lowellton, the snow wolf, was the bitter enemy of the baron. If he was called Jak Lauren, then this old man was his father. Why had the baron brought him out? What was he trying to prove?
There wasn't long to wait. Tourment gestured for Mephisto to approach. The sec boss sidled to the front of the group and drew a long, slim-bladed stiletto from a sheath at the back of his belt. He grinned as he showed it to the women.
"His son will be angry. I don't care," said Tourment. "I don't fear him. Or any of you. Even the man with one eye."
At a sign from his chief, one of the sec men stooped and picked up a paddle from the nearest canoe. He slapped it a few times on the water, the noise echoing across the lagoon until it faded. Tourment waved his hand again, and the man stopped.