“Clara,” Larsy said weakly.
“That’s right,” Voss replied. “Your friend, Clara. Here’s the deaclass="underline" tell me where the Sanctuary is, or one of my men will shoot Clara in the knee. The pain will be excruciating. But worse yet, she won’t be able to walk without crutches. Of course, that’s acceptable where a seamstress is concerned, since they work sitting down.”
Larsy looked at Clara, and Voss could see the look of anguish on her face. As for Clara, she was shaking like a leaf and looked like she might faint. When the words came, Voss could barely hear them. “What was that?”
“I’ll tell,” Larsy said pitifully.
“Excellent,” Voss said. “You made the right decision. Clara, you can return to your quarters. Appleby, please take Larsy here into your office and have her show you where the Sanctuary is on a map. And once you’re satisfied, let Mrs. Winters know. I’m sure she can find something for Larsy to do.”
Larsy was sobbing as Appleby led her away. The mercenaries followed. Voss glanced at the Rolex on his wrist. Dinner was half an hour away. Would he tell Sara about her brother’s exploits? Or keep her in the dark? The choice was his, and that felt good.
The next few days were busy as Voss sent a succession of food convoys east. Each one included twenty wagons, hundreds of mules, and an escort of mounted mercs.
Finally, having dispatched the last caravan, Voss returned to his home with plans to work on the trip north. According to Lora Larsy, the Sanctuary was located near Fort Vermillion, Canada. To get there and arrive with enough troops to conquer the place would be a major undertaking, especially since there was a strong possibility that he and his men would have to fight their way through the area controlled by the increasingly active Crusaders, the ever-vigilant Blackfoot Indians, and the half-crazy Blood Kin.
So with Appleby at his side, Voss was working on a list of supplies required for the expedition when he heard a commotion in the entry hall. That was followed by a knock and a formal request from a stone-faced footman. “Mr. Winthrop is here to see you, sir. He says the matter is urgent.”
Voss frowned. He wasn’t expecting a visit from Charlie Winthrop, and good news was rarely urgent. He nodded. “Send him in.”
As Charlie entered, Voss saw that the other man’s suit was soiled and his left arm was in a sling. Voss rose to circle the desk. “Charlie… what happened? Are you okay?”
“I’m too old to be okay,” Charlie replied. “Mind if I sit down?”
“No, of course not.” Then, once the visitor was seated, Voss turned to Appleby. “This is Charlie Winthrop—an old friend of mine. Please send for refreshments.”
“Especially if the refreshments include a shot of whiskey,” Charlie put in. “I’d drink my own stuff, but I know what’s in it.”
“No need to wait,” Voss said as he went over to a side table and selected a bottle. “You’ll like this. It was distilled back when my father ran Star Valley.”
Charlie accepted the glass, drank half the amber liquid in a single gulp, and smiled appreciatively. “Now, that was smooth… Your father knew what he was doing.”
“I’m glad you like it,” Voss said. “Now, what happened to your arm?”
“I was down south again,” Charlie began. “Past the town of Border. And that’s when I came across your mercs.”
In the wake of the conflict with Hashi, Voss had stationed a group of mercenaries at the southern border of what he considered to be his territory for the express purpose of keeping an eye on the techno bitch. “Yes, what about them?”
“They’re dead,” Charlie answered evenly. “All six of them.”
Voss swore. “So the Ronin attacked them.”
Charlie tossed the rest of the drink back and put the glass down. “No, sir… I don’t think so. It wasn’t like that. When I found ‘em, they’d been dead awhile. It looked like most were in their sleeping bags, or had been, before some sort of bombs went off. And the others, the ones on watch—their guns were full up. They never fired a shot.”
Voss’s mind began to race. In post apocalyptic America, nobody left loaded guns lying around. Not when ammo was so valuable. So Charlie was correct. Had the mercs been attacked by Hashi’s Ronin, they would have taken everything of value. So what did that leave? The toy airplanes! What if Hashi had located the scouts using her drones and used aircraft loaded with explosives to attack them? Yes, that would fit. But why? He looked at Charlie. “Give me the rest of it.”
“I continued south,” Charlie said, “but I didn’t get far. Once I spotted columns of smoke in the distance, I turned around. But it was too late by then. Half a dozen Ronin came after me. The dogs attacked them and that gave me a chance to cut a horse loose. They winged me and captured the wagon, but I outran them.”
“And Blue?”
Charlie looked away. “Dead.”
“I’m sorry,” Voss said, and meant it. “I can’t replace Blue. Nobody can. But Jonathan will pay you a fair price for the wagon, your horses, and the poison you call ‘medicine.’ Plus something for your time.
“Now, given the circumstances, I hope you won’t be offended if I get to work. Most of my mercs are east of here, escorting food convoys, and chances are that Hashi knew that. So she’s making her move.”
Charlie stood. “Can you stop her?”
Voss shrugged. “I don’t know. She’s holding most of the cards. Here, have some cigars.”
Charlie scooped a handful out of the open humidor and tucked them away. Then, with a nod to Voss, he allowed Appleby to lead him out into the hall. Voss swiveled around to look out at the road. Hashi was coming and wouldn’t be happy until she owned Star Valley. The war had begun.
Within hours after receiving the report from Charlie, Voss briefed a group of scouts about the possibility of remotely piloted drones and sent them down to replace those who had been killed. The next step was to gather his forces and move them south. The problem was that nearly sixty percent of the mercs were on convoy duty, and Voss couldn’t remove the rest from the valley without running the risk of a slave rebellion.
The answer was to call on the mayor of Afton for assistance. Since more than half of the people in town were directly or indirectly employed by Voss Enterprises, the response was quite gratifying. Within a matter of hours, the mayor was able to field three companies of militia totaling about three hundred men.
That was the good news. The bad news was that while all of them could shoot and ride, they hadn’t trained together, weren’t used to military-style discipline, and would constitute a tremendous drain on Voss’s resources. They would need ammo to fight, large quantities of food, and all the support services required by cavalry in the field. That included blacksmiths, farriers, and saddlers. Never mind the wagoners, cooks, and medical personnel required. All of which was made more painful by the fact that Voss expected to lose at least two-thirds of the militia to Hashi’s Ronin. Terrible casualties, to be sure, but worth it if he could use the townies to buy more time. Then, once his defenses were ready, the mercs not required in the valley would move forward to engage the Ronin. That would constitute the real battle.
Behind the militia, and marching as quickly as they could, were two hundred male slaves, all armed with farm implements. They couldn’t be expected to fight but would be invaluable when it came to preparing the necessary defenses. And finally, with guards all around, were the three wagons carrying Voss’s field gear—plus something else. Rather than leave Sara at home, where she might cause more mischief, Voss had chosen to bring her along. Her prediction, if it could be dignified as such, was that thunder would roll, a steel rain would fall, and blood would flow like a river. But who’s blood? She couldn’t or wouldn’t say.