The minutes seemed to crawl by as Lora finished the last of the breakfast dishes. Every now and then she looked to see if Mr. Oliver had stirred and took heart from the fact that he hadn’t. Finally, as the people around her began to work on lunch, Lora heard the words she’d been waiting for. “Lora, Mr. Perkins is here. Go out and unload the wagon.”
Lora hung her head submissively as she left the kitchen and went outside. Unlike most of the overseers, Mr. Perkins was a nice man. He smiled at her as they passed.
Lora felt a rising sense of tension as she took the first load in. The key was to fade into the background as Mr. Perkins claimed center stage. He was seated next to Mr. Oliver by then and making fun of him, a rare treat, which the slaves enjoyed immensely.
The first load was followed by a second and a third. By that time Mr. Perkins had crowned Mr. Oliver with a mixing bowl and was in the process of placing a spoon scepter in his hand, so no one noticed as Lora left for a fourth trip.
Once outside, Lora took a quick look around, decided that no one was watching her, and ducked below the wagon. The cargo compartment was mounted underneath the bed, where its contents would be safe from bad weather. It was at least six feet long and four feet wide, so no problem there. But the box was only a foot tall. That meant Lora had to squeeze inside, and once she did, her nose was only an inch from the wood above.
As Lora pulled on the stick that served as a prop, the top-hinged door fell into place. She felt a sudden sense of panic. The space was too small! She had to get out. But if she did, all hope of an escape would be lost. Lora was wrestling with herself when she heard some muted laughter and knew that Mr. Perkins had left the house. The wagon shook as he climbed up onto the driver’s box and clucked at the horses. That was followed by a jerk and a rattling sound as the vehicle got under way.
Perkins would have to pass through the checkpoint where the driveway met the main road. Would the mercenaries inspect the cargo box? Or would they wave the conveyance through as they had many times before? Don’t look, Lora thought. Don’t look, don’t look, don’t look.
A couple of minutes passed as the wagon rolled downhill. Then it came to a stop and Lora heard voices. They were at the gate. She was close, so very close. What felt like a minute passed. Then another. Don’t panic, Lora told herself. Maybe the mercs are inspecting an incoming wagon… Maybe…
Then she heard a scuffling sound and the door opened. And there, peering in at her, was Mr. Oliver. His eyes were red, his breath was foul, and he stank of alcohol. “Here she is!” he said triumphantly. “Thought you could run, eh? We’ll have none of that. Not while I’m on duty.” Then the face was gone.
Mercs appeared, jerked Lora out of the box, and air-walked her up the drive to a place she knew all too welclass="underline" the hole. It was about six feet deep, four feet wide, and six feet long. Roughly the dimensions of a well-dug grave. The bottom was covered by twelve inches of water mixed with human waste.
Lora felt the substance rise over her ankles as they dropped her into the hole. As she looked upward she saw Mr. Oliver appear. His lanky body was silhouetted against a rectangle of blue sky. “Mr. Voss will be back any day now,” the overseer said. “And that’s when you will die.”
As the wooden lid was lowered into place, she knew the mercs would place a chunk of concrete on top of it. Darkness replaced the sky, the stink filled her nostrils, and Lora was all alone.
It was three a.m. and very dark. During two days of riding, the bandits had been able to cross the Caribou range, turn south at the town of Alpine, and avoid Voss’s patrols by traveling at night and hugging the mountains on the west side of Highway 89. During the journey, Fade and Smoke had been able to purchase four wagons along with the mules required to pull them.
Now, having bypassed Afton, the group was poised to strike. There were two objectives. The first was to raid one of Voss’s canneries, and the second was to rescue Crow’s sister.
Tre had volunteered for the second mission, knowing how much it meant to Crow and having full confidence in Smoke’s ability to lead the raid on the cannery. Crow was a dimly seen presence. “Remember,” he said, “most of the mercs are gone. But those who remain will outnumber us four to one. But we have as much firepower as they do. So if we stick to the plan, everything will be okay. Questions? No? Okay. Let’s do this thing.”
Horses nickered, and a mule complained loudly as Smoke led the wagons and fifteen riders down the road that led to the cannery. The rest of the group, ten in all, followed Crow toward Highway 89. They were wearing cowboy hats and dusters in the hope that passersby would think they were mercenaries.
The only light was that provided by a wan moon partially obscured by clouds. But it was sufficient to see the intersection with 89 and turn onto it. According to Crow’s spy, there were about thirty mercs stationed at the Voss mansion, half of whom would be off duty at three thirty a.m. So once the raiders forced their way in through the main gate and neutralized the weapons emplacements upslope from the highway, they planned to attack the barracks. Then they could break into the house and rescue Sara Silverton.
Tre felt the usual combination of fear and excitement as the mansion appeared up ahead. Lights could be seen in some of the ground-floor windows in spite of the early morning hour. Crow waved his followers forward and the horses broke into a gallop.
Tre heard shouts and saw a couple of muzzle flashes, just before Crow fired the grenade launcher attached to the underside of his assault rifle. The resulting explosion blew the gate open and allowed the lead horsemen to enter.
The surviving mercs returned fire, but they were seriously outgunned. Their Model 70 bolt-action Winchesters were no match for military assault rifles. As Tre fired at a muzzle flash, he heard a scream.
Having killed or seriously wounded all the mercs stationed at the gate, the raiders started up the drive. Now the advantage lay with the mercs. There were three machine-gun emplacements on the slope above, and all of them opened fire. A horse went down, rolled over its rider, and killed him.
But as the mercs fired the machine guns, they revealed where they were, and that was what the Deacon had been waiting for. He was on the ground by then with the shoulder-launched multipurpose assault weapon at the ready. He fired and was rewarded with a brilliant flash of light and a resounding boom as his rocket scored a direct hit. Scratch one machine gun.
One of the new recruits was there to reload the tube and slap the Deacon on the shoulder. He fired and sent another 83-millimeter rocket downrange. Another hit lit up the night. But that was when the Deac ran out of luck. A merc fired from somewhere up above, the Deacon went down, and the loader sought cover.
Meanwhile the third gun had been silenced by a combination of auto fire and a grenade from Crow’s launcher. That cleared the way to the top of the slope. “The barracks!” Crow shouted. “Follow me!”
Tre kicked his horse into motion. What was he doing here? The whole thing was crazy. Weapons blazed as the mercs holed up in the barracks opened fire. That was when someone uttered a long, piercing war cry, and Tre was surprised to discover that the sound had originated with him.
Lora was awake and standing in twelve inches of filthy water. All her senses were keyed up. She could hear the muted sound of gunfire as well as an occasional explosion. The house was under attack. But by whom? And why? The best bet was Lord Hashi. Perhaps a battle had been lost and Voss was dead. Maybe Hashi’s forces had already swept up the length of the valley and would attack Afton soon. Damn, damn, damn! If only she had waited. It would have been relatively easy to escape during the battle. But now, while trapped in the hole, there was nothing Lora could do but listen.