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the left side, where the jaw articulates, below the cheek.
Its progress then became random, but it had almost certainly smashed the
joint, dislocated the jaw, angling sideways, and took out most of the upper
teeth on that side. The splinters of bone would have shredded the tongue. The
bullet, tumbling and distorted, must have gone spinning upward, ripping
through the soft palate. Ferryman's left eye was missing from its bloodied
socket, which meant the round had exited there, smashing the cheekbone again
on its way out.
The frantic scrabbling and kicking was slowing down as the sec-boss became
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sucked into the mystery of his own ending.
Short of putting him out of the final misery, there was nothing Ryan could
donothing that he wanted to
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Deathlands - Time Nomads do. The coup de grace bullet remained unfired beneath
the hammer of the Blackhawk.
The entire ville was now covered in a smothering shroud of gas smoke, several
fires blazing uncontrollably. The shooting had stopped, and some of the crew
of War Wags One and Two were going around checking for anyone hiding from the
Trader's righteous vengance. Bodies were being dragged into piles, and the
wounded were being treated.
The Trader was standing in the center of the plaza, with J.B. and a few of the
senior crew members.
Standing in front of him, arms folded, was Baron Alias Carson.
Ryan walked toward the group, knowing that the drama was nearly played out.
Chapter Thirty-Six
"FERRYMAN?"
Ryan flicked his right thumb downward in the universal gesture for someone
chilled.
"He say anything about the fires?"
"No." He looked at Carson. "How about the baron? He start them?"
The Trader shook his head. "He's saying plenty of nothing."
The baron spoke in his slow, sardonic drawl. "Only thing I'm interested in
right now is whether any of you terminal fools have a supply of an immortality
drug. If not, then I guess I don't have too much to say."
J.B., his shirt torn from shoulder to wrist, looked at Ryan. "Seen anything of
the baron's woman? She's not among the dead."
"No. I was sort of tangled with Ferryman. Got a crease across the ribs. We
lose many?"
The Trader answered. "Too many." There was a wave of heat and shock as a
building on the far side of the ville went up in flames. From the size of the
explosion and the color of the flames, it was obviously a gas store. Fiery
rubble cascaded across Towse, starting a dozen fresh fires. The Trader sucked
on his lower lip. "Place is done. We're getting wounded together. I got a
burial party standing by. Wags have been called in. It's over."
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Deathlands - Time Nomads
"How about him?" Ryan asked looking at Alias Carson, amazed that the man could
be maintaining his cool.
"No time for a real job," the Trader replied. "Most of the sec-men are
finished. Some others caught bullets. Blood price is paid."
Carson spoke. "The buildings go. Captains and kings depart. But the land
remains, Trader. You and me can't do shit about that. Nothing else matters.
The land's what matters."
Without comment, the Trader lifted the muzzle of his Armalite a few inches and
shot the baron three times through the stomach and lower chest.
Alias Carson staggered back a dozen paces, glasses tumbling from his narrow
nose. Blood marred the perfection of his light suit. His slender hands waved
helplessly at the watching circle of men and women, and a low moan escaped
from between his lips. He dropped to the ground, rolling onto his face in the
trampled dust of his own ville. His body shuddered once then lay still.
"Talks like a baron. Walks like a baron. Acts like a baron. Dies just like you
and me," the Trader said, shouldering the warm guri.
Dawn wasn't far off, though the skies around the burning ville were still
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