Jagger sighed softly, “I regret everything since I met you, Little Girl.”
And just like that, Jagger broke my heart.
Two hours later, we made a slow left into the trees and came to a stop, the engine rumbling. It was blacker than the lowest pit of hell when I opened the door and the cats bounded out, vanishing, exploring. I swung out of the cab, shut the door, and Cupcake locked the truck armor into place. I caught a glimpse of Amos and Jagger as they disappeared into the trees on the other side of the narrow two-rut road. I gave Cupcake a thumbs-up, dropped low, and crab-walked into the brush, where I slid my battle faceplate into place and actuated temperature shielding and low-light-sensor blocking software on the Chameleon skin. I initiated the anti-recoil in the Dragon Scale’s arms and legs. And I went ahead and requested hardening of the armor. Andbloody hellthathurt! The suit went from comfy and stretchy to what felt like wearing a full-body steel corset in one second.
Cupcake began a slow crawl along the road, the diesel engine loud enough to wake the dead—or a drugged, drunken, and sleeping gang. Moving fast, thanks to my nanobot modifications, I preceded the cab’s bouncing lights.
I had a long-range RADR blaster and old-fashioned ARGO gas-operated shotgun secured at my spine, a powerful short-range blaster on my left thigh beside a wicked blade, two ten-millimeter semiautomatic handguns—one on my right thigh, one at my back—and what Pops called an “I’m fucked” weapon at one ankle, for when everything was lost and I needed to shoot myself to avoid capture. I didn’t need holsters. The armor came with little foldouts that formed locking mechanisms to hold my gear, including the bag of extra magazines above my left buttock.
Just ahead, I saw campfires, cars parked or abandoned here and there, tents and RVs. No sentries. No detectable sensors. I raced in from tree to tree, and then from rusted hulk to RV.
Dogs were chained to trees, sleeping, curled into tight balls of despair.
Music boomed through speakers—something with a cello, postwar and disjointed, as if the cello had been shot full of holes—loud enough to hide the diesel roar. I circled on the edge of the campsite, my suit sensors still spotting no cameras, no lasers, no warning systems.
There was a small cage to one side, and it was full of people. Standing room only, crammed too full to allow anyone to lie down. The stench was horrible, and I initiated air filters as I one-armed myself up into a tree and raced along a branch over the cage. Prisoners. Emaciated. Naked. Bleeding. Women and children and what had once been pretty boys. A memory of the woman in the log house flashed through my mind. Was there a connection? If so, what?
“Let’s make them pay,” I whispered into my mic.
“Approaching from the south,” Jagger said. “Prisoners are in the furthest RV.”
Amos said, “I just brained a guy taking a piss. There’s a handcuffed woman in his tent.”
“We have to assume that every tent and RV has prisoners in them,” I said. “We’ll have to clear each one. No quarter given to anyone who”—I took a slow breath to control my anger—“hurt prisoners.”
“Roger that,” Jagger murmured.
Amos said, “I hope these suits kill bedbugs and lice. ’Causedayumthis place stinks.”
“I have visual on the campsite,” Cupcake said.
“I see two speakers,” I said. “When the diesel is close, kill the speakers so they can hear the engine. When they come running out, everyone with a weapon dies. Everyone else will be treated humanely until we discover who decided not to be human and not to act human. When we leave here, there will be no more bad guys.”
“Roger that,” Jagger repeated, his voice the battlefield ice of the warrior who survived the Battle of Mobile. “Targeting speakers.”
“What he said,” Amos said.
I stretched out along the branch and pulled the ancient ARGO. It could accept extra-large-capacity mags, holding fifteen rounds each, and I had four more mags in my butt bag. I dragged the bag forward and positioned it for easy retrieval. I located each of my fellow warriors in the face-shield sensors and checked their firing positions. So far, so good. Shooting each other by accident should be difficult.
The diesel cab bumped over ruts. Cupcake shifted gears. “Now,” she said.
Shots rang out. The music died. The engine roared. The truck bounced into the main camp area, the horn blowing like the coming of the Angel Gabriel. I initiated my ear protectors. Men stumbled out of RVs, out of tents, rubbing eyes, drunk, all armed. They started firing at the cab. I took down the one nearest me. Then another. And another. From the sides, Jagger and Amos took down two more.
The armed men scattered like ants, each positioned in my sensor screens. Each obviously thinking that the shooting came from the diesel, they took cover from it, leaving themselves fully exposed to us. I shot two in the back. OMW rules of engagement meant killing people, not etiquette.
With our armor shielding and the glaring lights from the big rig, they couldn’t see us. I emptied my magazine one careful shot at a time, changed mags, and scanned the battleground. I went around again, putting a second shot into each of the downed men. Just in case. It was like shooting rats in a bucket.
When the last one was down and the shooting stopped, I said, “Kill the engine, Cupcake.” The diesel died with a slow coughing rumble. The ear protectors that had covered my ears during the barrage allowed ambient sounds in again. People were screaming and weeping.
I shoved back my faceplate and swung down, landing in front of the cage. A woman stared at me with wide blank eyes. The cage wire had pressed diamond patterns into her face and abdomen where she had been asleep standing up. I swung the ARGO shotgun back, and the suit grabbed it, holding it secure. Soundless, the woman watched as I inspected the cage’s lock. It was an old steel padlock, operated with a key. The lock was well built, but the hasp latch was cheap metal.
“Dick has the key,” she whispered, her voice a rasp.
I wrapped my armored hand around the padlock and pulled, twisting. The metal groaned. I placed one foot on the cage wall and activated the recoil-reverse feature of the armor. I pulled harder. The suit adjusted and hardened to provide maximum force and torque. My glove went harder than steel. I twisted my hand slightly.
The latch snapped off. I yanked the door open. People spilled from the cage into a pile on the ground, too exhausted to catch their balance or stand upright. The stench was appalling.
Gunshots rang out.
