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as lightning. Had him in my sights, and he wheeled on me as I was squeezing
the trigger.
Disappeared like a fucking ghost and was gone before I could draw another
bead."
"So he can run," the baron said. "Don't need a runner. Need a fighter."
"He can fight," Solomon said. "He's a chiller."
"Know that for a fact, do you?"
"If that boy had gotten his hands on a weapon, you might not have all your men
back out of the brush," Solomon replied. "If he hadn't trusted me just long
enough, I wouldn't have bagged him for you. And I think he was already
figuring out that I wasn't on his side."
Dean slitted his eyes open again. This time he saw the wall of bars separating
him from the speakers. Solomon was talking to a gruff-looking man in road
leathers, the right side of his face spider webbed with tattoos, a rifle
resting easy in the crook of his arm.
"Moves like that, Baron," the gruff man said, "you can't teach. Boy's been
around some."
Beyond the trio of men, another dozen were making final preparations on the
wags that had formed a loose circle around the area.
"Give me that light," the baron ordered. He took a cylinder from the man
beside him, switched it on and fanned the lens out into a broad cone.
With the extra light, Dean could see that he was in a wag of some type. The
sides were covered by canvas over a rib cage of bars just like the ones
covering the back end, converting the wag to a cage on wheels. Slavers used
vehicles like these when they could.
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His heartbeat sped up. Solomon had sold them out to slavers. The other boys
were scattered around him. A few moved, struggling to throw off the effects of
the trank dart they'd been hit with.
The baron strode to the end of the wag, then stepped up on a platform mounted
there.
The wag shifted as it took on the man's weight.
Framed in the light he directed at the top of the canvas-covered cage, the
baron looked fierce. His face was scalpeled by hard living in mean times,
scraped free of any softness or empathy. Long black hair framed his face and
ran down past his shoulders. A
mustache and goatee almost disguised the old knife scar that ran across his
cruel lips.
Another scar started from the bottom of the goatee and trailed down the side
of his neck, showing how close he'd come to death.
He wore jeans with wraparound black chaps over them, a body-armor vest with a
death's-
head painted over his heart, a deep turquoise silk shirt with a high collar
under that.
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Feathered earrings thatched with blue-jay quills hung from either side of his
head. A cut-
down Mossberg Bull-pup 12 shotgun rode in a hand-tooled breakout holster that
ran the length of the man's right thigh, the butt sawed off and replaced with
a fold-out metal stock. He carried a Detonics .45 in shoulder leather.
"I'm Baron Vinge Connrad," the man declared. "That probably don't mean a thing
to most of you."
It didn't mean anything to Dean. Scoping out the other boys without moving his
head, he figured it didn't mean anything to anyone else, either.
"What does matter," Connrad continued, "is that I own you as of this minute.
You can live or die right now." He slipped the Mossberg free of the thigh
holster and held it in one hand. "What's it going to be?"
None of the boys said anything.
"I better damn sure get an answer," Connrad growled, leveling the Mossberg.
"Otherwise, I'm going to shoot me some fish in a barrel."
"Live!" Ethan Perry said, blood tracking a split lip. The other boys took up
the cry.
Dean, who'd said nothing, found himself being prodded with the shotgun muzzle.
He
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%20-%20Mars%20Arena.html thought about trying to grab the barrel but decided
against it. Even if he managed to get it away from the man, there was nowhere
to go.
"What about you, kid?" Connrad demanded.
"I want to live," Dean answered.
Connrad flashed him a cruel grin, eyes shadowed by the night's darkness.
"Smart kid."
He withdrew the Mossberg.
Dean sat up, sidling out of reach of an arm through the cage. "What do we have
to do to live?"
"Chill a few people. Nothing big."
"Who?"
"Does it matter?" Connrad's gaze was direct and forceful.
Dean dropped his arms over his folded knees. "Not really."
Connrad looked over his shoulder at Solomon. "I like this kid, Payton."
Solomon nodded. "Knew you would. Like to talk about the jack you owe me for
training these kids for you."
Connrad waved a dismissive hand, turning his gaze back to Dean. "You're kind
of the runt of the litter, kid. Way you heard from Solomon, I paid him some
good jack for finding ten of you here at the school and putting you together [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]