Ghostwalk. James Axler

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      The millennialist struggled, trying to align the bore of the noise suppressor with Kane’s head.

      Kane tensed his wrist tendons and the Sin Eater slapped into his palm, the barrel smacking the side of the man’s head as it popped from the holster. He cried out in pain and fear, squeezing his eyes shut in anticipation of a bullet plowing a path through hair, flesh, bone and brain.

      Kane didn’t depress the trigger stud or even increase the pressure of the knife blade. Calmly he said, “You’re leaking a lot of blood, pal. If you want to keep enough of it in you to stay alive, I’m your only option.”

      The millennialist’s lips twisted in pain and frustration. His skin was pinked by the sun, and his wispy blond hair was cut very short. He resembled most of the other consortium grunts Kane had met over the past few years. He looked to be in his early thirties.

      “All right,” he said hoarsely. “All right.”

      He opened his hand and the Calico dropped to the ground.

      Picking up the man’s pistol, Kane took the knife away from the man’s throat. “What’s your name?”

      “What difference does it make?”

      Kane shrugged. “None. I just thought it was the polite thing to ask of a man I’ve probably crippled.”

      Wincing, the man reached for the scarlet-seeping slash at the back of his boot. “Call me Mr. Gray.”

      Kane smiled slightly, recalling the pair of color-coded millennialists he had met in Europe. “You can call me—”

      “Kane,” Mr. Gray broke in harshly. “I’ve seen pix of you. Your file is black tagged.”

      “What’s that mean?”

      “It means you’re a high-priority target. Big bonus pay for any of us who nails you.”

      He glanced sourly at the Calico in Kane’s hand. “Guess I got too eager. But I could swear I got you.”

      “You did, just not as good as I got you.” Kane eyed the man’s injured foot. He popped the magazine out of the Calico and tossed the weapon over his shoulder. It clattered loudly against rock. “Let me see what I can do about getting that boot off.”

      Gray looked longingly toward the Calico. “They’ve been making us pay for every gun we lose.”

      “Yeah, the consortium has a reputation for squeezing every penny until it screams.” Kane applied the edge of the knife to Gray’s bootlaces, and after a quick sawing motion they parted easily.

      “We’re thrifty,” Mr. Gray said defensively.

      “There’s a difference.”

      Kane didn’t reply as he carefully tugged off the man’s boot. Blood acted as lubricant. Although the pain must have been excruciating, Gray didn’t cry out, although he sank his teeth into his lower lip.

      The Millennial Consortium was, on the surface, a group of organized traders who dedicated their lives to recovering predark artifacts from the ruins of cities. In the Outlands, such scavenging was actually the oldest profession.

      After the world burned in atomic flame, enough debris settled into the lower atmosphere to very nearly create another ice age. The remnants of humankind had waited in underground shelters until the Earth became a little warmer before they ventured forth again. Most of them became scavengers mainly because they had no choice.

      Looting the abandoned ruins of predark cities was less a vocation than it was an Outland tradition. Entire generations of families had made careers of ferreting out and plundering the secret stockpiles the predark government had hidden in anticipation of a nation-wide catastrophe. The locations of those hidden, man-made caverns filled with hardware, fuel and weapons had become legend to the descendants of the nukecaust survivors.

      Most of the redoubts had been found and raided decades ago, but occasionally a hitherto untouched one would be located. As the Stockpiles became fewer, so did the independent salvaging and trading organizations. Various trader groups had combined resources for the past several years, forming consortiums and absorbing the independent operators.

      The consortiums employed and fed people in the Outlands and gave them a sense of security that had once been the sole province of the barons. There were some critics who compared the trader consortiums to the barons and talked of them with just as much ill will.

      Since first hearing of the Millennial Consortium a few years earlier, the Cerberus warriors had learned firsthand that the organization was deeply involved in activities beyond seeking out stockpiles, salvaging and trading. The Millennial Consortium’s ultimate goal was to rebuild America along the tenets of a technocracy, with a board of scientists and scholars governing the country and directing the resources to where they saw the greatest need.

      Although the consortium’s goals seemed utopian, the organization’s overall policy was pragmatic beyond the limit of cold-bloodedness. Their influence was widespread, but they were completely ruthless when it came to the furtherance of their agenda, which was essentially the totalitarianism of a techno-tyranny.

      Nor were their movements restricted to the continental United States. Not too long before, Cerberus had thwarted a consortium operation in Slovakia.

      Kane examined the knife wound. His blade hadn’t completely severed Gray’s Achilles tendon. Even so, Kane doubted the man would ever be able to walk without a limp again.

      From a pouch pocket of his pants, Kane took out a long bandanna and folded it, then expertly knotted it around the man’s wound to staunch the flow of blood.

      Conversationally he said, “Once I hook back up with my team, I’ll have access to a medical kit and get you some proper bandages and even a painkiller.”

      Gray responded only with a muffled groan.

      In the same studiedly casual tone of voice, Kane continued, “You don’t seem surprised to hear about my team…. or even what I’m doing out here.”

      Gray’s sweat-pebbled face tightened. “We expected you.”

      “And why is that?”

      The millennialist sighed and said almost regretfully, “We found your spy.”

      Kane laid a hand on Gray’s injured ankle. In a level voice he asked, “What spy?”

      “He said his name was Philboyd, that he was a scientist and that we should back off.”

      Kane tightened his fingers around Gray’s ankle. “Where is he?”

      “He’s not dead,” Gray replied quickly. “I swear to you. We didn’t kill him.”

      “I asked where he was.”

      Gray winced. “I can show you.”

      “I’m sure you can.” Kane released the man’s ankle and stood up. “And you’ll show us a lot more besides.”

      He gazed beyond Gray. “You hear any of that?”

      Mr. СКАЧАТЬ