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"We still haven't found Jomo. If he gets back to Docktown hell raise another army, and he won't make the same mistakes. I don't know if we could stop him a second time."
"Don't worry, Leo. Even if the worst happens he'll need a boat to get home. We could still hunt him down with the Bitch."
"The Bitch . . ." Makhno jerked upright in sudden alarm. "Nobody's guarding her! I left her on the beach-" With that, be turned and ran back downhill.
"I'm coming, Leo!" Jane shouted after him through the radio. "Just let me tell the others first." She picked up her shotgun.
Makhno didn't hear; he was too busy racing for the anchorage.
When Van Damm heard the call he had been working his way along the hedge, looking for tracks. He hadn't found any, but he'd had hopes.
Brodski had made good progress upstream, and was looking over toward the stretch of beach when he got the call.
"Time to go back, girl, for all of us." Brodski stopped a moment and considered. "Let's get under the hedge and down the beach."
"Why, Mister Brodski?"
"I'll have a clear shot at him when he comes down to the landing-point. I might put a hole in the Bitch but well stop Jomo."
Makhno dived under the lower thorn-hedge and came rolling out on the narrow beach. He got up and ran northward along the shore, heading for the Bitch.
"Goddammit, Makhno," Brodski's voice crackled from the radio. "Get out of my line-of-sight!"
Having no idea where Brodski was, Makhno ran on. There was nobody near the Black Bitch when he came pounding up to it. Panting with relief, he started to shove off. The best way to keep the Bitch out of any surviving Simba's hands was to take her out into deep water and keep her moving.
Then the ZAP of a stu
Jomo gri
He gri
Van Damm heard the ZAP ahead and below him, and dropped to a crouch. He waited a moment, then slipped forward, quiet in the thick forest, not nearly fast enough to suit him. So there was a Simba left in the wood-belt, maybe Jomo. Now was he moving or holed up somewhere? There was no further sound . . . .
Damn, but this was going to take time.
Brodski crouched behind a boulder on the beach, held his aim on the top of the Black Bitch. Where the hell was that damned Simba? When would he break cover?
Mary Harp squatted beside him, trying to match her shotgun's aim to his rifle, making no sound. Good girl, that. "Don't fire unless I miss," he whispered. Mary nodded, waiting.
So much for her, and Makhno-and Van Damm was somewhere uphill, coming down through the woods. Dammit, where was Easter?
He heard the sound of light but clumsy footsteps sneaking away through the woods beyond the hedge, heading toward the point.
Brodski swore under his breath. The girl's tactical sense was good, but she was making too damned much noise. Whoever it was had to hear her coming, and what then?
Jomo heard the approaching footsteps below, and smiled. So, Makhno did have a backup, one of the women, no doubt. This part would be enjoyable.
He waited until he could hear the steps directly downhill from him, then fired. A thump and a sound of crackling brush answered him. Got her.
Jomo slipped out of hiding and made his way downhill. A moment's searching found the girl sprawled in a tangle of eggtree fronds.
Why, surprise: she was white, a blonde in fact, quite young and good-looking. She'd make an excellent incentive for recruiting fresh troops, worth dragging along on the trip downriver. Jomo scooped up the limp body, settled the girl on his shoulder and continued on down the slope.
Van Damm heard the footsteps in the forest below him, and crept forward with care. There: the target came into sight ahead. It looked like Jomo, all right-and, dammit, he was carrying one of the girls on his shoulder. No clear shot, not at this range, not that he could guarantee to take Jomo without hitting the girl; nothing to do but follow, hoping to get closer.
And who was that now, flitting down the slope behind him? Whoever it was knew how to move both fast and quietly in this forest . . . . Flaming hells, it was Jane!
Jomo reached the riverside greenthorn hedge and paused a moment to wonder how he was going to do this. The hedge was thick, and he'd have to lift the branches. Best to put the girl down, drag her through behind him. He dumped her on the ground and bent over to shove his stu
Then he heard ru
Jomo flailed wildly in the thorns, trying to ignore the deep scratches. The stu
Jane, get out of the line of fire!" yelled a voice from upslope.
Jane?! Jomo wondered, then thought to roll over.
For an instant he saw the big, stocky, blond-braided woman standing over him. In an instant's flash of memory, Jomo recognized her.
– A year ago, Docktown, just off the ship, walking away with all those slits in tow. The one who-
And then her shotgun blast stopped his mind forever.
DeCastro was sitting in the front room of The Simba, considering fate. His plan of consolidation had worked as well as anything else had on this planet, but now he was down to all of fourteen men, which was not enough to hold Docktown thoroughly in control. He had entrenched at his Golden Parrot Cantina and here at the ill-named Simba, but neither establishment had enough supplies to entertain customers. Business was not merely poor; it was dead. Jomo would not be pleased when he returned, and the object of his wrath was most likely to be one Tomas DeCastro. At least the elimination of the Reynolds agent was a plus.
Try as he might, he could see no way out of this. There was nowhere he could hide in Docktown. The next ship wasn't due in for seven or eight months. There was always the run to the wilderness, but survival required serious supplies, and there were no supplies to be had. DeCastro remembered the good days in his then-profitable little cantina, and hoped that Jomo might be eaten by a Tamerlane.
There was a distant but growing sound of boat-engines out on the lake. The engines grew louder . . . .
In fact, much too high-pitched for the Last Resort. DeCastro held his breath. The engines cut to silence.
There came a shout from the dockside, then nothing. The three Simbas in the bar looked at each other, nervously fingering their rifles, but DeCastro kept perfectly still. He would wait patiently: it would not serve to appear excited.
He didn't have long to wait. The front door flew back on its hinges, and the man who'd been watching the dock came flying through it, on his back. He hit the floor, skidded, bounced, and lay still.
DeCastro and the three guards stared at the sight for a few seconds, but when they looked back toward the door it was too late; five unexpected guests had already entered. They were carrying shotguns, all of which were aimed at each of the guards, two at DeCastro.