Dean Ing - Wild Country

Scanned by Highroller and proofedmore or less by Highroller.

CHAPTER ONE

Death minus three minutes and counting: Rawson squinted throughyellow sundazzle and displayed his Mex dental work as the stranger neared maximumrange. The scope of his wire-stocked assault rifle showed only a single,helmeted rider, straight and tall on the hovercycle, its caliche dust trailwrithing behind.

Had Rawson been a praying man, he might have prayed for this break. Onewell-placed round could mean the difference between Rawson afoot in WildCountry, with deputy marshals closing in. and Rawson sitting pretty in thathovercycle with a straight run to the Rio Grande.

On the other hand, a clean miss might alert the silly bastard, and severalhasty shots might render that cycle useless. From his cover among theblistering rocks of South Texas. Rawson judged that his prey would cross withina hundred meters of him. If he waited an extra few moments, he would have agood headshot, and time for more if the first round missed. Rawson flicked hisfire selector to semiauto, wishing he had thought to drop his beltpac near thetracks his boots had made. A nice fat beltpac would've provided bait to halt anunwary traveler. Well, tough shit; Rawson concentrated on the world as itwasor rather, as he thought it was. It did not occur to him that the target inhis crosshairs might be bait.

Death minus two minutes and counting: For an instant, as the cyclepassed below on its cushion of air, Rawson's imagination whacked him under theribs. What if the rider gripped the throttlebar in his death agony? Thehovercycle might just continue on out of sight, its whirr fading with the dusttrail, a diesel-hearted horse with the bit in its teeth and a dead man in thesaddle. The outlaw adjusted his aim to the base of the neck, let the crosshairstraverse to lead the target, and squeezed gently.

The rifle's muzzle suppressor was a custom job, so that the muzzle scarcelymoved and emitted only a flat, whistling pop. The slug flew a trifle high,catching the erect rider behind the ear. Rawson sent two more rounds after it;saw the helmet jerk again, saw shards of plastic spray bright sparkles againstthe sun.

Death minus ninety seconds and counting: Rawson flung himself downfrom his prominence, bounding to flat, sunbaked soil, cursing the hovercycle asit continued. The damn thing had slowed a lot, but it was still under way, nowwandering in a broad arc above the sparse brush of Uvalde County, Texas. Therider was well-zapped, but at this pace Rawson, carrying the heavy rifle, wouldnever catch up. He made a snap decision, dropped the rifle, and sprinted hard.He willed his legs to pump harder. The goddamn rifle had done its job and inany case he still had his little Chink automatic, courtesy of World War IV,stowed in his breakaway hip pocket. In a long, gut-wrenching sprint he knewthat he was gaining. And so, in a way, he was definitely losing.

Death minus forty seconds and counting: The rider had not fallen,though his head lolled loosely on his neck. Both hands still gripped thehandlebars of the cycle, a scruffy, two-place McCullough with a tarp over therear saddle cowl. Rawson's thigh muscles told him he'd spent too many summerdays in the cantinas of Hondo and Eagle Pass, waiting for word that Sorelneeded him for a shipment. Trembling, gasping, he drew on his last reserves ofstamina and stumbled, nearly fell. But now the diesel stammered too. Rawsonhoped that didn't mean the effin' thing was out of fuel.

He found out what it meant as he staggered forward, exulting. Everythingbecame clear with the sudden emergence of the compact, green-eyed blond fellowfrom under the tarp. Rawson was only three-quarters surprised; in the smugglingbiz, you learned to count on fuck-all.

"Michael Rawson, you're under arrest," the younger man called. Hewore the shoulder patch of a federal deputy marshal on his thin deerskin shirt,a shirt too nice to perforate, though Rawson fully intended to do that verything.

"Wellain't you cute," Rawson puffed, stopping ten paces away,putting hands on hips while he fought for breath. Very 'cute indeed, wiring acast-off android from Wild Country Safari into the front saddle and steeringfrom under the tarp. The little deputy might be young but he had used guile,forcing Rawson to run from cover and tire himself with a long, exhaustingsprint. Not cute enough to have a weapon in his hands, though. If he knew whoRawson was, he ought to know how fast Rawson was.

Death minus eight seconds and counting: The broad-shouldered littledeputy saw something in Rawson's face. "Don't do it," he saidequably. But Rawson thought something in the man's face was pleading, do it.Rawson did it while the deputy's right hand was fishing out a card, probably toread him his rights.

Rawson's rights ended with an impossibly liquid left-handed draw by thedeputy, who flicked a seven-millimeter Chiller from its hidden armpit holsteras he bounded from the cycle. Rawson got his sidearm out, began his trustedsidewinder maneuver, swung his weapon to intersect the spot where the deputywould land and felt two paralyzing impacts in his torso.

Rawson crumpled, the slugs hurling him back. He lay with one leg buckled,both arms flung wide, the little automatic a full pace from his nervelessfingers. He understood a great deal more, now. There were maybe a half dozenbad dudes in Wild Country who could draw with Rawson, but only one whosefreakish reflexes were said to be absolutely lethal whether fiat-footed orairborne; a regular John Wesley Hardin.

And the blond deputy was a wrong-hander. too. Ex-assassin for Search &Rescue, ex-rebel with Jim Street, now a part-time lawman in Wild Country:"You'd be Ted Quantrill." Rawson grimaced, now feeling thick fluid inhis throat.

"And you had to find out the hard way," said the blond, reseatinghis Chiller.

Rawson's eyes were beginning to defocus, but he never lost his courage."Well, I said you was cute." he said, dying.

For the record, Quantrill noted that Michael Rawson's long countdown endedat 1:54 PM., central daylight time, on the seventeenth of September, A.D 2006.

CHAPTER TWO

Quantrill finished rolling the body into a standard bodybag, spat calichedust, hauled Rawson's bulk to the cycle, and retrieved his own Aussie hat, floppingit on his head after wiping a film of sweat and dust from his face. The old'droid in the front seat had been emptied of its innards and was soon stowed inback with Rawson.

After he disconnected the rear steering yoke, Quantrill stepped into the frontcowl, then pulled a cold bulb of Pearl beer from the right-hand cargo pannier.With his other hand he toggled his VHP set. A moment later, he had Chief DeputyStearns on-line.

The complaints began almost immediately. "Nope, I never got a chance toread him his rights," Quantrill replied. "He went for a Chinesesidearm; I'm bringing it as evidence."

He waited, pressing the earpiece with two fingers, meanwhile scanning theinnocent horizon. Then, "It was Rawson's choice, not mine." Pause."Sure. If my belt video was working, you'll see me with the chit in onehand and a handful of air in the other while he was drawing on me. I won't killa man unless he forces me to." Pause; a flare of nostrils below his brokennose. "Well, I don't anymore, sir. You can tell Marshal Teague our JusticeDepartment is still just. Anyway, you've got two more of Sorel's men for a niceshowy trial. You'd never have gotten anything from Mike Rawson. Read hisfile."

This time Quantrill waited longer. He was shaking his head in disgust whenhe replied. "It's not my fault if they got sprung so fast. Did anybodyplant a tracer bug on either of 'em?" Another pause. "I'm sorrierthan you are, mister; Espinel was a friend of mine. Sometimes I think Teague issorrier to see a fugitive come in horizontal than he is when one of us gets it.No, cancel that. I'm just hot and tired and pissed offsir."