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Rifle?
What
was
that strange-looking weapon?

 

    Dan’s pistol was clear of the holster. Coming up.
“Halt!”
he shouted.
“Drop your weapons!”

 

    The first rifle went off. The gun made a strange, booming sound. Dan heard the bullet ricochet off the pavement. He caught a glimpse of Mike throwing himself down. Dan had his pistol up—levered the slide—two-handed grip—

 

    The round from the second rifle slammed into his left shoulder, knocking him sideways.

 

    His mind felt suspended. Dan had never actually fired his weapon in a live situation. But he was an instructor in police combat tactics, and had spent uncounted hours on the firing range and in simulated drills. His training took over. Using his right hand, he brought the pistol back on target.

 

    Detached, his mind recognized that the man was wearing some kind of armor. And a helmet. Dan was an expert shot. The range wasn’t more than thirty feet. He fired. Fired again. The .40-caliber rounds practically severed the man’s neck. He flopped backward, out of sight.

 

    Dan swung his pistol to the left. The other man was still standing on the wall, doing something with his weapon. He, too, was wearing armor. But he had no helmet. Dan fired. Fired again. Fired again. Three shots, in less than two seconds. The head which absorbed those rounds was nothing but a ruptured ruin. The man collapsed to his knees, dropping his weapon. A second later, both the man and his firearm were sliding over the wall. The firearm landed on the pavement with a clatter. The body landed with a sodden thump.

 

    Dan felt himself slumping. He sensed that his arm—his whole body—was soaked with blood. Mike caught him and lowered him to the ground.

 

    He was fading out now.
Shock
, he realized.
I’m losing a lot of blood.
Dimly, he recognized the face of the black doctor, looming over him. His vision was getting blurred.

 

    There was something he had to do. Urgent.

 

    
Oh, yeah.
“Mike,” he whispered. “I’m deputizing you. You and your guys. Find out what the hell—” He faded out, back in. “Just do whatever you’ve got to . . .”

 

    Faded out.

 

    “How is he?” Mike asked.

 

    Nichols shook his head. The doctor had pulled out a handkerchief and was trying to staunch the wound. The cloth was already soaking through.

 

    “I think it’s just a flesh wound,” he muttered. “But—
Jesus
—what did that bastard shoot him with, anyway? A shotgun slug? Damned near ripped his shoulder off. Sharon—
come here. Quick!
”

 

    As his daughter hurried up, Nichols was relieved to see she was carrying a first-aid kit. Frank Jackson must have had one in his truck. The doctor spotted another miner hauling a first-aid kit out of his own vehicle.
Thank God for country boys,
came the whimsical thought.

 

    While Nichols and his daughter started tending to Dan Frost, one of the other miners picked up his assailant’s weapon. Ken Hobbs, that was. He was in his early sixties and, like many of the men in the area, was an enthusiast for antique black-powder guns.

 

    “Will you look at this thing, Mike?” he demanded, holding up the firearm. “I swear to God—this is a fucking
matchlock
!”

 

    Noticing Sharon working at her father’s side, Hobbs flushed. “Sorry, ma’am. ’Bout the bad language.”

 

    Sharon ignored him. She was too preoccupied helping her father. Dan’s eyes were closed. His face was as pale as a sheet.

 

    Mike turned away. Hobbs came up to him, extending the captured weapon. His wizened face, scrunched up with puzzlement, was a mass of wrinkles. “I
swear
, Mike. It’s a matchlock. There’s pictures of them in one of my books at home.”

 

    Another miner, Hank Jones, came up. “You oughta be careful handling that,” he muttered. “You know. Mess up the fingerprints.”

 

    Hobbs started to make some vulgar retort. Then, remembering Sharon, turned profanity into a simple hiss. “For what, Hank? So we can nab the culprit?” He gestured at the corpse lying at the foot of the peculiar embankment. “Case you didn’t notice, Dan already blew the SOB’s head off.”

 

    Another miner had scrambled onto the wall, and was studying the corpse of the other man. He barked a harsh laugh. “Same here! Two rounds, right through the neck.”

 

    Darryl McCarthy was in his early twenties. He had none of Hobbs’ old-fashioned qualms about using bad language in front of a woman. Not under these circumstances, anyway. “Only thing holding this asshole’s head to his body,” he announced loudly, “is maybe three little strips of meat.”

 

    McCarthy rose. Standing on the lip of the wall, he stared down at Dan Frost’s unconscious form. His look was full of approval. “Both rounds hit the bastard right in the throat. Blew his fucking neck all to hell.”

 

    All the coal miners were gathered at the scene, now. All of them were staring down at Frost. All of them with approval.

 

    “Remind me not to lip off to him at the Happy Trails, next time he says I’ve had enough,” murmured Frank Jackson. “Always heard he was a hell of a shot.”

 

    Mike straightened up, remembering the girl. His eyes ranged down the creek where she had fled.

 

    “She’s probably half a mile away, by now,” said Hank. He pointed southwest, across the creek. “I saw her scramble over to the other side. Creek must be low. She went up somewhere into the trees.”

 

    Hank’s face twisted into a ferocious scowl. “The whole back of her dress had been ripped off, Mike.” He glared at the corpse lying on the pavement. “I think those guys were trying to
rape
her.”

 

    Mike’s eyes went to the corpse. Then looked at the wall and the unseen territory beyond. Thin columns of smoke were still rising.

 

    “Something bad is happening here, guys,” he stated. “I don’t know what it is. But it’s bad.” He pointed at the corpse. “I don’t think this is all of it.”

 

    Frank stalked over to the corpse and stooped over it. “Look at this weird armor. What do you think, Mike? Some kind of crazy survivalists or something?”

 

    Mike shrugged. “I’ve got no idea, Frank. But if there were two of them, there’s no reason can’t be more.” He gestured at Dan. Dr. Nichols seemed to have the blood flow stanched. “You heard the chief, guys. He deputized us, and told us to do whatever’s got to be done.”

 

    The miners nodded, and crowded a little closer.

 

    “So get your guns, boys. I know damn well you’ve all got something stashed in your vehicles. We’re going hunting.”

 

    As the men started moving toward their trucks, Mike reconsidered. “Except you, Ken. You’ve got to get Dan back to the high school. They’ve got a clinic.”

 

    Seeing the elderly Hobbs’ look of suspicion, Mike elaborated curtly. “Don’t argue with me! It’s not your age, dammit. You’ve got the only van here.” He pointed at Frost. “Better than tossing him into the bed of a pickup.”

 

    Mollified, Hobbs nodded. “I’ll get my gun. Leave it with you guys.”

 

    Mike heard Nichols murmur something to his daughter. A moment later the doctor was rising.

 

    “Sharon can do as much for him right now as I can,” he said. “It’s just a flesh wound. Big one, but nothing worse. She’ll go back with him to the clinic.”

 

    Mike cocked an eyebrow. Nichols smiled thinly. “I’m coming with you.” Nichols nodded toward the wall. “Like you said, something bad’s going down here. I suspect you’ll need me down the road a ways.”

 

    Mike hesitated. Then, studying the hard, rough face—a
very
thin smile that was—he nodded. “Okay with me, Doc.” He looked down at Frost. “Can you get that holster off him? You better have a weapon yourself.”

 

    While Nichols occupied himself with that task, Mike went over to his own pickup. It was the work of a few seconds to haul his gun from its place of concealment behind the seat. And a box of ammunition. He hefted the big .357 magnum. The weapon was a Smith & Wesson Model 28 Highway Patrolman fixed-sight revolver, tucked into a clip holster. Fortunately, Mike had insisted on dress pants using a belt instead of suspenders. He attached the holster to the belt and shoved the ammunition in the rented tuxedo’s deep pockets.

 

    Then he went over to Dan’s Cherokee and took out the shotgun. He also found two boxes of ammunition. One of them contained rounds for the .40 caliber. The other held double-ought buckshot. The same rounds would be in the shotgun’s magazine. He pried out a half dozen shotgun shells and stuffed them in his pants pockets. The box of .40-caliber ammunition he kept in his hand. Between the revolver and all the ammunition, he felt like a waddling duck.

 

    
Screw it. I’d rather be a well-armed duck than a sitting one.

 

    By now, Sharon and Hobbs had gotten Dan into the back of the van. Jenny Lynch had recovered enough to lend them a hand. Less than a minute later, the van was turning around and heading back to the high school.

 

    Mike’s union members were gathered around him. All of them were armed. Most of them with pistols, except Frank’s beloved lever-action Winchester and Harry Lefferts’—

 

    “For Christ’s sake, Harry,” Mike snapped, “don’t ever let Dan catch you with that.”

 

    Harry grinned. He was the same age as Darryl—they were best friends, in fact—and shared Darryl’s carefree youthful attitudes. “And what’s wrong with a sawed-off shotgun?” he demanded. He jerked his head around, pointing to everyone else with his chin. “It’s not as if every damn one of these guns isn’t illegal, when you get right down to it. So what’s another concealed weapon—among friends?”

 

    A little chuckle swept the group. Mike made a face. “Yeah, well—you better be damn close, with that thing. Don’t forget these guys were wearing armor.”

 

    He turned now to the doctor, and handed him the box of .40-caliber ammunition he’d found in the glove compartment. Nichols put down the first-aid kit he was carrying. Mike was not particularly surprised to see the quick and expert way in which Nichols reloaded the automatic pistol.

 

    “Well-trained, you Marines,” he murmured.

 

    Nichols snorted. “Marines, my ass. I knew what to do with one of these before I was twelve.” He hefted the automatic. “This is Blackstone Rangers’ training. I grew up within spitting distance of Sixty-third and Cottage Grove.”

 

    Suddenly, the black doctor was beaming wickedly at the white men around him. “Gentlemen,” he said, “the Marines are at your side. Not to mention Chicago’s worst ghetto. Let’s deal.”

 

    The miners grinned back. “Nice to have you along, Doc,” announced Frank.

 

    Mike turned, and strode toward the embankment. “Like you said.
Let’s deal
.”
Chapter 3

    Mike used Jenny’s car, still dug into the embankment, as a stepping stone to climb onto the embankment. When he planted his foot on the peculiar wall, it immediately gave way, showering more dirt on the car. He sprawled awkwardly, cursing under his breath, and dragged himself over the edge.
    Once he arose, he gazed down at his tuxedo. Between his recent mishap and the effects of throwing himself onto the pavement when the shooting started, the elegant outfit was looking more than a little scruffy.
    
The rental company’s not going to be happy with me
, he thought ruefully.
But—
    Mike gave Frank a hand climbing up. “Be careful,” he urged. “That wall looks solid because it’s so shiny, but it’s nothing but loose earth.”
    Once Frank was atop the wall, he turned to help the others. Mike took the moment to examine his surroundings.
    His
new
surroundings. What he saw confirmed his suspicions.
    
But I think a ticked-off tuxedo rental company is probably the least of my problems.
    The “wall” wasn’t a wall of any kind. It was simply the edge of a plain stretching into the distance. Everything about that landscape was wrong. There was no level stretch that size anywhere in northern West Virginia. And the sun—
    Frank vocalized the thought. “Mike, what’s happening? Even the damn
sun’s
in the wrong place.” He pointed to the south. “Should be over there.”
    
Or is that the south?
wondered Mike.
At a guess, I’d say we’re facing north instead of east, like we should be.
    He thrust the problem aside. Later. There were more pressing problems to deal with. Much more pressing.
    The plain was heavily wooded, but not so much so that Mike couldn’t see one–two–three farmhouses scattered among open fields. One of the farmhouses was not more than a hundred yards away.
    Close enough to make out some details . . . 
    
“Jesus,”
hissed Frank.
    The two farmhouses in the distance were burning fiercely. The one nearby was not. It was a large and rambling structure. Unlike the wood-frame farmhouses which Mike was familiar with, the construction of this one leaned heavily toward stone. Hand-fitted stone, from what Mike could see. If it weren’t for the fact that the farmhouse had all the signs of current occupancy—that unmistakably ragged-respectable air of a place where people
worked
—Mike would have sworn he was looking at a something out of the Middle Ages.
    But he didn’t spend more than two seconds studying the farmhouse itself. The farmhouse was still being “worked,” but not by farmers.
    His teeth were clenched. He could sense that Frank, standing next to him, was filled with the same outrage. Mike looked around. All of his miners were on the plain now, standing in a line staring at the scene.
    “All right, guys,” he said softly. “I count six of the bastards. May be more inside. Three of them are assaulting that poor woman in the yard. The other three—”
    He looked back at the horrendous sight. “Don’t know exactly what they’re doing. I think they’ve got that guy nailed to his door and they’re torturing him.”
    Slowly, as softly as possible, Frank levered a round into the chamber of his rifle. Despite its incongruity with the suit he was wearing, the action was quietly murderous. “So what’s the plan?” he demanded.
    Mike spoke through tight jaws. “I’m not actually a cop, when you get right down to it. And we haven’t got time anyway to rummage around in Dan’s Cherokee looking for handcuffs.” He glared at the scene of rape and torture. “So to hell with reading these guys their rights.
We’re just going to kill them
.”
    “Sounds good to me,” snarled Darryl. “I got no problem with capital punishment. Never did.”
    “Me neither,” growled one of the other miners. Tony Adducci, that was, a beefy man in his early forties. Like many of the miners in the area, Tony was of Italian ancestry, as his complexion and features indicated. “None whatsoever.”
    Tony, like Mike, was holding a pistol. He reached up with his left hand and quickly removed his tie. Angrily, he thrust it into a pocket. The rest of the miners did likewise with their own. None of them took off their jackets, however. All of them were wearing white shirts and all of them were experienced hunters. Their suit jackets, gray and brown and Navy blue, would make better camouflage. After removing their ties—a bow tie, in Mike’s case—the miners simply loosened the top collar buttons. For the first time in their lives, they would “hunt” in their Sunday best, wearing dress shoes instead of boots.
    Mike led the way, working toward the farmhouse through a small grove of trees.
Birch trees
, a part of his mind noted idly.
That’s odd too
. Most of his mind was simply wishing that the slender trees provided more concealment. Fortunately, the criminals at the farmhouse were too preoccupied with their crimes to be paying any attention to the area around them.
    The miners got within thirty yards of the house without being spotted. They were now squatting down, hidden in the trees at the very edge of the farm yard. The woman being raped was not more than forty feet away. Mike’s eyes shied away from the sight, but his ears still registered her moans.
    And the coarse laughs of the men assaulting her. One of them, the man holding her arms to the ground, barked a jeering remark at the man on top of her. The rapist grunted some sort of reply.
    Mike couldn’t understand the words, but they sounded German. He’d been stationed in Germany for a year, while he’d been in the Army. But he remembered little of the language beyond the essential phrase,
ein bier, bitte.
    “Those guy are
foreigners
,” muttered Darryl. The young man’s face was tight with anger. “
Who do they think they are, coming here and—?
”
    Mike made a short, curt gesture, commanding silence. He went back to studying the criminals.
    All of them wore that same peculiar armor and those weird helmets, although the men assaulting the woman had removed theirs. The discarded gear was lying on the ground nearby. The men torturing the farmer still had their armor and helmets on, but they had stacked their firearms against the wall of the farmhouse. From a distance, the “rifles” looked like the same kind of weapons carried by the two men killed by the police chief.
    The helmets and armor reminded Mike of pictures he had seen of old Spanish conquistadores. The helmets were metal pots, basically, with flanges tapering into points toward the front and back. The armor, if he remembered right, was called a
cuirass
. Steel breast and back plates, tied on with leather strips. Outside of the antique-looking firearms, the only weapons they had in their possession were—
    Swords?
Swords?
    He looked back at the three men asaulting the woman. They were not wearing swords, but now that Mike knew what to look for he spotted the weapons immediately. The scabbarded blades had been unbuckled and tossed onto the ground near the firearms. Mike had never once in his life considered the practical mechanics of rape, but he could understand why a sword would be awkward. These men, he was suddenly quite certain, were not committing this crime for the first time. There was a relaxed and practiced casualness about their activity.
    
You are dead men.
The thought was grim, final.
    He turned his head and whispered in Frank’s ear. “You’ve got the only rifle. Can you take out the bastards at the door? Don’t forget, they’re wearing armor. Can’t go for a body shot.”
    Mike and Frank stared at the three men torturing the farmer. The heavy door of the house had been opened wide and pressed against the wall. The farmer’s wrists were pinned to the door with knives. A man in front of him was digging another knife into the farmer’s thigh, while his two companions shouted at him. The shouts, Mike thought, were some kind of interrogation. It seemed a pointless exercise. The farmer was screaming with pain, oblivious to any questions.
    “Forty yards?” Frank snorted. “Don’t worry about it. A .30-caliber slug in the ass will take anybody down.”
    Mike nodded. He turned the other way and motioned toward Harry Lefferts. Harry crept up to him.
    Mike scowled at the sawed-off double-barreled shotgun in Harry’s hands. “Forget that stupid thing. We’ve got innocent people mixed up with these thugs.” He handed Harry the riot gun he’d taken from the Cherokee. “Use this. It’s loaded with buckshot. The magazine’s full—I already checked. When Frank shoots those guys at the door, you back him up. He’s going to be aiming for their legs, on account of the armor. You finish them off after they’re down.”
    Harry nodded. He tucked the sawed-off shotgun under a nearby shrub and took the riot gun. After passing over the additional shotgun shells in his pocket, Mike glanced around at the rest of his men. All of them, like himself, were armed with nothing more than pistols and revolvers.
    He decided there was no point in developing any more of a battle plan. Besides—
    
I can’t bear listening to this any longer.
    “Just back me up, guys,” he whispered. To Frank: “Don’t start shooting till I do.”
    A second later, Mike rose to his feet and strode out of the trees toward the rapists. He held the revolver in his right hand. His steps were quick, but he was not running. Mike hadn’t boxed professionally in years, but the old training and experience had taken over.
Steady, steady; don’t lose your cool; it’s just another fight.
A stray, whimsical part of his mind told him how foolish he looked, marching toward mayhem in wingtips and a tuxedo, but he ignored it.
    The first man who spotted him was the one squatting on his heels about three feet from the woman. The man had been simply watching the scene, leering. When Mike’s movement caught his eye, the man turned his head. His eyes widened. He was not more than thirty feet away, turned sideways.
    Mike stopped. He crouched slightly, in a firing-range stance, bringing up the revolver. Some part of his mind noted the instant reflexes of the man he was going to kill, and was impressed. No tyro, he. The man was already rising, shouting a warning.
    
Both hands, firm grip, cock the hammer. Steady, steady. Center of mass. Squeeze the—
    As always, the magnum went off with a roar and bucked in Mike’s hand. He watched just long enough to see that the slug had slammed into the man’s turning shoulder and knocked him flat. A split second, no more. The man might still be alive, but he was clearly out of the action.
    Mike could hear the flat crack of Frank’s Winchester, and Harry shouting. He ignored the sounds, blocking them out as easily as he had blocked out the roar of the crowd while he was in the ring. He was swiveling, now, ready to take out the man holding the woman’s arms. That one was facing him squarely. Mike could see the man’s mouth gaping wide open, but his face was a blur. The man was still on his knees, but he had released the woman’s arms and was rearing back on his heels.
    
Just another fight. Cock the hammer—single-shot’s more accurate. Center of mass . . . 
    Again, the .357 roared. The shot took the man square in the chest, slamming him back as if he’d been run over by a truck. Mike knew he was dead before he hit the ground.
    
One left, and he’s tangled up in his dropped trousers.
    The rapist was shouting something. Again, Mike couldn’t understand the words. Nothing registered except fear. The man was scrambling off the woman. He tried to rise, tripped on his trousers, sprawled on his face.
    But he was clear of the woman now. Mike raised the revolver, ready to kill him, but stopped when he saw Dr. Nichols was already there. There was something surgically precise about the way Nichols, from close range, leaned over and shot the man in the back of the head. Once, twice.
    
So much for that.
Mike turned away, looking to the farmhouse. He could remember, now, hearing several shots from Frank’s rifle.
    All three men at the door were lying on the ground. One of them was not moving. He was on his knees, sprawled against the wall of the farmhouse. His buttocks were covered with blood. Mike was certain that he was the first one Frank had shot. For all that he teased Frank about that silly damned lever-action, Frank was both an excellent marksman and one of the most reliable men Mike had ever met. Got his deer every season, usually on the first day. Frank would have shot for the lower spine, just below the cuirass.
    
Paralyzed, for sure. Probably dead or dying.
    The other two were writhing on the ground, screaming, clutching their legs. They didn’t scream or writhe for long. Harry was already there, racing forward. The young miner stopped abruptly, a few feet away. He pumped a shell into the chamber, aimed the shotgun and fired. For all that Harry was obviously in a rage, he hadn’t lost his composure. He aimed for the neck, unprotected by either helmet or armor. The man was almost decapitated. The buckshot sent his helmet bouncing off the farmhouse wall, the straps broken and flailing about.
    Harry swiveled. Pump, level, fire. The other man was silent. Unmoving, dead. Blood and brains everywhere. Another helmet sent flying, straps flapping. For good measure—there would be no mercy here—Harry pumped another round, stepped forward, and shot the paralyzed man sprawled against the farmhouse wall. The range was not more than three feet. This time, the helmet stayed on—but only because the man’s head was removed entirely. Blood gushed out of a severed neck, painting the rough stones with gore.
    Mike caught a glimpse of motion, somewhere in the darkness within the farmhouse. He ducked.
    “
Harry—down! Fire in the hole!
”
    Mike’s warning probably saved Harry’s life. The young miner was lunging aside when the gun in the farmhouse went off. The bullet took him in the side and knocked him down, yelping. On the ground, Lefferts clutched his ribs, still yelping. But there was more surprise and outrage in the sound than anything else. Mike was pretty sure the wound was superficial.
    “Cover me, Frank!” he yelled, racing to the side of the door. He could hear Frank’s Winchester firing again. He couldn’t see the shots themselves, but knew that Frank would be firing through the door, driving back whoever was inside. In the corner of his eye he saw James Nichols and Tony Adducci leveling their pistols and firing shots into the small windows alongside the farmhouse. He could hear the wooden shutters splintering.