Deadly Powers (Tapped In Book 2) (28 page)

* * *

I’d awoken as they dragged me into the saloon and up the stairs. Now, perched on the slick railing, the hangman’s noose ever-tightening around my neck, I felt more raindrops splatter against my face. I retched again from worsening withdrawals. The homely saloon girl behind me had come and gone. Below, on the muddying street, the wind was blowing a Stetson end-over-end in the direction of the corral. The sound of distant low rumbling transitioned into an ear-shattering thunder clap that seemed right on top of me: CRACK! … CRACK! … CRACK! The sound was deafening as bright lightning illuminated the staged town of Tombstone below, seeming like a series of magnificent, bright-white flashbulbs going off, one after another. I felt the coarse rope around my neck, and again used the minimal tension it provided me to help keep my balance. The railing below my boots was slick with rainwater, giving me the precarious sensation of standing on skates.

Below me, through sleeting rain and an ever-darkening sky, I caught the faint outline of someone standing in an alcove, directly across the street. He suddenly moved and I saw the tall skeletal figure come into view—Colman—the undertaker.

I yelled into the wind, “You’ll just have to wait … asshole!” I doubted he heard me, but it felt good shouting out just the same.

I thought of Johnny Ringo and the vulnerable saloon girl, Lori. Had she made it out? I then thought of Baltimore who, over the past year, had become one of my few close friends. Now he was gone and his murder unavenged. I next thought of Pippa, who’d endured a painful series of facial, and body-altering, injections, in order to save me. What Baltimore and Calloway—hell, SIFTR—hadn’t known, was that the physiological impact on her the first time she’d undergone physical alterations to change her persona almost drove her to suicide. These latest surgical changes could easily put her over the edge. But, like me, she probably didn’t have all that long to live now, anyway.

There was more movement on the street below and Palmolive’s helicopter, barely discernible in the misty rain, was on the ground at the far end of town, its large rotor blade spinning. They’d be leaving soon—he’d accomplished what he’d come here for. Fifty men—high government officials, business moguls, millionaires and billionaires had conveniently been slain—weeded out of the Order … or was it the WZZ?

The wind was strongly buffeting my pants now and, with both arms tied behind my back, I was increasingly losing my balance. More thunder, like immense bass drums, resounded all around me. With one final, uncontrolled wobble, I slipped from the railing.

It took less than a second for me to fall the sufficient distance for the noose around my neck to go taut and for the wet hangman’s knot to squeeze tight about my neck. The sudden jerk, as my downward momentum came to a dead stop, should have broken my neck right then and there. Apparently, though, that doesn’t happen in every hanging—especially those that are non-professionally rigged, like mine was. The gagging—struggle for air—came first; tunnel vision, resulting from restricted carotid arteries no longer able to feed the brain necessary blood flow, came second. I was only slightly aware that the pole I was suspended from had partially given way—undue stress from my sudden added weight upon it—and dropped my body down another three or four feet. That sudden drop almost succeeded in breaking my neck for the second time. What came next could not have come at a more fortuitous moment.

It was only a matter of time before the wet, metal flagpole I was suspended from attracted one of the hundreds … thousands … of lighting bolts going on in the air around me. The wet pole and the equally wet rope acted as perfect conductors—the hot bolt of electricity entered my body through the neck, ran through my body, and exited through my wet, soggy, boots. From there, as physics surely attests, the lighting arc continued downward in its direct pursuit of ground, in order to complete its singular, instantaneous, sole mission in life.

As my body went rigid I felt the agonizing effects of electrocution. Even as the horrific electrification came to an end, I was still faced with the ongoing, although quickly coming to an end, peril of hanging. Even then, through my quickly fading consciousness, I could smell the tinge of burnt flesh invade my nostrils.
Flesh and … hemp.

The rope partially separated, then quickly unraveled somewhere above my head. Once again, my now-dancing, convulsing body was lowered another ten feet. When the scorched rope broke completely apart, I was a mere eight feet above the ground.

* * *

I awoke thrashing—gasping desperately to draw in a deep, burning, lungful of air. I felt hands working the noose away from around my neck then up over my head. My hands were freed from behind me. My head lay upon my savior’s lap. I opened my eyes to see Colman, concern on his face, staring down at me. He brought a flask up to my lips. I greedily gulped at the burning liquid—only to cough most of it back out again.

“Sorry … it’s all I have. Small sips … that’s it … just a little, now.”

I tried to speak, but the words caught in my ravaged throat. He brought his face lower to mine and turned an ear to my lips.

I croaked out one word, “Why?”

Confused at first, he then smiled. “Rudy Palmolive is truly a monster. You’re the only one he’s tortured here. It’s gone too far … there’s no one else …you need to stop him!”

My words came out somewhat better this time, but still a whisper: “I’ll need a gun.”

“Can you stand?” he asked.

“Yeah … I think so.” I let him help me to my feet. When he let go, he still kept his hand poised to catch me. Standing upright, I realized the world around me was no longer spinning. The nausea, too—all gone! Of course—I’d just survived the ultimate tap-in fix. I quickly tested my mind-reading capabilities and saw real concern within the undertaker’s mind. Not wanting to hang around there too long, I gave him a reassuring nod. “Thank you. You saved my life.”

Colman drew the six-shooter from his holster and briefly pointed it at me. Then, flipping it around and turning its handle toward me, said, “Take mine … it’s loaded.”

I took the Army Colt .45 and slid it into my empty holster. “Where’s Pippa … the woman Palmolive took prisoner?”

“The corral. He’s got her tied up there. He’s got his boys with him—Jude and Jordan and several others. I overheard him talking on a radio … to his security forces; they’ll be returning from the outlying areas. Most everyone has been sent back to the lodge. Palmolive and his men want to head out within the hour.”

I let that sink in.

“There’s something else. This town … it’s rigged to blow.”

“What do you mean?”

“Explosives. He doesn’t want any trace of Tombstone to be left behind.”

“Do you know when?”

Colman nodded. “I heard him say 6:00. It’s about 5:00 now.”

“I can’t do this alone. Will you back me up?”

“No … don’t ask me to do that. I’m a coward. It took all my fortitude just to help you this much. I’m sorry.”

I heard someone approaching from the corral, at the opposite end of town. The near-vertical barrage of falling sleet made it impossible at first to make out his identity. Nearing us, with a steady gait, he wore a black Stetson pulled low over his eyes. Armed with two holstered Colts that hung low on his hips.

“Best you step away from me, Colman …”

I anticipated the man approaching us to come to a stop—let the gunfight play to its inevitable, deathly, outcome. To my surprise and relief, considering my condition after being both hung and electrocuted, as he drew nearer he raised his chin up and, for the first time, I could see his face beneath the Stetson’s brim: It was Sundance.

“You can stand down. I’m not going to draw down on you,” he said.

I already knew that for I was in his head. Just like before, conflicting emotions were running rampant within him. He said, “I don’t know who you are. What I do know is you’re here to stop Palmolive.”

I didn’t say anything for several beats. “Look … I don’t trust you. I know what you did. Killing the saloon girl and the wiring of the mine.”

His brow creased, suspicion crossing his face. “How could you know that?”

“Let’s just say a little birdie told me.”

“The girl?” he scoffed. “Did you also know she pulled a gun on me? A small derringer pistol was strapped to her thigh. She’d been play-acting, following orders to manipulate me. When she threatened my kids, I took the gun away from her and killed her.”

I hadn’t delved into his mind far enough earlier to see all that—only viewing those last few seconds before he’d shot her, which endlessly looped now through his thoughts. A memory eating him up.

“And the silver mine—the fifty men you helped bury beneath a mountain?” I asked with contempt.

“It’s true, I did rig the explosives. And yes, Palmolive blew up not one, but two tunnels. They just happened to be two other tunnels those fifty or so men were not anywhere near. They’ll still need to dig themselves out, but I suspect it won’t take them more than a day or two, at the most.”

I verified his words as he spoke, and he was telling me the truth. “And the reason you’re here in the first place?”

“That part of it I’m not proud of. It was greed—pure and simple. I’m a single parent, in debt up to my eyeballs, and CIA operatives don’t make that much money. Someone told me about the Order and got me an interview. But it’s obvious I’m not cut out to be a criminal, so I’ll stand with you. You do have a plan, I’m assuming?”

“What is your real name?” I asked.

“Matthew Carver … Matt.”

“Okay, Matt, I’ll take you at your word, for now, not that I have much choice. I’ve signaled my people, but I can’t guarantee they’ll make it here in time. According to Colman here …” I turned to the undertaker, who’d stood behind me only a moment before, and found him gone. “Well … so much for him. Anyway, Palmolive is readying to leave anytime now. And the whole town is rigged to blow within the hour.”

“So we’ll need to make a move on them right now,” Carver said.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw something move and promptly drew my gun, then eased my finger off the trigger. Limping, his tail wagging, and wearing what looked like a little dog smile, Ol’ Yeller hurried over to me. On his left rear flank was a bloody, six-inch-long gash. The dog wiggled in close, flipped on his back, and barked. I scratched his tummy.

Are you okay, little guy?

I like my belly scratched.

I took a closer look at his injury. Undoubtedly, it must hurt like hell, but the gash wasn’t life threatening. Someone had attempted to kill the dog.

Who did this to you?

Bugs on face.

It took me a moment to understand. Palmolive—his face covered in small, gnat-like, moles.
Will you do something for me?
I asked.

No. Scratch my belly.

I’ll scratch your belly all you want if you help me.

Ol’ Yeller flipped back onto his feet and looked up at me.

Sneak into the barn and see what’s happening in there. I need to know where the woman is so I can help her.

Ol’ Yeller ran off—his limp somewhat less pronounced.

“I’m afraid to ask what the hell that was all about,” Carver said.

“Let’s go,” I responded.

We hurried over to the right side of the street, staying close to the buildings. Visibility in the pouring rain was nearly zero, but my guess was Palmolive had one or more lookouts strategically placed close to the barn. Some fifty-foot distance away from the wide-open barn doors, a series of gunshots rang out.

Carver and I instinctively crouched down, holding up where we were. A second later, Ol’ Yeller came running out of the barn, heading down the middle of the street toward where we’d stood moments earlier. I whistled once and the little dog, spotting us, changed direction. He no sooner reached us than he rolled onto his back and began to squirm. I scratched his belly and told him:
Good job … what did you see in there?

Female sitting on hay bale … hands and feet tied.

Where is she?

All the way in the back. Man with gun near her. Scratch more now.

I gave the dog several more good scratches and stood back up. “Pippa’s held in the rear of the barn, her hands and feet tied.”

Carver looked at me as if I were crazy. “Okay … this is getting really weird.”

“You have no idea,” I said, gesturing for us to continue moving.

“I don’t suppose you were told how many—”

I stopped and looked at him. “Dogs … animals, in general, are not great at counting.”

“Oh—okay, but carrying on silent conversations with humans is fine,” he answered sarcastically.

“I got the feeling there were more than five guards, but less than ten,” I said.

Slowly, we continued toward the barn. I mentally told the dog to keep well behind us, but then had an idea.

“Carver, do you have a knife?”

“Just a pocket knife.”

“Give it to me,” I said.

He pulled a small black knife from his front pocket and handed it over. “I’ll want that back.”

I crouched down to the dog. It took me several minutes to convey the message, implanting the appropriate mental images to him, but eventually Ol’ Yeller took the knife in his teeth and scurried back toward the barn. A pang of guilt fell over me. They’d already taken potshots at the little guy, I only hoped his luck continued to hold.

I stood and held up a hand, remembering something: “Wait up—what do you know about Palmolive’s plan? Some kind of military operation or deployment by the Order?”

“Only what you just said. Nobody knows the specifics, other than selected municipal water works are being targeted. You know about the underground highways and hydro-passages?”

“Somewhat,” I said. “We need to keep Palmolive alive—he seems to be the only one with critical deployment information.”

“We’re about to walk into a firefight. If he shoots at me … I’m firing back. Just saying.”