Perception Fault

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“All right, all right, we’ll do it the hard way.” Ryan heard sniggering from the passenger seat and glanced over to find both Jak and Doc apparently sharing a private joke. “Want to tell me what’s so bastard funny?”

“You said…hit anyone…in rear,” Jak got out between chortles. Doc’s laugh grated on Ryan’s nerves, as well, but he ignored it and concentrated on getting closer to the wag ahead of them.

“Shut your mouths and look sharp—mebbe snipers above.”

His words sobered the two up, and they returned to watching the surrounding countryside as it blurred past. They’d left the long hillside behind now, and were jouncing through a series of smaller foothills, the wag’s engine growling as it powered up one side and down another. Ryan followed them into a narrow valley, where there was barely enough room for both vehicles to drive side-by-side.

“Watch it, Ryan, could be a trap,” J.B. called down from the top.

“Better keep that longblaster ready then, shouldn’t you?” he yelled back.

“Hope your plan to get her out of there is better than the one that got us into this,” the Armorer shouted, holding on to his beloved fedora with one hand.

“Better, no, crazy, yeah!”

A few hundred yards ahead, Ryan spotted what he was looking for. “J.B., keep a lookout behind us! Jak, give Doc the shotgun!”

The albino teen frowned at the order. “What, why?”

“’Cause you’re going to take the wheel in a few seconds. Now hand it over!”

Dumping the blaster into Doc’s lap, Jak prepared to move over and take command.

“Doc, just point and shoot to keep that turret gunner’s head down. And for fuck’s sake, don’t drop it!” For once Ryan was pleased that fléchette rounds were in the shotgun, as they wouldn’t penetrate the armor. “Now!”

The old man stuck his face and upper body out of the window, his long hair swirling around his face like a demented, blaster-toting prophet. He unloaded on the back of the mil wag as Ryan mashed the pedal to the floor, drawing a burst of speed from the ancient machine he would have thought impossible a few moments ago.

The two mil wags hit the widened plain at the same time, Ryan having pulled them abreast of the other Hummer. “Take it, Jak!” Ryan said, waiting until he felt the teen’s foot stomp down on the gas pedal before releasing it and handing over the wheel, as well. There was a slight sway as Jak maneuvered himself into the driver’s seat, but the 4x4 steadied soon enough, and Ryan pushed the driver’s door open, pulling himself up and out using the hinges of the door as steps.

Krysty leaned forward. “Lover, what the hell are you doing?”

Ryan glanced back at her, but didn’t stop. “Back in a sec.”

Before she could protest further, he stepped out onto the roof and let the door slam shut under him. J.B. had his back turned, sniping with the .50-caliber blaster as best he could at the far-off mob of green shirts streaming down the hill like rows of ants. Ryan didn’t spare him a second glance, as his attention was focused on the dull brown mil wag slowly pulling away from his own vehicle. The hot, dry wind whipped at his face, making him squint as he watched the other wag come closer.

Only a couple yards separated them, and as Ryan gauged his timing, Jak drifted slowly right, bringing the back of the mil wag to within a yard of their front bumper. Doc let loose one more blast from the autoshotgun at the turret, ruffling the hair of the man inside, who had just started to poke his head back up.

It was now or never.

Ryan took two large steps across the hood of the Hummer and leaped into space.

Chapter Seven

The trip across seemed to be over in a second and stretch on forever at the same time. Ryan felt the brief, strange sensation of weightlessness for a moment, and didn’t dare look down at the ground blurring underneath him, but kept his eye on the prize—the rim of the turret atop the mil wag he was sailing toward.

He hit the slanted back of the Hummer feet-first and threw himself forward, straining to reach the metal lip before he slid off. His fingers locked onto the raised edge just as the gunner inside poked his head up to see what had landed on the back of his ride. Eyes widening in surprise, he yanked a knife from an upside-down sheath on his web gear and thrust it at Ryan’s face.

Jerking his head aside, Ryan grabbed the man’s wrist and pulled it toward him, twisting at the same time until the man’s fingers popped open, and the blade clattered free, skittering away to fall to the ground. He turned back to the coldheart in time to take a blow to the side of his head from the man’s wild swing. The green shirt cocked his free hand back for another punch, but as he brought his fist forward, Ryan blocked it with his left hand, then pulled the guy forward, head-butting him in the face. Drawing back his head, Ryan drove it forward again, cracking his adversary in the mouth this time, and drawing blood from his mashed lips.

His lower face crushed into a red smear, the man sagged from the blows, giving Ryan time to pull his own blade and drive it into the man’s heart, stilling him for good. Removing the blade and pulling his feet up under him, Ryan dragged the body from the turret and tossed him over the side, then drew his Sig Sauer and paused for a moment. As he expected, a shadow appeared in the turret as another man poked his head up, blaster in hand, to see what was going on. The moment Ryan saw him, he jumped feet-first into the open space.

Seeing the combat boots aimed straight at his face, the coldheart tried to pull back into the recesses of the passenger compartment while aiming his blaster at the intruder. He accomplished neither, and his gun hand was caught underneath the heavy rubber soles, which crushed it to the deck with the snap of several broken wrist bones. The man howled in pain, giving Ryan a perfect target—his wide-open mouth. One bullet later, brains splashed against the rear door, and the coldheart stopped screaming permanently.

Ryan was trusting that the blonde woman was behind him—and that she wouldn’t try to backstab him as he whirled to take on the front seat pair. The passenger seat was empty, but the driver was half turned in his seat, the revolver in his hand swinging toward Ryan’s head. Close enough to touch, he grabbed the blaster’s cylinder, preventing it from firing, and aimed the muzzle of his own weapon between the wheelman’s eyes before pulling the trigger.

“Are you crazy!” He heard before the mil wag surged ahead as the spasming driver’s foot floored the gas pedal while the steering wheel turned hard left—aiming the vehicle straight toward the steep hillside. Ryan shoved the driver’s body down as he lunged over the seat for the wheel, but he was too late. With a roar, the off-roader tried to drive up the slope, making it a few yards before gravity took over and brought it tipping over on its side. The wag hung there for a moment before slowly falling over on its roof, the engine stalling as it crashed to a stop.

Ryan ended up on the ceiling with the driver’s leaking body on top of him. Hearing scrabbling sounds nearby, he shoved off the corpse and rose to find the woman pushing at the passenger door, which wasn’t budging, with all her strength.

“Come on!” she panted in the heat. Glancing back at Ryan, she whirled to face him while putting her back against the door and shoving. “Come any closer and you’ll regret it!”

Ryan sat back on his haunches and showed his blaster, careful not to point it directly at her. “Strange way to thank the man who just saved your life.”

“Are you shittin’ me? Have you seen the army running around these fuckin’ hills? You haven’t saved me at all, stupe! By getting’ in the way, you’re just in for a world of trouble.” She didn’t let up on the door at all, but kept straining at it, jerking at the handle. “Why won’t this fuckin’ thing move?”

“If you give my friends a minute, they’ll get us both out.”

“Sure, and you’ll end up ransoming me to my father instead of them—don’t think I don’t know what you’re up to.”

Ryan frowned. “Girl, I don’t even know who you are.”

That stopped her, just in time for Ryan to hear J.B.’s voice outside. “Ryan, you alive in there?”

“Yeah, but the doors are jammed. Can you bust them?”

“Sure thing.”

Ryan heard fading footsteps, then a strange whine, like metal rasping on metal, then a clink on the other side of the door. “So, who are you?”

Puzzlement clouded her features. “You really don’t know?”

Ryan poked the body of the driver next to him. “I know you’re important to these green shirts, since they went to a lot of trouble to capture you alive, but other than that, you’re just another outland woman to me.”

“Just another— I’m Rachel Carrington, the daughter of Josiah Carrington, the leader of Free Denver.”

Ryan nodded. “And the green shirts are fighting against your father, right?”

“Yeah, lousy traitors. They want what my father’s spent his whole life building. They just think they can come in and take over. Not if I can help it.”

J.B.’s voice sounded from outside. “Keep away from the door.” The engine of the other mil wag revved outside, followed by a sudden jerk on the frame of the upside-down 4x4. The engine revved again, and with another lurch, the door tore away from its hinges, letting in bright sunlight.

Ryan motioned toward the door. “There you go.”

“You’re letting me go?”

“I don’t kidnap people for ransom. It looked like you were in trouble back there, and I thought you could use some help.”

She stared at him for long seconds. “Who are you?”

Ryan grinned. “No one of consequence.”

Her expression changed from exasperated to puzzled. “I very much doubt that.”

J.B.’s voice sounded from outside. “Company’s almost here, Ryan. You coming out, or fixing to stay in there for the rest of your bastard short life?”

“You can go with us, or take your chances with the green shirts outside. It’s up to you.”

“Choice like that isn’t any choice at all.” She scooted to the opening, scooping up the dead gunner’s blaster as she did so. But instead of pointing it at him, she extended a tanned hand, still oozing blood from a scraped knuckle. “Let’s go.”

Taking it, Ryan was surprised by the strength in her wiry form. “Thanks.” He got up and glanced at J.B., who was regarding the woman with his habitual expressionless face. “J. B. Dix, Rachel Carrington, Rachel, J.B.”