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  "Figure they saw the smoke, ran for the camp," J.B. mused. "It'd work as a diversion."

  "You mean they all run for the camp except those who know that trouble's coming, and then they get a clear run to do whatever they want."

  J.B. nodded. "Yep, that's just about the size of it."

  The wag came to a halt, and Baron Silas and his sec guard scrambled out. Ryan and his group stayed in the rear of the wag. Silas looked back toward them.

  "Y'all not doing anything?" he asked, his voice half anger and half bemusement.

  "Not just yet," Ryan replied calmly. "First of all, I want to know a few things. How many work on the site?"

  Baron Silas furrowed his brow and gave Ryan a searching glance before framing an answer. He couldn't see why the one-eyed man wanted to know, and to him it just seemed that they were wasting time. Finally he said, "Guess there's about two hundred all told, most of them on the refinery works. On the derrick, I'd say about fifty, mebbe sixty when there's some heavy construction."

  Ryan nodded absently as he took the figure in, then asked, "So how many people all told in the camps?"

  Baron Silas answered heatedly. "Most of them have got womenfolk with them, some with kids… mebbe double that, a little over. But what the hell has this got to do with—?"

  Ryan cut him off. "It's got to do with playing numbers. That's a shit load of people for anyone to sec, let alone a few of your people and just us. And that's also a real easy number to get lost in. Any saboteurs in there are really going to be able to hide easily—too damn easily."

  "So why the fuck are you standing there pissing in the wind when there could be some sabotage going on right now?" Baron Silas yelled angrily.

  "Because anyone who's up to anything would have heard us arrive, and they'd as sure as shit hear you now. The camp is how far?" Ryan added, appearing to go off on a tangent as he looked around to locate the camp. It was easy to find by searching out the column of smoke that was rising above it. It seemed about a mile off to the southwest. "How long does it take to reach there?" he added before Baron Silas had a chance to answer the first question.

  "Not long by wag," Silas replied.

  "But how do the workers do it?" Ryan quizzed.

  "By foot. I guess it takes about fifteen minutes," Silas said after a little thought.

  J.B. was staring into the distance toward the camp. "Fire must've been going longer than that, because there's no one in sight. So they're either in the camp, or still here."

  "They?" Silas asked.

  "Whoever's sabotaging the refinery—if that's what's going on," Mildred replied, climbing down from the wag, where she was joined by Jak and Dean. "Because they aren't in sight, and they aren't here at the derrick. So, if anyone's still around to do a little quick sabotage, then they're at the refinery buildings. It's simple when you think about it," she added with a touch of sarcasm that didn't escape the baron.

  "Then shouldn't y'all be doing something?" he retorted.

  "That's just what we're about to," Ryan answered in a cool tone as he dismounted the wag. J.B., Doc and Krysty joined the others, until they were all standing on the side of the wag that faced away from the derrick and toward the refinery, which was a couple of hundred yards distant. The one-eyed man faced his people after a searching glance at the refinery buildings, and the maze of pipework that connected the two.

  "Okay," he began, "we don't know the layout and we don't know what we might be facing, so let's go triple red and stay frosty. J.B., you and Dean take the first two buildings, while Mildred and Jak take the other two. Krysty and Doc, come with me. We'll split into three and take the pipe sections one at a time. Be real careful. That's a real maze in there, and there's a shit load of places for any coldhearts to hide and chill us. We're looking for more than just people. Keep a sharp lookout for any plas-ex that may be around, and careful of booby traps." He looked at his companions. They had taken in every word, and were ready. He nodded, as much to himself as to anyone else. "Okay, let's go."

  They separated into the three groups and headed off—J.B. and Dean toward the blocks nearest, and Mildred and Jak circling to take in the more distant of the two refinery buildings.

  The buildings were all alike—old red brick constructions surfaced in concrete, with old wire reinforcements over window openings that had lost their glass many decades ago. J.B. and Dean arrived at theirs first, flattening themselves on either side of the open doorway.

  J.B. held the Uzi, set to single shot, which he figured was his best option in an enclosed space. Dean had his Browning Hi-Power ready. The two fighters exchanged glances, and J.B. signaled with a brief, almost imperceptible nod.

  The Armorer went first. Turning swiftly, he flung himself into the open doorway, Dean behind covering him. Crouching, J.B. sought cover and found it behind a large metallic pump, coming up with the barrel of the Uzi resting on top of the metallic structure. His eyes adjusted quickly to the gloom, noting that the running strips of neon that took the length of the ceiling hadn't been repaired, and that the light that existed within the building came from low-level oil lamps that were used to spotlight the actual work sites in progress. They had been left burning, suggesting that the evacuation to the camp had been swift and sudden.

  Dean had reached the same conclusion as he sought cover behind a console that controlled that range of pumps and filters in the building. He listened intently, and like the Armorer was sure that the building was empty. He looked across to where J.B. was reconning the area, and their eyes met in the gloom. Dean picked up a piece of metal tubing and held it so that J.B. could see it. The Armorer knew what the boy intended to do. With an overarm throw the young Cawdor tossed the metal tube into the air, following an arc that took in most of the length of the building before clattering on a workbench and piece of machinery, then rolling noisily across the floor before coming to a halt against the far wall.

  It was followed by total silence. There was no sound, no sudden reaction of blasterfire, nothing to suggest that anyone else was in the building.

  J.B. looked across at Dean and made a motion with his arm, indicating that they take the sides of the building, staying close to the walls to give themselves protection. At the drop of J.B.'s hand, they ran down the sides of the building, taking each aisle and indented position where an enemy could hide with a combat stance, ready to fire first and ask questions after.

  They reached the end of the building in less than thirty seconds. It was empty. The second building was connected by a corridor and then a covered walkway. J.B. and Dean stopped by the doorway.

  "I'll take it first. You cover me," Dean said breathlessly. J.B. nodded, and the boy weaved his way down the narrow walkway to the far door while J.B. covered him with the Uzi, set to rapid fire.

  Again it was silence. Dean assumed a secure position at the far end and took guard as J.B. ran down the walkway to join him.

  "Same as before?" Dean said shortly. J.B. nodded, and they repeated their procedure for the second building.

  It, too, was empty.

  As they walked back through the buildings—still on triple red, in case a hidden intruder should have evaded them—J.B. remarked, "I wonder if there is anyone here?"

  IT WAS A QUESTION that Mildred and Jak were also asking themselves. It took them a little longer to get to the far buildings, which were of a different shape. Where the ones that J.B. and Dean investigated were rectangular, these were square buildings, and were the two main pump houses for the whole refinery site.

  Which meant that there was little cover inside. The open doorways showed once more that the only lighting was supplied by oil lamps, and the interior was deathly quiet and Mildred and Jak stood on either side of the first door.

  "Me first—cover," Jak whispered, his .357 Magnum Colt Python seemingly too large in his small hands. Mildred nodded, her ZKR ready to provide cover as the albino sprang into action.

  Jak was through the door in a blur, his red eyes adapting to the
gloom with ease, in fact preferring the lower level of light to the desert sun outside. There was little cover afforded by the inside of the building, as large piston-driven pumps took up the majority of the space. The good thing about this was that if it afforded little cover for Jak, then it would also afford scant cover for anyone else who was still in the pump house. Jak found himself a niche in a space between two piston housings, and took up a covering position. Mildred saw him settle in, then followed into the building, flattening herself to the wall and crouching as she sought cover.

  It was obvious that the pump house was empty, but they double-checked, with Mildred covering Jak while the wiry albino hunter combed every crevice within the walls. He drew a blank and returned to her shaking his head.

  "Next one," Mildred said quietly, to which he nodded.

  Unlike the buildings that J.B. and Dean had investigated, the two pump house buildings weren't connected by a walkway or corridor, and there was only the one door in and out. So Mildred and Jak had to leave and traverse the side of the building they had just investigated before reaching the other. They took it in relay turns, one covering the other and using any cover available until they had moved across the short distance between the two pump houses.

  "Same as before?" Mildred asked quietly as they reached the doorway. Jak gave her a brief nod, his stringy white hair snaking across his scarred face, red eyes glinting through, before disappearing through the doorway as Mildred swung around to provide cover with her ZKR.

  They repeated the same procedure and found this building also empty.

  "If planting plas-ex, then in Ryan's place," Jak commented as they exited the blockhouse.

  BACK AT THE SYSTEM of pipes that traveled the distance between the well and the refinery, Ryan, Krysty and Doc were dividing up the territory. It wasn't easy, as the pipes took in both the well and refinery areas, and also the storage tanks for the final product, which stood some distance apart. There was nowhere to hide within them, as they weren't housed in buildings, standing open in the sun. But they could provide cover for anyone who wanted to stand surveillance on whoever may come along the pipe system. So the open nature of the ground left Ryan, Krysty and Doc with a problem—recce it without being an open target. The only good thing was that, by the same token, anyone who may be opposing them would have the same problem.

  "Doc, you take the route from the outbuildings to the tanks," Ryan said as he sized up the problem, and the trio stood by the wag. As he spoke, the one-eyed man used his SIG-Sauer to indicate the nearest set of buildings, which were just about to be scoured by J.B. and Dean. Doc nodded briefly at that, understanding that Ryan had given him the nearest point to begin as he was the least swift of them.

  Ryan switched the point of the SIG-Sauer barrel to the far buildings, and indicated the point where Jak and Mildred were about to enter their recce position. "Krysty, you take the pipe system from that point. We work our way toward the tanks. I'll take it from there," he continued, indicating a third position out to the farthest side from the refinery buildings, where the pipes came from the derrick. It was the greatest distance, and also the most open.

  "Okay, lover," Krysty said softly, "we meet at the storage tanks, and stay calm. In that tangle of metal we don't want to make any mistakes, right?"

  "Yeah, that would be kind of embarrassing, at the very least," Ryan said with the hint of a smile. "One more thing—let's just try and hold back on the blasterfire unless necessary. These pipes'll ricochet, and I don't think Baron Silas here will thank us for ripping holes in his system when that's what we're supposed to be stopping."

  He looked over at the baron, who, with his sec man, was standing against the wag, allowing the one-eyed man to take control. Just as though it were a test, which, in a sense, it was. Their first real test for Baron Silas Hunter.

  Ryan glanced back to Doc, who was cradling his LeMat percussion pistol ruefully. "I shall endeavor, my dear Ryan, to refrain—if necessary, then I shall use the ball alone," Doc said. "After all, the shot would cause more damage—although that is, of course, its primary intent."

  "Fair point," Ryan said. "Just stay triple alert, triple red, and keep moving as fast as possible, just in case there are any fuckers hiding among all that metal."

  The trio parted to begin their search.

  Doc moved toward the nearest buildings, half running to conserve energy under the hot sun but also keep up speed. He could hear the movement of Dean and J.B. within the building, but as attuned as they all were to the sounds of one another, he could tell that they had so far found nothing, and so could devote all of his attention to traversing the pipes.

  The metal was dull and dusty, but still acted as a conductor to the heat, and as soon as Doc moved into the snaking maze of pipes, he could tell that the heat had increased. It was an oppressive, dull and heavy heat that seemed to weigh down upon his brow, making him sweat harder and forcing a band of pressure around his forehead, making his skull ache and his eyes seem heavy and unfocused.

  Pausing to shake his head to try to clear it, Doc began his recce of the pipes. Treading softly, and with his eyes darting glances to each side, he moved slowly along the middle of the narrow dirt path that had been formed between the pipes, presumably for the purposes of maintenance access. The pipes ran in stories of two or three, and were supported by large metal brackets that held them together. Between the pipes there was a little space with which to see on either side. They twisted and turned rather than running straight. Doc could only presume that this was to give them a greater overall running distance and so allow whatever processes were taking place in the refinery to settle in the precious liquid before it reached the storage tanks.

  Right now, all it did was make life harder for Doc. There were a few blind bends on the way, and he slowed as he came to them, straining his eyes and ears for the slightest sign of movement. But there was nothing. In some ways, he would gladly have welcomed some action: it would have been a relief to nerves stretched almost to the breaking point.

  The heat and the unending vista of dull and dust-encrusted metal began to get oppressive, and Doc found himself getting unaccountably angry. Why was he doing this? Why were they in thrall to an idiot cowboy who wanted to rebuild a technology that had taken him from his home and placed him in two futures that had prematurely aged him and taken his sanity? Why—?

  Doc stopped suddenly, frozen to an almost uncanny stillness by a sound. It was getting nearer… Soft footsteps, but in a familiar rhythm. Very familiar…

  Doc looked up instead of around. The towers of the storage tanks stood almost before him. He allowed himself a small smile. The footsteps were those of Krysty.

  Like Doc, the woman had found the heat within the reflective surfaces of the pipes to be oppressive. Her hair coiled close to her neck with a combination of sweat and mutie sense—not exactly danger, but more an acute awareness that she was not at her best in this kind of atmosphere, so she had to exercise more caution.

  Which she did, her flashing green eyes rapidly scanning the area around, taking in as Doc had the gaps between the brackets and stories of pipes. She moved fastidiously, her silver-tipped boots making little noise on the densely packed, dry earth, throwing up little clouds of dust around her ankles. She held her Smith & Wesson Model 640 blaster, its .38-caliber shells capable of blowing away anyone who would try to jump her. But she was unwilling to use it in such a confined area, and would rather rely on her strength and suppleness in hand-to-hand combat if it came to it—which it might, she reflected, as the enclosed space would make it hard for any attacker to use a blaster without endangering themselves.

  She just wished it weren't so claustrophobic, an impression increased by the heat that seemed to beat off the metal pipes in waves and hit her around the head, making her eyes swim with a shimmering haze that she couldn't be sure wasn't external rather than just in her head.

  And that tapping and shuffling… Was it for real or was it her imagination?


  It was real. Krysty snapped from the fuzzy haze of her head into a hyper-real consciousness where pure instinct took over. She was still moving forward, but now everything was clearer than it had ever been, her instincts switched on to alert her to the slightest move. Looking ahead, she could see that she had almost arrived at the end of the pipe maze and was now within sight of the giant storage tanks. Her heightened senses also identified the only sounds other than her own: Doc. She relaxed slightly as she realized that they had both arrived at their destination simultaneously. There was a point ahead where they would both emerge into view: a point where the pipes finally began to feed into the tanks.

  She slowed, and noticed that Doc's pace had also slowed.

  "Doc," she said in a firm and clear voice, "it's me. I haven't found a damn thing."

  "I know it is you, dear lady. I would recognize that most delicate of steps anywhere. I fear that I have also found nothing. Could it be that the site truly has been deserted, and we're not going to strike lucky with a saboteur?"

  "That's a funny way of looking at things, wanting to find trouble," Krysty replied with a smile as they came into view of each other. "Though I guess if we did find someone messing with the site we could get a whole lot of answers out of them."

  "It would simplify our task somewhat," Doc mused. "But sometimes things don't run as smoothly as—"

  He was cut off by the sound of voices and blasterfire. Without even looking at each other, both he and Krysty immediately set off to assist Ryan, who evidently had stumbled on something.

  THE ONE-EYED MAN had been making similar progress to that of his companions. He jogged out to a point where the single pipeline from the oil well hit a series of wheels and junctions that carried the raw product off to the refinery buildings and then ferried it back before diverting it to the tanks. The knot of pipes, some piled four stories high with heavy metal brackets between, was a denser maze than the points he had sent his two companions to recce: but Ryan believed without question that, as leader, he had to take the most difficult tasks. Otherwise, what right had he to call himself leader and make decisions for others? Although his upbringing in Front Royal had ended in deceit and treachery, his father, Baron Titus, had certain ideas of what a baron or leader should be. His son had learned lessons that he carried with him always.