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  Ryan kicked him hard in the ribs with the steel toe of his combat boot. "Wake the fuck up," he snarled.

  The eyes opened under the long, almost feminine lashes.

  "Some you win," he said, "and some you don't. See you all in hell."

  "Maybe," Ryan replied.

  He shot him with extreme accuracy through both kneecaps, then through both elbows. As Traven thrashed and screamed, Ryan put three more rounds from P-226 into his belly.

  "Should do it," J.B. observed, calmly reloading the Uzi.

  Ryan nodded. "Yeah. Take him some time to get to hell, but he should make it in the end."

  OUTSIDE, THE FIRST HINT of dawn was already in the sky, with a freshening wind coming from the direction of the Lantic coast.

  The ville was deserted, with the old theme park rides standing skeletal and abandoned. The rest of the baron's sec men seemed to know that disaster had struck, and they were without a leader. Without a job. Now Greenglades would stand open until someone else came along with the strength and the firepower to snatch it and hold it.

  But that was no concern of Ryan Cawdor's.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  RYAN STOPPED THE group when it was within a couple of hundred yards of the hidden redoubt entrance.

  "Let's just try that radio one more time before we make the jump."

  Krysty had been carrying the small radio, and she handed it over. Ryan adjusted the set and switched it on, setting it to the one hundred wave band.

  "Ryan calling Jak. Ryan calling Jak. You receiving me? Over."

  The swampy area was quiet. There was the large lake of mud just to their right, with an occasional greasy bubble breaking from its surface.

  "Come in, Jak. This is Ryan. Got a sort of message. Is there trouble, Jak? Over."

  There was still nothing, except the whispering of the ghosts that inhabit the space between the cold stars.

  "Fireblast! Come in, Jak! Come in, this is Ryan! What's the trouble, Jak? Over."

  The radio remained stubbornly unresponsive. Ryan had a prickling, uneasy feeling. Jak wouldn't have been trying to contact him unless something had gone wrong. That was his gut feeling, and he couldn't shake it.

  "One more try. Jak, come in. This is Ryan. We're making the jump in a few minutes. Come in, Jak. Over."

  The radio crackled and mumbled. For one second Ryan heard a voice, but it was only a single word, clear as a bell.

  "Lost."

  "Was that the kid?" J.B. said. "Could've been Jak."

  Ryan felt a surge of blazing anger, the futile rage of man faced with a recalcitrant machine. "Fuck you," he snarled, and heaved the radio out into the swamp, where it splashed into the sullen darkness of the deep slime.

  "Nice one, lover," Krysty said. "Real clever move, that."

  Ryan turned to look at her, a pulse beating in his forehead. She took a hesitant half step back at the sight of his face, but he fought the mood and controlled it. He sniffed and finally smiled. "You're right, lover. But it's done now."

  "Then we might as well make the jump."

  He nodded at her. "Sure."

  THE WALLS WERE SILVERED glass and Ryan knew they were back in New Mexico. It hadn't been too bad a jump.

  Outside the ruined redoubt the morning sun was breaking over the mountains to the east, throwing long shadows out across the desert.

  They managed to pick their way down onto the level ground without any difficulty, though Ryan was worried to see plentiful new tracks on the trail from the redoubt.

  "Someone coming," Krysty said, busily tying her hair back off her neck with a black bandanna.

  With the rising sun in his face, highlighting the dazzling white hair, it was impossible to mistake Jak Lauren.

  He was riding a bay mare, spurring the horse on at a fast trot that turned into a dust-burning gallop when he spotted the little group of friends.

  Krysty stared intently toward him as he closed the gap to a hundred yards. Her face set like pale marble, and she reached out to grip Ryan by the wrist. Hard enough to make him wince.

  "Oh, no," she said, her voice soft and shocked.

  Jak reined in the sweating horse, throwing himself from the saddle. "Heard your radio message. Hear mine?"

  "No. What?"

  The teenager's eyes blazed like chips of nuked ruby. "Dean."

  "What?"

  "Taken."

  "When?"

  "Yesterday afternoon. Christina shot one of gang. Questioned him."

  "Still got him?" Ryan was unable to control the anxiety in his voice.

  "Died," Jak said, as laconic as ever.

  "Why didn't you ask him all—"

  "Did. Gang of slavers. Way north. Used gateway. Took Dean."

  Ryan suddenly thought of the Last Destination button. If this gang had jumped, then he could follow them. All wasn't lost.

  "I'll go after them," he said. "Food and rest, then I'll go."

  "One other thing found from wounded man. Before died."

  "What?"

  "Slaver's leader."

  "Yeah?"

  "Russian. Name… Zimyanin."