 
## The Atlanta Mission

(The Wasteland Soldier Book 5)

## by

## Laurence Moore

Copyright © 2019 Laurence Moore

1st Edition 2019

All Rights Reserved.

The use of any part of this publication without prior written consent of the publisher or author is an infringement of copyright law.

**Also by Laurence Moore**

The Wasteland Soldier Series

1. A Fractured World

2. Escape from Tamnica

3. Drums of War

4. Men of Truth

5. The Atlanta Mission

6. The Washington Directive

The Kina McKevie Series

1. Wiping Out Guilt

2. Chasing Answers

3. Left Behind

Available in digital format at:

<https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/LaurenceMoore>

Contact

For more information visit:

<https://www.facebook.com/authorlaurencemoore>

**About The Author**

Laurence Moore has been writing since the 1970s. He enjoys fast-moving books with complex main characters taking the lead.

The Wasteland Soldier series is set in a post-apocalyptic America and features Stone, a ruthless fighting man looking to restore balance to a dangerous world.

The Kina McKevie series is set in modern-day London and features an ex-convict turned investigator.

The Atlanta Mission

For more than forty years Stone has roamed a nuclear-ravaged second world, defending the weak and innocent with brutal and extreme justice.

Burdened with the last flag of the former United States, his mission is to take this ancient relic to the city of New Washington, whose government are determined to form the United Republic with the stars and stripes its crowning glory.

But first Stone and his companions will scour the half-ruined city of Atlanta, hunting elite Russian operative, Pavla, a woman he has vowed to kill for murdering his friend, Nuria.

And as the city is transformed into a blood-drenched battleground Stone will risk everything in a deadly game of cat and mouse with the Russians...

This book is dedicated to Claire...

You weren't there at the beginning

but you'll be around until the end and that's what counts

love you x

ONE

The transport barge chugged past tree-lined banks.

It was late afternoon, hot and sticky, rain pouring down. The thick drops drilled the winding river and rolled off the overhead canvas of the weather-beaten vessel. A red sun dipped on the horizon, stealing the daylight. The sky above was blistered with red and pink streaks, the unmoving scars a parting gift from the first-world to the second, one of many in the centuries that had passed since the Before was extinguished in the war of the Metal Spears.

The day was windy. It was always windy, winter or summer, hot or cold, the wind was perpetual, but on a day like this it was a blessing as it cut through the humidity and brought relief from the stifling temperature.

There were more than twenty passengers onboard and they buzzed with chatter and occasional bursts of laughter. All were local people except for the three sat at the rear, two men and a young woman, strangers in these parts.

Cali wrinkled her nose at the stench of the river and swatted a fly. "Damn fucking things," she said. "Man, fuck all these bugs and shit."

She wore knee-length shorts and a long-sleeved, colourless shirt, loose over a vest top. A pistol was tucked into the waistband of her shorts and a sheathed knife rested on her hip. A second knife was strapped to her wrist, concealed beneath the shirt.

She was twenty years old, tall and white. Her hair was black and untidy with loose strands half-covering her face. She made no effort to sweep them aside. Beneath the unruly hair lurked a fresh knife scar on her cheek. It was several inches long, skin red raw, twisted and pitted. She'd played a deadly game with a pair of Russian operatives and lost heavily.

In a world of deformed souls she knew she was more hideous than any of them... _she was a real monster._

But she was coming to terms with it. Accepting what had been done to her. Day by day. Bit by bit. The man who'd cut her – and almost raped her – was dead, but his commander, Pavla, the _bitch_ who'd given the order, was still out there.

And that was a debt that needed settling for more than that reason alone.

"Man, tell me that shit ain't Atlanta," she said.

She was pointing beyond the steaming jungle where scattered old buildings were half-submerged in the swamps, green-stained brickwork succumbing to darkness as the sun disappeared.

Palmer, sitting beside her, shook his head, half-smiling. "No, that ain't Atlanta."

"Better not be," she said.

Lazily, more buildings emerged through the sheeting grey rain, but these were from the second-world; clapboard houses on stilts, shacks on moored boats, mud huts and tin huts. Here and there, a structure had been burnt to the ground. There were at least four in such condition.

Beneath rain-drenched awnings, a group of shirtless men unloaded fish from crates, transferring them into steel trays. The trays were handed to women who began to slice the produce before placing it on brick cooking fires. The people were all dark-haired with light brown skin.

"Man, is _this_ dump Atlanta?" asked Cali.

Once more the question was for Palmer.

"Lugar Segura," he said.

He was eager for conversation. It had been a grim few weeks since the gunfight and deaths in Silver Road. But they still carried the secret weapon from the first-world and the mission remained unchanged; take the ancient relic to New Washington.

"Lugar Segura," repeated Cali.

"A good place."

"Yeah?"

"You got it," said Palmer.

His voice was deep, rounded, energetic, and his meaty hands were animated as he gestured at the rain-swept settlement. He was in his thirties, six-foot tall, black, an elite soldier, a trained fighting man, born and bred in New Washington, the founding city of the fledgling United Republic.

Voices spiralled from the ramshackle houses. Cali watched and listened, thinking back to her adopted home of Kiven. The Ancients had named it Kansas. Her own name came from her birthplace, a land to the west, gone now, washed away by the ocean. Her parents had got her to Kiven, or Kansas, and died shortly after, leaving her to be raised by her grandma. Life was earned. _Nothin' given in Kiven!_ It was an old saying and none truer. She had hustled all her life, made moves to survive; her skills had brought her on this mission, taking her from a place she would never return to.

Cali stared at a woman sitting opposite. Her skin was brown, hair black and curly, fanned out on bare shoulders. She was smiling as she fed a tiny infant. The little thing suckled hard. A few men watched, mesmerised by her exposed breast. Cali turned her head away, curious emotion inside, knowing that kind of life wasn't out there for her, whether she wanted it or not.

There was a dock ahead and the transport began to slow as it approached the busy river community.

"We're stopping," she said, only this time her comment wasn't for Palmer. "You hear me, Stone?" she said.

He didn't respond. There wasn't a flicker of acknowledgement across his unsmiling face.

He was sat in the corner of the vessel, a few feet from her, eyes shaded beneath the rim of a battered fedora. He was a tall man with a heavy build, unruly dark hair shot through with streaks of grey and white. A vicious scar dominated his leathery skin, crossing from below his eye to his bearded chin. He wore a faded shirt loose over an undershirt, his hardened torso dotted with more scars. A pistol jutted from a shoulder holster. A second pistol was thrust into the waistband of his blood-stained trousers.

Cali leaned into him. "You alright, man?" she asked, her voice low.

Stone didn't answer.

The barge continued toward the dock.

Huge trees bent from the riverbank, creaking branches dipping into the water.

The sun had almost disappeared.

And then another sound tickled the air.

A whine in the distance...

Something different...

Stone's head shifted an inch. The shade came away from his brooding eyes. Lines grew as he squinted.

Not an insect... not the rain or the wind... nothing like that. This was something else... something mechanical...

And it was growing; two noises, identical and overlapping, coming from beyond the trees...

Palmer twisted and looked behind them, drumming his fingers against his thigh, close to a holstered pistol.

Cali narrowed her eyes at the gloom and chewed her lower lip, sensing danger.

... _propellers..._

Two airboats suddenly burst through the reeds, the low-bottomed vessels skimming across the river. Ragged flags billowed in the wind, depicting crudely drawn creatures with brown fur, black eyes and gaping mouths filled with blood-coated teeth.

The passengers fell silent and grew fearful. The boatman furrowed his brow as the airboats powered toward them, knowing he would never make the dock in time.

"Stoats," said a young man, an odd excitement in his voice. "The river pirates."

An older man hissed at him. "We know who they are, boy."

"Is Rage with them?" continued the young man, his interest drawing dark looks.

"Shut the fuck up," said another. "You know what they do."

Work had ceased in the riverside village. The people looked on with resignation. _They had seen it all before._

The airboats drew circles around the barge. The pirates howled and jeered. Some passengers began to sob.

Stone counted the enemy numbers. There were twelve men. Shiny olive skin and dark hair. Ragged shorts, sandals, most of them shirtless. He saw guns and machetes. He saw scars, unshaven jaws and patched eyes. He saw inked chests, inked arms and inked necks. He saw a heavy gun mounted on each airboat. One burst from those and it would be a massacre.

The boatman kept steering forward. "It'll be OK," he said. "They're just trying to scare us."

It was working. Trembling hands clutched terrified children. More women than men were in tears.

The women fear them the most, thought Stone. No guessing why...

The airboats came around once more, gliding over the rain-streaked water. Finally, they made their play. One of the airboats slewed across the transport, forcing it to stop. The second hung out wide, lingering in the waters, heavy gun pointed toward the boat.

They were seconds from being boarded.

Stone looked at Palmer and Cali and signalled with his eyes. They nodded; the heavy gun was the main threat.

A man sprang onto the transport.

"Ko-Lin," said the young woman with the child. She ducked her head and drew her infant close.

Stone saw other passengers look down or look away. He didn't like that. He didn't like that one bit.

And as the pirate captain stamped onboard, Stone guessed there were a few places in this second-world that still needed his help...

TWO

The pirate captain was in his twenties; handsome and muscled, shorts and sandals and a bare torso that was heavily-inked. The dominant tattoo matched the imagery on the flags. He wore beads around his neck and wrists, symbols of his rank, his many kills. He held his stance for a moment, without a word, revelling in the fear he was creating. And he knew there was more than fear; there were women who desired him, excited by his power

But then his tempting smile became a sneer and his face and body turned ugly and even the women who liked their men dangerous and wild were forced to look away as his eyes tightened with cruelty.

"I am Ko-Lin. You know this."

His words hissed. The rain lashed down. The old barge creaked.

"Stoats need feeding," he said. "You understand? Wardens raid us. We raid you. You go to the city and tell them. They hit us. We hit you."

A sheathed machete was strapped to his leg. Pistols were tucked into his belt. He drew one and fired off a volley of shots. The bullets whipped through the overhead canvas and rain dripped through the holes.

"You pay," said Ko-Lin. "You pay, you pay."

The passengers sobbed. The villagers of Lugar Segura watched in silence from the riverbank.

The young man who'd identified the pirates began to rise but Ko-Lin slammed a hand against his chest.

"Sit the fuck down, boy, or we chop off your arms and throw you in the river."

The young man fell back onto his bench, shamed.

"Stupid cunt," said Ko-Lin.

He took no further action and sauntered along the transport, people cowering in his wake as he waved his pistol.

A second man followed, narrow-faced, ugly brown teeth, an empty burlap sack in his hands.

"Fill the bag," said Ko-Lin. "And you live this time."

His pistol boomed as he cracked off more shots into the air.

"Hurry, hurry."

People scrambled to empty their pockets and bags. No one dared protest. No one dared oppose him. The fear amongst them was a greasy film. The sack began to fill but it was slow. The brown-toothed pirate grew agitated. Pockets of saliva lined his rank gums. He shouted at the passengers and slapped heads.

Ko-Lin stared at the strangers at the rear of the boat. He saw the casual way they sat, untroubled.

Grunting, he twisted his sneer and marched toward them.

"Stoats rule the river community. Give me your guns. Hurry, hurry. You don't fuck with us."

His eyes roamed Cali. His ugly sneer became a warm smile. Cali shifted her head, hair parting, revealing the brutal slash down her cheek. The pirate captain grimaced and his gaze flitted, hunting fresh prey. He pointed at the young mother, her head turned away from him.

"You, bitch. You come with us. Now, up, up."

The woman recoiled, fiercely holding her infant.

"Up, up," said Ko-Lin. "Now, hurry, hurry."

He swerved his pistol toward Stone and Palmer.

"I told you to give me your guns. Hurry, grip fist. There are guns on you. Fuck with Stoats and we kill you all."

Stone knew he wasn't at his best. His body was still recovering. He'd taken a bullet in the leg and could no longer run at pace.

But he wasn't done yet...

It was time to remind the bullies and thugs _who_ he was and _what_ he was about and how far he would go to get what he wanted...

Ko-Lin turned his attention back to the young mother. Tears streamed from her eyes. Her baby was crying. She leaned down and collected her bag off the floor. Her shirt gaped, revealing the sloping tops of her breasts.

The pirate captain licked his lips. "Tonight, I'll make your belly fat."

The back of his head burst open as a bullet ripped through his left cheek. He hit the bottom of the boat and there was a moment of stunned silence.

Stone was quick to fill that silence. He sprang from his bench and fired two more shots, rapid and deadly. The pirate with the burlap sack slumped onto his back, blood trickling from the twin holes in his face.

Palmer and Cali whipped out pistols, spun and opened fire on the airboat lingering a distance from the transport. The gunner was the target. He was the danger. The man was one-eyed and wore a bandana around his head. He cocked the heavy weapon and his finger lurched toward the trigger. Cali blew his head open. The one-eyed pirate hit the water with a loud splash.

Then the screaming and panic began. The barge rocked as passengers dived for cover or tried to spring into the water.

Palmer took down another pirate. A fountain of blood spurted from his inked neck and he fell from the airboat, arms flailing.

A cheer went up from the riverbank. The villagers had not seen resistance against the Stoats in a _long_ time

But on the transport no one was cheering. It was chaos and Stone was struggling for a clear shot.

"Get down," he roared, his raspy voice scattering them.

On the airboat angled across the front of the barge, a pirate clawed at the trigger of the heavy machine gun. There were innocent men, women and children before him but he was a Stoat and he didn't care who got maimed or killed.

With less than a heartbeat to get his shot right, Stone tightened his brooding eyes as he looked along his pistol and squeezed the trigger. The bullet drilled between the pirate's eyes. The man hit the water. The gun slanted upward, unfired, and Stone let out a deep breath.

Glancing back, he saw Cali and Palmer dive for cover as the pirates on the second airboat opened fire.

Bullets raked the barge.

Two men were tossed overboard, peppered with bloodspots.

But Stone had his own problems; there still were five heavily-armed pirates on the airboat that had angled across the front of the barge.

He opened up, sweeping his gun. Casings spat from his pistol. Men died. He leapt onto the airboat, landing with a hefty thud; a hulking man, the bringer of death for so many. His face was a cold mask, granite, no emotion, and he kept firing, sending men crying and screaming to whatever lay beyond this world.

And then it was all over and there was only the wind and the heavy rain.

The twin airboats drifted in the water, littered with the blood-soaked bodies of the pirate gang.

There was a spluttering sound and Stone spun to see one of the pirates crawling to the edge of the boat, seeking to escape, incredibly alive after being shot three times.

Stone moved slowly toward him, his limp noticeable. He ejected the magazine in his pistol, slammed home a fresh one.

The pirate heard the unmistakable sound. He turned, falling onto his back, eyes wide open, breathing ragged, pleading and begging...

Stone angled his pistol and squeezed the trigger. The deafening blast appeared to silence even the wind and the rain.

Swivelling his body, tucking the pistol into his waistband, Stone looked back onto the transport barge. Cali was staring at him, gun at her side, sweat running down her face, lips curled into a smile. She gave him a small nod. He nodded back. Palmer was crouched over an old couple. They'd died holding hands.

"Stone," said Cali, pointing.

He turned. In the distance, the shape of a dark-painted vessel streamed into view.

It was a propeller-powered gunboat, bristling with men and women in uniforms _._ It raced through the water toward them.

Stone rushed to the heavy gun.

"Hold your fire," shouted Palmer, springing onto the airboat.

Stone ignored him.

"They're friendly."

Still he ignored him.

Palmer placed his hand on Stone's arm.

"They're on our side, Stone," he said. "I promise you."

The gunboat cut toward them.

Cali was on the airboat now.

The warm rain drilled relentlessly on the three of them.

Palmer wet his lips.

"Stone..." she whispered.

He let go of the heavy gun. The barrel jerked into the air. He took a few paces back, showed his empty hands.

"Who are they?" he said, his voice a deep growl.

"Wardens," said Palmer. "Atlanta City Wardens."

THREE

The gunboat slowed, rocked on the water.

A dozen men and women aimed shotguns and pistols. They wore green uniforms, with bullet-proof vests and steel helmets, visors lowered.

Stone saw a woman shoulder through the line of weapons, shouting for calm. She was in her twenties, light brown skin, black hair in a high ponytail. She was the only one out of uniform. She wore fitted black trousers and a white shirt open at the throat, sleeves rolled back, bare skin glistening from the falling rain. Her chest was protected by a bullet-proof vest. A holster was clipped to her belt, the pistol drawn and clutched in her right hand.

"I'm Captain Antonia Garcia," she called out. "No one move."

She glanced at the pirate airboats and the bodies floating in the water and flashed a bright smile.

"We'll escort you the rest of the way."

* * *

"During the Before they were called cops," said Palmer. "But that name died with the first-world. Change the name, change the past." He shrugged. "They're wardens now; a militarised enforcement agency, maintaining law and order in the city."

Stone said nothing. He eased onto his seat, shaded his face with his fedora. _Wipe out one gang, he thought, and find favour with another..._

A handful of wardens remained to clear up the bodies and take command of the two airboats. The rest of them stayed on the gunboat as it escorted the barge further along the river.

Still the rain fell.

The warden captain, Antonia, rode the transport. She'd holstered her pistol. Stone watched as she tried to reassure the passengers there would be no further attacks from the pirate gang. They knew her, he guessed, judging by their reactions, and trusted her words, but they were in shock and angry and her promises were untimely and ones they knew she shouldn't make.

The dissent grew...

" _Your wardens do not patrol the river community, Antonia... we are forgotten."_

" _We're at the mercy of these thugs. What kind of life do we have with them stealing from us all the time?"_

" _My husband is dead, Antonia. Words will not change that."_

" _Those strangers did more today than Atlanta has ever done. You wardens should be ashamed..."_

Stone could tell the anger wasn't really directed at her. She was a soldier, a pawn in a larger machine, enforcing laws and commands that had been created before she was born. The world was ruled by foolish and dangerous people. It was a simple equation. There was no greyness. Those with power pulled the strings. Those at the bottom paid the price.

He kept his eyes on her, watching from beneath the rim of his fedora. He saw how much she cared and that she was _one_ of them despite her command. She was fairly tall, he noticed, about five feet eight, warm brown eyes set in a longish face, topped by curving eyebrows, cheekbones rounded and prominent, lips full, unpainted, a slight point to her chin, her light brown skin flawless and beautiful.

Antonia spied the young man who'd attempted to confront Ko-Lin. Stone saw there was clearly a family resemblance. But there was no warmth in her eyes for him. It had been replaced by anger. She grabbed him by his shirt and rattled him. He pushed her arms off and she gestured wildly. Then she folded her arms around him and held him, much to the young man's embarrassment.

Stone had seen enough. The killing was done with. He turned his head and watched insects buzz and click through the air, catching dying pockets of sunshine.

She marched toward him, boots echoing. "This could've been worse," she said. "If the Stoats had opened up with the heavy guns then no one would've survived. Three years ago they massacred a transport barge. Fifteen were killed." Her voice was bright, despite the grimness of her words. "Thank you for making a stand."

Stone said nothing. He took off his hat, revealing an ugly scar on his scalp, and ran a hand through sweat-ringed hair. He placed the hat back on his head. His scarred and bearded face stared at her.

Antonia pointed at the space beside him. "Do you mind?"

He didn't answer and she didn't wait for one. She dropped down next to him. Cali, sitting further away, watched.

"They're the last of the river gangs," said Antonia. "We squeeze them hard; cutting off supply routes and breaking up whatever criminal activities we can. But nothing is easy in this life; it's like running through mud."

She let out a dispirited sigh.

"What's your name?" she asked.

He glanced at her, said nothing.

"What's your business in Atlanta?"

Still nothing.

"You keep yourself to yourself, I understand."

The barge nudged further along the river, the gunboat leading the way.

"Tell me about the firebombed houses in Lugar Segura," said Stone, breaking his silence.

She measured him with a long look before answering. "You noticed them?"

"I noticed them."

"Do you know anything about it?"

"No."

"Then it is none of your business."

He gave a wry smile, said nothing.

"Why did you stand up to the Stoats?" she asked.

"There was no choice."

"With the Stoats there is only one choice; submit."

"I don't think so."

"It has been a long time since the Stoats were met with such violence. The people here are honest and hardworking but they will not fight back and the Stoats pick at them like rats chewing on a dead body."

"Why were you mad at your brother?" asked Stone.

Now it was Antonia's turn to give him a wry smile. "You say little but miss nothing, do you?"

"No."

"Ricardo," she said. "My baby brother. He's a reporter for the Atlanta Journal. It's the city's first and only printed news. He has written some very nasty articles about the Stoats. I've told him to stay off the river. If Ko-Lin had recognised him ..." She shook her head. "The Stoats like to mutilate."

"Do they like to burn down houses, as well?"

"Thank you for what you did today," she said, ignoring his question. "But I warn you to stay out of the river community. The Stoats have eyes. A price will be placed on your head."

"I don't care about that," said Stone.

"You should. And I don't want you pulling those guns in Atlanta. Here, there are different rules. But not in the city."

She got to her feet. Stone felt her eyes on him. She was trying to work him out and failing miserably. She nodded and he watched her edge along the transport. Cali got up at once and dropped down beside him.

"I think you made a friend," she said, and laughed.

"I don't need friends."

"You got me."

"I don't even like you."

She understood his black humour and eased back on the bench, stretching out her legs, jiggling one foot.

"Palmer said he can take us to a safe house once we reach Atlanta. His people will help us track down that bitch Pavla."

Stone nodded, said nothing.

"You know..." started Cali, but then stopped as the barge rounded another bend in the river. "Man, I think _that's_ Atlanta..."

It surged out of the water and the trees, towers of concrete and metal, glistening and sparkling in the fading sunlight, smeared in algae, choked with vines and trees. The ground levels of the city were submerged with choppy water.

It had been the capital of the state of Georgia. But no one used the name Georgia and no one recognised it as a state. No one knew of its borders or its history. No one knew of the part it had played in a larger nation. They were first-world names and first-world ideas and all that counted for nothing down at the bottom. But there was one thread that still existed from the Before, stretching through the centuries since the skies burnt and millions died - it was the name of Atlanta, rising from the ashes and dust and bones, thrusting its rooftops and corners and stoops into the ruptured and fractured second-world.

Stone carried a map from days gone by. It was hundreds of years old, tattered and musty and faded and held together with frayed strips of grey tape. Atlanta had been green with interstates and industry.

"This is the south district," said Palmer, ambling over to them. "No one lives here. The rest of the city is dry."

River traffic burst all around them, choking the rain-swept waterway, navigating the crumbling tenement rooftops that nudged above the waterline. There were barges and canoes, rowboats, trawlers, rafts, dinghies and airboats; travelling in all directions, reaching an assortment of metal and wooden docks or heading back into the jungle.

Stone took out his binoculars, scanned the city. It stretched and sprawled. In the distance, he could see thousands of people walking sidewalks, crossing roads, heading in and out of old buildings with pitted walls and glassless windows. The city was aged and worn but it had been spared a direct hit from the Metal Spears of the Atomic Age.

A hand suddenly thrust toward him.

"I'm Ricardo Garcia. Lead reporter for the Atlanta Journal. Do you realise that Ko-Lin was one of the most feared Stoat captains? I'll be writing this up for our paper. Can I get your name, mister?"

Stone lowered his binoculars. He took Ricardo's offered hand – and crushed it.

"Get the fuck away from me, boy," he said.

He shoved him back. Ricardo stumbled, shook his hand, wincing. Antonia looked back, frowning.

Cali glared at Stone and then reached down toward Ricardo.

"I'm Cali." Her eyes roamed his face. "Man, you wanna know shit you come chat with me."

FOUR

With the barge and gunboat docked, Palmer led Stone and Cali along metal walkways and over creaking bridges that connected from rooftop to rooftop in the flooded area of the city. The buildings were mostly submerged beneath dark water and swamped in greenery.

A foul stench lingered, intensified by the heat. Garbage-laden barges headed into the city to unload onto horse-drawn wagons. Palmer explained it was what the city used as fuel to power its generators. He pointed at a row of factories on the horizon, all of them fully operational. Stone nodded but could barely hear the man. There was endless noise all around from work crews hammering panels, extending and repairing walkways and reinforcing a large barrier that circled the southern district, protecting the dry parts of the city from further flooding.

Palmer walked briskly, with confidence. He knew Atlanta. He'd been here several times before.

Soon they were in the dry sections of the city. The old sidewalks were lined with rundown buildings, neglected for centuries. There were rubble strewn lots overgrown with greenery and cratered stretches of land where buildings had collapsed and never been attended to. The asphalt roads were busy with people on bicycles and horses, expertly weaving round gaping potholes.

"How far to the safe house?" asked Stone.

"Twenty minutes," said Palmer.

"Will your contacts be able to track her?"

"No more chat. Not on the street."

Stone went silent. He got it. Palmer's contacts worked covertly but so did the enemy and they could be surrounded by Russian agents without realising it.

Stone had lived for more than forty years and had never once heard of the Russians. He'd ranged for decades in the arid lands of Gallen, a place the Ancients had known as South America, cut off from the north by the Metal Sea, a terrible stretch of water and mudflats that, according to the old map he carried, had been a land mass of small countries.

For years he'd fought the tribes and maniacs in Gallen and none of them had been Russian. Gallen had been his world though he'd never considered it home. Home was safety, comfort and belonging and those things had been lost in childhood. He'd found them again with Tomas, a boy he'd watched become a man, his closest ally, but Tomas was dust and so was Nuria, a woman he might have dared to love, gunned down by a Russian mercenary. He did not close his thoughts to the pain. He allowed it to flow through his veins; the agonising rush would galvanise him in delivering a bloodbath.

It was early evening, still hot, and his back itched, friction from the heavy pack he carried. A warden patrol of three men and one woman strolled by them. Dark green uniforms, body armour, holstered weapons and helmets.

Stone watched them pass and then turned his focus on Palmer, knowing how eager the man was to leave for New Washington with the weapon. But Stone had business here first and no one was going anywhere until it was finished.

He wondered if he was going to have a problem with Palmer. He hoped not. The man was capable and likeable and he didn't want to put a bullet in his head.

The three of them began to veer to the west, heading into a new district, and Stone saw they were in the slums now. There was garbage in the streets and garbage on the sidewalks and garbage in the alleyways and garbage in the courts where young men sprang and hurled a dull-coloured ball toward a rusted metal hoop. There were addicts scratching around in filthy clothes and malnourished children sitting on stoops.

And there were gangs; young men who occupied the corners, brandishing weapons and showing no fear, perhaps like their ancestors had during the Before. Thriving in the trade of stolen or illegal goods from bottled water to high-quality clothing, drugs and food and women, they pulled all the strings, or so they thought. It was a picture Stone had seen too often. The weak preyed upon by the thugs with those in authority the _true_ puppet masters. His gut soured. His anger tightened.

"I don't see any warden patrols here," said Stone.

"That ain't no surprise," said Cali. "This is where the poor live."

Palmer ignored them. He had a vision of Atlanta and he didn't want it tarnished.

They rounded a corner. A crowd were gathered at a small market as vendors sold off the last of the day's fruit and vegetables at rock-bottom prices, accepting coin or trade.

Cali dug out a handful of coins, grabbed two apples and tossed the money at the stallholder. She handed one to Stone. He took a few bites, savouring the taste.

"Round here is like back home," she said. She licked juice from her lips. "And that ain't no good thing, you feel me?"

Palmer had stopped a short way ahead, waiting for them to catch up. Stone didn't move and Palmer frowned.

"Cali," said Stone, dropping his voice. "Do you see the boy back there? No, don't look with your head, use your eyes. Do you see him?"

"I see him, man. Something wrong?"

"A few moments ago an old guy was there. He couldn't take his eyes off Palmer. Now the old guy has slipped away into that building and his boy is watching the stall. Palmer is the only one to have been here before. I think he just got recognised."

"Are we about to get fucked up?"

"Tell Palmer we have a problem. Walk slowly, don't run, and don't look back."

Cali edged through the crowd, still munching her apple. Stone watched her. All at once he was overwhelmed with how much he cared for her. He'd taken her under his wing in the frozen wastelands of the Black Region, a long way from here. She had been travelling with a guy named Jeremiah, an officer in the United Republican Army. Their mission had been to find the weapon and take it to New Washington. He didn't really understand how it was supposed to help prevent impending bloodshed between the Russians and the United Republicans but Jeremiah wasn't around to ask because he'd been killed that first night and now the mission was Stone's burden.

Leaning against the wall of an old tenement, listening to the sounds of the street, he took off his fedora and ran a hand through his hair, using the movement to scope the people around.

The old guy emerged through a curtained doorway. He was perspiring. He waved away the remaining customers and spoke hurriedly to the boy. The boy crouched and removed the wooden wedges holding the wheels of the stall and the old man rolled it through the curtained doorway.

A moment later, the curtain twitched and Stone glimpsed the face of the small boy, eyes wide with anticipation.

"How many?"

It was Palmer, surveying the rush of faces.

"None yet. Are you better off dead or alive to the Russians?"

"Alive. We can't let that happen."

"If it all goes wrong," said Stone. "I'll take you out with a headshot."

Palmer regarded him with a half-laugh. "I reckon you might just enjoy that." He scanned the crowded street once more. "A lot of black and brown faces."

"So?" said Cali.

"Not a lot of colour with the Russians; they must be using local muscle. I wish it wasn't going down here."

"Why?" asked Stone.

"There are too many innocents around. Like on the barge."

"Their problem," said Stone. "Not ours."

Palmer stared at him. Stone met his eyes.

"He don't look like no local dude," said Cali.

A man had appeared on the corner. He was white, in his late forties, thinning brown hair, rumpled shirt and trousers. He lit a hand-rolled cigarette and stood smoking, eyes everywhere but at them.

"Shot caller," said Stone.

Two young black men clambered from an upstairs window and dropped down a rusted fire escape, carrying bats. The men were shirtless with identical chest ink.

"Here it comes," said Palmer.

A third young man wandered in from another direction, carrying a bat. He had the same ink.

"They definitely want you alive," said Stone.

"You won't forget that headshot, right?"

"You can count on it."

Stone glanced over his shoulder. Another three had gathered at the other end of the street.

"Me and Cali will take care of these six," he said. "You grab the shot caller."

"I don't want another shootout," said Palmer.

"There won't be one."

Stone plucked out his pistol and twisted it in his palm.

People saw the danger and rapidly peeled away.

A bat swung at Stone. The young man clutching it snarled at him. Stone came up with his right hand, smacking it across the young man's face. The pistol collided with his nose and there was a sickening crunch of bone. The young man howled, one hand coming off the bat handle, reaching up to his face, cradling his bloodied nose. Stone kicked him in the groin. The man screamed for a second time. Tucking his pistol into his waistband, Stone lunged at the man, grabbed him with both hands and hurled him into the road.

There was a split-second hesitation and then the second man sprang at him, holding the bat with both hands, sweeping it in a wide arc. He came in from the left and then the right and Stone dodged, grimacing as pain erupted around the old bullet wound in his leg. The third man stepped forward, slamming his bat down overhead.

A bat cracked against Stone. He gasped. He was hit a second time. His lined fists lashed out. He caught the second man, forced him into a headlock. The man's hands clawed at him. Stone tightened his grip. He came forward, dragging the man with him, looking into the face of his last attacker. The shirtless young man gripped the bat with both hands, uncertain where and when to strike.

The young man in the headlock dug punches into Stone's kidneys and began to wriggle free.

Twisting, Stone brought his right hand over and there was a gut-wrenching crack of bone as he snapped the man's neck.

The body slid onto the sidewalk.

The last attacker, bat still raised, wet his trembling lips. There was conflict in his eyes; stay and fight or ditch the bat and run. He wasn't convinced by either choice so Stone made it easy for the young man and decided for him.

He sprang forward, moving fast for a big man. He thrust out his right hand, grabbed the man around the throat and started to tighten his grip.

"Where's Pavla?" he growled.

"Who?"

Stone began to crush the man's throat. "Where is she?"

"I don't know any Pavla, man." His eyes bulged as he gasped for breath. "Are you the wrong ones? There was supposed to be four of you. I don't..."

Fury in his eyes, Stone lifted the man from the ground, feet dangling. He clutched the young man at the waist and then slammed his body toward the sidewalk, bringing him down horizontal, cracking bones.

Breathing hard, Stone whirled round.

Cali was running at him, bloodstained knife in hand, bodies sprawled on the ground behind her.

Whistles blew in the distance.

Wardens.

There was shouting. Bystanders began to run.

They're more afraid of the wardens than us, thought Stone.

Palmer caught up to them.

"What happened to the shot caller?" said Stone.

"Gone," shouted Palmer.

"Are you fucking serious?"

There was the clatter of boots.

"Man, we gotta roll," shouted Cali.

Stone moved as fast as he could, unable to run cleanly, shoving through the crowds as green-uniformed wardens swarmed into the area, weapons drawn.

They fled into the streets of Atlanta. Dusk had settled. It was perfect cover for the three of them.

Stone picked an empty building and they huddled inside, the noise of the whistles fading.

Cali wiped her blade, sheathed it.

"What happened back there, Palmer?" said Stone, his voice a raspy growl. "How come you let the shot caller get away?"

"He lost me. He was good. I... I fucked up."

"Well, the Russians definitely know we're here," said Stone. "That means finding Pavla is going to be twice as hard."

He surveyed the street.

"Clear," he said. "We need to get to that safe house. Let's move."

As the three of them slipped away into the gathering gloom, Stone couldn't shake the words one of the gang members had said to him... _there was supposed to be four of you._

FIVE

"You're a smart and resourceful officer," said Chief Jackson. "But I will _not_ tolerate this defiance regarding Lugar Segura. Once more you have disobeyed a direct order and that is very disappointing."

She spoke calmly, measured. Antonia listened and the words crushed her. She worked hard, believing in efficiency, giving the job everything, but her commanding officer was telling her she had failed and it stung. She wished Jackson would blaze with anger, allowing her to counter in similar fashion. _That_ type of confrontation suited her. It was healthy to clear the air with an argument. She did not appreciate this approach. She needed her pulse racing. It was the only way to work, the only way to live.

Jackson continued in the same corpse-like manner. She had been in command of the wardens for three years and had not raised her voice once in all that time. Antonia respected the woman, admired her, but her decision regarding Lugar Segura was poor leadership.

Eyes stern, left arm folded behind her back, Jackson popped a hand-rolled cigarette between her lips and lit it. She was in her fifties; white, iron grey hair clipped short, small dark blue eyes, skin leathery from the relentless Atlanta sun.

Antonia grew impatient.

"Twelve Stoats dead," she said. "That includes Ko-Lin. Killers and weapons taken out of the river community. I call that a ..."

"What is our current murder rate, Antonia?"

Antonia chewed her lip.

"I don't know. Not off the top of my head. I'd need to check..."

"Seventy-four," said Jackson. "Seventy-four murders, many of them unsolved."

"I work on murders all the time. You know how difficult it is. We do not have the resources of the Before."

Once more Jackson ignored her point. Smoke curled from her mouth. "You went into the wetlands, Antonia, and you were ordered not to."

"I took more wardens this time."

"Yes, taking officers and a gunboat that should be patrolling the waters and docks of the southern district."

"The villages of the wetlands are just as important as this city," said Antonia, her voice rising. "They are being preyed on."

Jackson held up her hand, the one with the cigarette.

"I want no more stories of monsters."

"I don't believe in the _Shraal_. Atomic Mutants are for children. But the killings are happening. A maniac is loose and we need to stop him."

The chief walked to the window of her office.

"I have been a warden for decades, Antonia, long before you were born. I have witnessed the food wars, the water wars, the chemical wars. Atlanta moves in cycles. And so does Lugar Segura. The burnings in the wetlands are nothing new. There have been burnings before and beheadings and mutilation, kidnappings, rape, torture. It is a local dispute, no doubt deeply layered, I give you that. But we will remain clear of it. They do not trust us. They do not want us amongst them."

She knew Jackson was right, on that score alone. She and her brother, Ricardo, had been born in the river community and they knew the code from an early age; wardens were never to be trusted. But a young Antonia had secretly admired them; the guns and the uniforms, the authority, the risk, the danger. Her parents had seen it in her from an early age. She was not like the others. She was not content to build walkways and bridges or wait tables or serve in a bar. She wanted more and they encouraged her to achieve it. Antonia had expected to be disowned the day she became a cadet. But it did not happen. Her community had swelled with pride. The divide between the river and city, she realised, was a complex one.

Antonia joined her at the window. The office was on the top floor of the precinct. The building was fortified with towers and wire-fences. Small lights glowed in the dark city beyond.

"The latest firebombing threw up more witnesses."

Jackson lowered her cigarette.

"What did they claim to see?"

Antonia laughed. "The same thing the other witnesses claim to have seen; a giant monster shooting fire – _a Shraal._ "

Jackson ground out her cigarette, left arm hidden behind her back.

"We have _real_ monsters in the city that need capturing and sending to Starkville. Killers, rapists, drug dealers."

There was a heavy pause between the two women.

"I will leave it," said Antonia. "But I cannot understand why you will not allow me to investigate. There have been sixteen murders."

"They do not count toward our murder rate."

"But..."

"The Administration care about numbers. _It is all about numbers._ The people must see that Atlanta is growing safer by the day, that we are making progress year on year. The numbers give them faith to have children and build their lives here."

" _Faith?_ We're talking about the lives of innocent men, women and children. Isn't that what fucking counts? The river community have already lost faith in us. And the city isn't far behind."

"Numbers, Antonia. You are an intelligent woman, one of the best, how can you not realise this? Talk to the Administration about numbers; about how many people leave Atlanta each year and head to other settlements and other cities. The more we lose the weaker we become. We need workers. We _have_ to have workers or the city is no more and then we are all wandering the wastelands, feeding off one another, the way it was after the war."

"The war was hundreds of years ago," said Antonia. "Maybe the _Shraal_ roamed then but they are not here now."

"I told you before," said Jackson, her tone deepening. "I will not send you on a monster hunt."

"I think we both know there is no monster. This is a disguise, intended to frighten and confuse, nothing more. My people in the river community believe in monsters. I do not."

Jackson nodded. "We agree on one thing. What about the weapon?"

"I'm assuming the killer is using a flame-thrower."

"Our confrontation has come full circle, Antonia. A sick man with a fire weapon who hides behind the costume of a legendary beast. This is a local crime and we will allow the locals to resolve it. I want you investigating crime in our city, Antonia. You will walk away from this. I will not tell you again."

Jackson paused.

"Do you understand me, Antonia?"

She nodded silent agreement and slammed the door behind her, marching off along the corridor with fists clenched.

Jackson went back to the window, a fresh cigarette in her right hand, her left arm bent behind her back, the hand missing.

* * *

The gym was empty.

Antonia stripped off her shirt and trousers, hung them in her locker. She pulled on shorts and a vest and hit the bag, piling out her frustration.

Confrontation?

This is confrontation, Jackson.

Her muscular arms flashed, clenched fists thudding against the hanging bag. Sweat dripped over her thick, dark eyebrows.

Five attacks and no response from the wardens. Five attacks and silence. Peace and justice, it was all bullshit.

She heard the screams of children dying at the hands of a sick asshole dressed up in a monster costume. She saw the flames curl and lick and watched her people stand by with acceptance that the Atomic Mutants were here to reclaim the land and this was the way it was meant to be.

Or some shit.

A solitary tear rolled from her eye, the tear of an adult whose childhood dreams had become jaded.

Her fists hit the bag.

Why was Jackson content to stand by and let the murders go unchallenged? There was no such thing as Atomic Mutants. She agreed it was a hoax, covering up a string of heinous murders.

She grunted loudly, fists whipping in right and left. Her hair loosened, perspiration-soaked strands flicking across her face.

She had been schooled. She knew history. She knew of the first-world. The Russians and the Americans, the warrior races known as the Ancients, had launched the Metal Spears and devastated the Before and from the ashes had rose the Atomic Mutants and the Shraal had been considered the most deadly...

Her fists stopped.

She held the bag, panting.

But that was then, long ago, and if they had existed – and she was too impatient to consider they might have – they died out centuries ago.

The killer had a human face, hidden behind a monster mask...

She collapsed on a low wooden bench, slamming her back repeatedly into the wall behind her. Cursing loudly, she snatched her water bottle and gulped a few mouthfuls, shaking her head.

On her feet, she paced, talking to herself, going over it and over it, floorboards creaking beneath her angry steps.

She had searched for a motive and found none. There was no connection between the five families. She had looked at the Stoats but the crimes bore no hallmarks of the river pirates.

Then who? And why?

Grabbing a towel, she wiped her face, brow creased with thought.

Stone had spotted the burnt out homes. He had noticed them at once. Was he connected to the crimes? Had he come to taunt her over them?

No, that made no sense. He and his companions had been fearless in battling the Stoats.

He's a man who puts things right, she thought. He goes where he wants and does whatever he wants. Unlike me, I am bound by oath and regulations and procedures and can do nothing for my people.

Her fist clenched tight round the water bottle, veins bulging along her arm. Without thinking, anger overcame her and she hurled the bottle across the room. It hit the wall and split.

A voice shouted at her. She had been too consumed to realise she was no longer alone.

"Water wastage is a thirty-day spell in the cells, Garcia. Shall I escort you myself or do you want to give yourself up?"

"Fuck you, Cook."

"And I will need to strip search you for any concealed weapons before putting you behind bars."

She bit into a smile. "Fuck you."

"Are you forgetting rank?"

She spoke slowly, deliberately. "Fuck you, Major."

Cook laughed. He closed the gym door, a serious look falling upon his face. He was in his fifties, craggy black skin, an unruly fuzz of hair streaked through with grey. He had bushy eyebrows that curled over his squinting eyes.

"I heard about you and Chief Jackson."

"Word gets around quick."

"You know how it is, Antonia."

"What do you want?"

"Jackson warned you off investigating the river murders, right?"

"Yes."

"Have you ever asked yourself why?"

"I know why. She wants me here in the city."

"Well, that's one reason." He paused. "But there might be another. Remember, the river communities did nothing when Jackson was captured by the Stoats. She lost a hand and a husband to those bastards."

"And?"

"Maybe she doesn't want the killer caught because she is enjoying watching your people suffer, like how she suffered."

Antonia thought for a moment but shook her head. "No, I don't believe that about her. Besides, it was the Stoats who hurt her, not Lugar Segura."

"It was just a thought." He sighed. "I heard her husband was an asshole, anyway."

"I heard that, too."

Antonia got to her feet. "This isn't about watching people suffer. It's the numbers. It has always been about the numbers. One day she will wear a new suit, Major, that of the Administration."

"You might be right," said Cook. He stared at her. "You have that look in your eyes. What are you planning to do?"

"I know someone who might be able to help."

"Ricardo? You can't pass this information to your brother. Jackson will ruin you if tell him about this. You know we're not allowed to speak to the Journal."

"Not Ricardo," said Antonia, nodding. "I have someone more ruthless in mind."

SIX

Stone looked at the building, unsmiling.

"This is a safe house?"

It was a derelict tenement. The ground floor windows and doorway were boarded over and marked with red crosses.

"What are the crosses?" he asked.

He'd experienced crazy religions before. He didn't want to encounter any of them on this mission.

"The Administration has marked them for demolition," said Palmer. "But certain buildings never get taken down." He winked. "The Administration is aware that New Washington has operatives in the city. It's all about co-operation, Stone."

"The Administration?"

"The people who run Atlanta. The ones who never get down in the dirt. You know how it is, right?"

"I know how it is," said Stone.

Grinning, Palmer reached behind the boarded doorway and fiddled for a moment until the door swung outward.

"Let's get off the street," he said.

The three of them went inside. The room beyond was scattered with fallen masonry and thick with dust. The floors above had collapsed.

Cali grimaced. "Man, this fuckin' place stinks," she said.

"This way," said Palmer.

He led them into the gloom of the building. The noise of the city became muffled.

Instinctively, Stone allowed his right hand to wander toward his pistol. He slipped it into his grip.

Thin strips of moonlight picked though the holes in the roof. Debris rustled in the wind.

They moved slowly, one room at a time, no one around.

Cali noticed Stone had his piece drawn. She frowned at him. He glared back from beneath the rim of his fedora.

"How much further?" she called to Palmer.

"Here," replied the soldier, stepping through an archway into an open area rampant with greenery. On all sides abandoned buildings reached toward the night sky. Metal creaked and stirred in the wind, rusted and faded signage from the past, words without meaning or purpose.

Overhead, shifting clouds blocked out most of the stars.

"Sniper," growled Stone

He pushed Cali down and raised his weapon, bringing up his left hand to cradle the pistol.

Palmer clamped a hand on Stone's arm. "Friendly," he whispered.

Stone didn't move. He kept his pistol aimed at the rifleman above. The man was young and unshaven, standing in an open window, his weapon covering the three of them.

"It's OK," said Palmer. "He's a lookout."

Palmer pushed through the waist-high weeds. He reached a metal door and rapped on it. A panel slid open, exposing a metal grill. He spoke, identifying himself; name, rank and serial number.

The panel closed. There was the clanking and spinning of locks and then the door swung open.

Stone saw a black man with tired brown eyes. His clothes were rumpled, simple, and he was unshaven. He didn't look like a soldier or a covert operative. He didn't look like anything - except maybe just like the people they had passed in the streets. Stone guessed that was the plan.

"Inside," he said.

The three of them moved into a large room lit by a single light. There was a table and two chairs in one corner. Steam rose from a half-eaten mess tin of soup and a tin mug of coffee. An ash-stained bowl brimmed with ground out cigarette ends. A hand radio fizzed with static and broken words. An assault rifle with a worn leather strap hung from a nail in the wall.

The man closed and locked the door. "Go up," he said.

A flight of iron-rung stairs led toward a second metal door. Palmer took them two at a time. Cali followed. Stone hung at the rear, deciding to tuck his pistol back into his waistband.

The room beyond was a hub of activity. It was windowless and lit with overhead lights flickering behind dust-smeared plastic covers. Giant cables ran from the lights toward a side room where a generator rumbled. There were four people working at desks, three men and a woman, all of them black. Stone guessed the woman was in charge by the way she was directing the work being undertaken. There were papers and maps and automatic weapons on walls racks and equipment with trailing leads that he'd seen only as broken bits of tech traded in marketplaces. These pieces were working with lights and dials and buttons and knobs and peels of static.

The three men glanced up from their desks, nodding or raising a hand in greeting at Palmer. The woman was out of her chair and breezed toward them, greeting Palmer with a handshake.

"This is Stone and Cali," he said. "They found it, Captain. New Washington owes them everything."

"Captain Rodriguez," she said, extending her hand to Cali, who shook it awkwardly.

Stone warily thrust out his hand, skin coarse, grip tight. Rodriguez looked into his eyes, nodded. She was tall, about five-ten, a slim build, wearing dark trousers and boots, a green cotton T-shirt and a pale blue cardigan with no buttons. Her hair was cut short, her face round, eyes brown and inquiring.

"Is it true?" she said, teeth nibbling at her lower lip. "Do you really have it?"

"Yeah," said Cali.

"Show them," said Palmer.

The room stopped in a heartbeat. All eyes were on Cali. She swore under her breath, embarrassed by the attention. Shaking her head with a wry smile, she unfastened the satchel and slowly unfolded the bulky fabric – the weapon they'd fought for back in the town of Silver Road.

It was a flag, faded and musty, a block of white stars against a blue background, the rest of it dominated by thick stripes of red and white. Her fingers slipped through one of several bullet holes. It was the banner beneath which New Washington planned to unite the scattered communities of a brutalised land and form the United Republic.

"The stars and stripes," said Rodriguez, unable to breathe.

The three men were on their feet. One of them came forward. He was wiry and in his forties with a thick beard. He opened a heavy book, the pages old, yellowed.

"Look," he said.

Stone and Cali glanced at the photograph he was pointing at. "The oval office," he said. "It was the seat of the last President of the United States of America."

There was a desk before a row of windows. Two flags hung from metal poles, one on the left and one on the right. The giant flag on the left was an identical match to the one Cali held.

"We have to notify New Washington," he said, his voice little more than a whisper. "Where did you find it?"

"Silver Road," said Cali. "Crazy ass mayor was holding onto it. She claims it's the one that flew in the battle of New York, whatever the fuck that..."

"The battle of New York," said Rodriguez, nodding. "It was the final stand against the Russians."

"My name is Olson," said the man with the book. "I'm a historian as well as an agent for the URA." He wet his lips. "Can I touch it?" he said, to Cali.

"Man, long as you're talking about this," she said, grinning. "Ain't shit else on the menu for no one here."

He didn't even crack a smile. Cali guessed he had no sense of humour. Beads of sweat broke out on his forehead as his fingers closed around one corner of the flag.

"I can't believe it," he said. "The most powerful relic from the first-world."

These fuckers are in awe of the thing, thought Cali.

Olson withdrew his hand. It was Rodriguez who spoke. "We have a way you can get the flag to New Washington by avoiding the northern wasteland. And you'll want to do that. Tell them, Olson."

The bearded man put the book away and set his hands on his hips.

"Two hours ago a helicopter gunship landed in the city. We intercepted several coded messages and understand it belongs to the Russians."

"Palmer," said Rodriguez. "You can fly one of those. If you can capture it then the flag can..."

"The flag is going nowhere," said Stone.

No one spoke.

Cali folded it back into the satchel.

"That's right," she said.

"Stone," said Palmer, gently. "We _have_ to get this to New Washington. This flag is a symbol of our former nation. It will allow the President to gather the scattered..."

"I know the mission," said Stone. "But it can wait."

"What is this?" said Rodriguez, her voice even. "Do you want paying? Is that it? Are you holding us to ransom? We're happy to reimburse any..."

"Reimburse?" said Stone. " _Reimburse?_ Are you fucking kidding me?"

His voice erupted in a deep growl.

"You people don't get it. Jeremiah Cartwright and his rangers were killed for this flag. They knew what they were fighting for, what they were willing to risk. But in Silver Road I watched my friend die – murdered by a Peshkin mercenary hired by the Russians. Nuria knew nothing of your United Republic, nothing of this flag."

His eyes flicked around the room.

"It goes nowhere until that score is settled. Cali...?"

She plucked a notebook from her pack, skimmed through the pages and tore out a sheet. It was a drawing of a woman. She handed the paper to Rodriguez.

"Her name is Pavla," said Stone. "Now tell me where she is."

SEVEN

Stone was on the roof of the tenement, alone, his loose shirt billowing in the hot night wind, a pair of binoculars wedged beneath the battered rim of his fedora.

There were people wandering the unlit streets but none of them resembled Pavla and he hadn't expected them to. This mission wasn't going to be that easy. Patiently, he would wait for Palmer's companions to drum up information on her... a _nd then vengeance would be had..._

He took a deep breath and continued to scan the city. His brooding eyes saw row upon row of ancient buildings, identities folded in the passage of time, little more than shells for the families who existed behind barred windows, flickering candles lighting the way in the dark.

Now and then a gunshot boomed and shortly after Stone heard the now familiar whistles of the warden patrols. Some gunshots were responded to more rapidly than others. He guessed it all depended on the neighbourhood.

" _Change the name," Palmer had said. "Change the past."_

Everything had changed since the Cloud Wars. Or maybe nothing had changed at all...

"Yeah," said Stone, the word rumbling over his lips.

But the wardens were usually too late; a life extinguished, agony prolonged. And with death came pain for those left behind and it was a pain that burned inside him; too many deaths, too much loss, too many friends in the ground. No more graves. There had to be an end to the dying.

He turned his attention to the southern district of Atlanta, inky black water lapping the flooded buildings. A warden gunboat cruised by the docks. The river was a dark line snaking back into the trees. In the distance, he glimpsed smudges of smoke and lights from the village of Lugar Segura where the Stoats had attacked the barge. He hoped the villagers were celebrating, drinking and eating long into the hot night and talking of the strangers who'd slaughtered the pirate gang.

A light swept the waters as the gunboat powered by the ruined buildings. Stone wondered if Antonia was onboard or somewhere else in the city, fighting the fight for the innocent and the weak.

Was her soul like his? She had fire in her belly, he had seen that already.

He pushed her from his thoughts and made for a ramshackle shelter that had been constructed beside a block in the centre of the roof. There was a closed door in the block with stairs that led down into the building.

Stone hunkered down on a worn bed roll and took his pistol from his waistband, setting it beside him. He patted it, for a moment, thinking of the lives he'd taken today and how much better the world would be without them.

Reaching into his pack, he took out a bottle of whiskey and, lost in thought, staring at nothing, he slowly uncorked it and drank.

Atlanta was noisy and the noise was constant. He hated cities. He craved the open land and the long, desolate highways riddled with cracks and potholes and old rusted vehicles. He craved silence and the voices that whispered to him when no one else was talking - the voices that tested him, that questioned his determination in making the world a better place for those too weak to do so. He promised the voices that he would never stop, no matter what. He knew all the voices and he knew they were all his own but that didn't matter. He needed them to remind him what he was, what this world had shaped him into.

And it was in those moments that he remembered what little there had been of his childhood and what innocence and family had meant; so hard to remember now, so far back, so long ago, gone now, even his name, dust in the wind, all brutally cut short when he was eight-years old...

You're a stone cold killer...

He blinked; he hadn't heard _that_ voice in a long time and it wasn't his own. He shut the door on it at once.

Stone tilted the bottle of whiskey and drank deeply, washing away thoughts from the distant past to the more recent; finding Cali at the refuge in the Black Region, accepting a mission cloaked in lies and murder.

But he'd warmed to her. She was spiky and gritty, intelligent and direct, like him in so many ways, and she had drawn strong feelings. He did not lust after her, though it was clear she was a very beautiful young woman. No, she stirred a different kind of emotion inside him.

When the Russian mercenaries had taken her in the city of Batesville, his stomach had folded repeatedly and he had fought a desperate shootout to rescue her. Finding her bound, beaten and slashed, terrified by her ordeal, he had taken her from that foul place and held her in his arms, vowing to protect her... and protect her he would.

Rain began to fall.

Giant blobs exploded across the rooftop.

It grew heavy, driving folk off the streets. The city became mostly silent, even the gunshots had stopped.

Smiling thinly, Stone drank some more, the whiskey burning his throat and chest, sharpening his mind.

A door creaked open in the block and Cali emerged into the warm night, clothes and hair damp by the time she reached the shelter. She handed him a half-empty mess tin, chunks of fried white fish and vegetables.

He nodded, took a spoon from his pack and started to eat.

"They got plenty of shit," said Cali. "That Captain Rodriguez said we can top up our ammunition and food rations."

Stone said nothing.

"They're part of the URA," she continued. "But not like Jeremiah was. He was an officer, like Palmer, but these fools deal in secrets and shit, intelligence, that kind of thing, you feel me?"

"Yeah."

He ate, drank, and then offered her the bottle. She took a long drink, coughed, and handed it back.

"I felt for you back there, man, spilling your feelings and them just standing round like fuckin' dummies and... fuck it..."

He set down the bottle and mess tin, turned to her. Her near-black eyes were filmed with tears. One rolled down her cheek.

"Cali..."

"Nah, it's all good," she said, wiping her eyes and looking away. "Ain't nothing to worry 'bout."

"What's wrong?"

She kept her face turned from him. Then she looked him in the eye.

"It's you, man, that's all. I never knew this Nuria girl but I saw what she meant to you. You've done nothing but take care of me since you found me and Jeremiah at that refuge. You've asked for nothing. You ain't like other men, Stone. Men take one look at me and think they know what I'm all about and they don't know dick. I'm sad for you, man. You got nothing and no one and then fate dangled Nuria back in front of you and just... you deserve something... someone."

"I've got you."

She squeezed his arm. "Yeah, ain't I a motherfuckin' burden. But that ain't what I'm chattin' 'bout and you know it. You need someone who can listen to all that crazy shit in your head, someone you can, you know, do the nasty with."

Stone said nothing.

"You're a man, right?"

"Right."

"Then you got needs. Man, after it all kicks off and the killing gets done you get that feeling, right? That feeling that needs dealing with. You know what I'm saying, yeah?" She laughed. "After that shootout on the river, man, I got an itch that still ain't got scratched and you ain't no different."

"Yeah."

"So you need someone and I ain't talkin' 'bout no whores we seen on the street. Those ain't for you."

She patted his arm. "What about that warden girl, Antonia? She couldn't keep her eyes off you and..."

"No."

"Yeah, well, you know I read people and I read her good and proper. She likes you, man. Maybe you can find a piece of happiness there. And maybe she can bring her brother along. That Ricardo is a sweet looking boy. Then perhaps we can both get that itch scratched."

Stone couldn't help but smile. She leaned and rested on his shoulder and they were both silent for a moment.

The rain hammered the roof of the shelter, drilled the city streets.

"What do you think of Palmer?" he asked.

"What about him?"

"You read people. What do you make of him?"

She sat up, reached into her shirt pocket and took out a small tin of hand-rolled joints.

Lighting up, she drew deeply. "Man, you know I don't do word games. Tell me what the fuck you're asking."

"Where'd you get that?" asked Stone.

"That village we left Jodie in this morning. There was this dude selling. Man, I hope that girl is alright. She was a strange one. You want some of this?"

Stone nodded and dragged on the joint. He passed it back to her.

"What's your beef with Palmer?" she asked.

"One of the men who attacked us tonight said there should've been four of us."

Cali said nothing at first. The joint and whiskey bottle passed back and forth.

"Four of us?" she said.

"Yeah."

"Not three?"

"Four."

Smoke curled from her mouth. "If the URA have agents in the city then so must the Russians, yeah? I mean, it stands to reason, you feel me? We got spotted coming into the city."

"I agree," said Stone, drinking. "But why would they think there was supposed to be four of us and not three?"

She shook her head, kicked back and smoked. "I don't know"

"Unless someone told them to expect a party of four."

"Someone like Palmer?"

"Before we got on the barge, before Jodie decided to stay – _when there were four of us_ \- Palmer went missing for a bit. What if he was sending a message to the Russians?"

Cali listened.

"And how did Pavla get away at the bank in Silver Road? Every time we came up against her there was a shootout. Palmer got away without a scratch. No shots fired, nothing."

"Do you think Palmer is a Russian?"

Stone shook his head. "From what he's told me there's no love for colour with the Russians."

"Is he the New Washington traitor? Did he give Pavla and Timo the list of rangers and then come south to make sure the flag never made it back?"

"I don't know about that. But there is something I don't trust about him. We need to watch him."

"I thought you liked him."

"I do," said Stone. He looked at her firmly. His voice deepened. "But I never said I trusted him. I've got an idea. This is what we should do..."

He explained to her the plan and they quickly put it into place. A moment after they were finished the rooftop door creaked open for a second time. It was Rodriguez. She jogged across the rain-streaked rooftop and ducked under the shelter.

"I've found..." She paused, sniffing the air. "Really? At a time like this?"

"It's all good," said Cali, grinning. She offered her the joint. "Want some, boss?"

Rodriguez shook her head and dropped onto her haunches. She was holding the sheet of paper Cali had given her earlier.

"Well, you couldn't have come up against a more ruthless and dangerous soldier. Her name is Pavla Koronova. She is a major with the Peshkin mercenary army. She is former Russian military, ex-special forces. She saved the life of the Russian President during an unauthorised assassination attempt by a rogue unit. And she's here in Atlanta."

Stone sat forward. "Where?"

"There is a store in the east district called Junkers. It's the biggest trading post in the city. We strongly believe the Russians operate out of the upper floors and use the store as a front. Our intelligence suggests that Pavla is..."

She cut herself short and turned her head, right hand snaking toward her holstered pistol.

"Did you hear that?"

Stone grabbed his pistol, sprang to his feet. It was hard to pick out tiny sounds beyond the wall of noise the rain was creating. Cali put away the tin of joints and drew her own weapon.

Half-crouched, Rodriguez edged toward the lip of the roof. Suddenly, she rocked back violently, the shots silent and deadly. Her body slammed onto the ground, twin holes in her face.

Stone dropped to one knee, pistol ready, as a dark-haired man emerged off a rusted fire-escape, gun in hand, silencer fixed to the sleek barrel. Stone fired and his gun barked. The bullet drilled the forehead of the gunman and sent him crashing off the side of the building.

Hurriedly, he moved across the rooftop, his limp noticeable. He peered over the edge and started firing down.

"Get downstairs," he shouted at Cali. "The safe house is under attack."

EIGHT

There were at least six Russians scaling the building.

Muscles tense, mouth twisted in anger, Stone curved his arm over the edge of the roof and fired off a handful of shots. There was a falling scream as a man was struck and tossed off the wall.

A volley of silenced shots tore from the dark, ripping holes in the brickwork and forcing him back.

Pistol in hand, he rushed across the roof and quickly scanned the streets and back alleyways. They were crawling with armed men in dark clothing.

And then he saw her...

Pavla Koronova – mercenary, torturer, killer. We're the same, he told himself, and his stomach turned at the realisation...

She was instantly recognisable despite the gloom and heavy rain; the slim build and black clothing, the cropped hair and narrow face, a woman in her late twenties, maybe early thirties. And she was in control, directing the assault on the safe house. She had the area covered and was squeezing tight and knew it was only a matter of time before the agents from New Washington crumbled.

Stone levelled his pistol and fired. It was a poor shot at this distance and he wasn't surprised when the bullet pinged off the wall several feet from her head. Pavla looked up into the wet night sky and saw him. He was glad she knew he was tracking her and still out to finish her.

She yelled in Russian and pointed at the roof. A burst of automatic fire rattled and Stone dived for cover.

Grabbing his pack, he took one lingering glance at Captain Rodriguez, sprawled in the rain, blood leaking from her face, and was saddened for a moment.

A gunman scrambled onto the roof and Stone ducked as a silenced bullet spun past his head. He shaped his body and fired from the hip. The bullet spat from the muzzle and spiralled into the face of the Russian, ripping open flesh and shattering bone as it tore upward into the man's brain.

Yanking open the rooftop door, Stone reached the stairs as an explosion rocked the building. There were screams from down below. The gunmen assaulting the roof were using silenced weapons but now Pavla had been spotted there would be no need for such caution.

Gun in hand, Stone kicked open the door to the communications room. It swirled with smoke. Two bloodied bodies were sprawled on the floor, half-buried beneath desks.

He came forward, ears ringing with shouting and gunfire.

Palmer was at the lookout post, crouched, holding an assault rifle and firing at the square below. The sniper Stone had seen on their way in was on the floor, a mess of blood and severed limbs.

"Where's Cali?" roared Stone.

"Here," shouted a man, from another direction.

It was Olson, the bearded black man who'd shown them the flag in the book. He rushed from a side room, cradling an assault rifle. There was blood running down his face. Cali was behind him, unhurt.

"Where's Captain Rodriguez?" he asked.

"Dead," said Stone. He tied a scarf round his face and hurriedly barred the door from the roof.

Another explosion hit the building. Gunfire rattled below and the stairway was suddenly filled with the noise of boots and Russian voices.

Stone moved toward the main door. He reached for the handle and nodded at Cali and Olson.

He threw open the door and the three of them filled the stairwell with bullets. Faces and chests erupted, men toppled and collapsed.

A Russian hurled a projectile across his fallen comrades.

"Grenade," shouted Stone.

He slammed the door and dived for cover.

The explosion was deafening. The metal door blew off its hinges and was flung across the communications room.

"There's another way out," shouted Olson.

"Take Cali and get clear."

Stone crawled toward the blasted doorway. The room was thick with choking smoke and a burning stench. He looked around, trying to locate the source of the smell.

"The generator," he whispered.

The room was on fire. Flames licked and climbed the walls and ceiling. This was a fight he would have to run from ... _just not yet._

He cocked his pistol and prepared to open fire. Olson emerged through the swirling smoke and handed him an assault rifle.

"You'll have more luck with this," he said.

Stone saw the man was clutching his stomach with his right hand, blood pulsing between trembling fingers.

"Get Cali to patch you up."

"No time," said Olson.

Palmer spun into the room, shouting. The Russians had taken the corner of the building.

"We have to go," he said.

Stone refused to budge. He turned to Olson. "Get them out of here. I'll hold off the Russians long enough."

Olson nodded and waved his left arm toward a side room where Cali was crouched behind an upturned bunk.

"Stone," she shouted. "Come on, we'll get her another time."

He ignored her and rapidly checked his surroundings. The door to the roof was blocked with scattered desks and he could hear the Russians hammering to get in. In a minute or two they would retreat back onto the roof and toss down grenades and his defiance would be over. Men were scaling the corner lookout post where Palmer had been. In a minute or two _they_ would be inside the communications room.

But Stone didn't need a minute or even two. It would only take a second to drill a bullet through Pavla's head...

He pushed the stock of the rifle into his shoulder, took a deep breath and held it.

The Russians came hurtling up the stairs for a second assault, weapons raised.

Stone licked his lips. His dark eyes narrowed.

He came into view firing and didn't stop until the clip was empty. Bullets speared into them and blood erupted. They kept coming and he kept firing. The bodies piled on the stairs and then for a moment there was a deadly silence.

Suddenly, the shrill blast of whistles filled the air.

Wardens!

Smoke billowed around him as the fire continued to spread. He panted beneath his face scarf. The Russians were no longer trying to break down the door behind him and had retreated onto the roof – they had to be preparing to toss in grenades.

Cali was shouting at him and Palmer was reloading his weapon and Olson had opened a concealed trapdoor to reveal a metal ladder dropping down into another building.

The whistles grew louder and closer.

Stone discarded the empty rifle, drew his pistol and peered round the doorway.

The stairs were littered with dead men, walls splashed with blood.

She was at the bottom of the stairs, gun in hand, surveying the carnage. He could see her more clearly now; lean and athletic, five-feet nine, all in black, face cold and narrow and pointed, scarred from scalp to cheekbone. Stone would never forget that face. He would never stop hearing the death rattle of her assault rifle. He would never stop seeing Nuria's bloodied body tossed against him.

Pavla was issuing orders to her remaining men and then she sensed him and looked up and saw the muzzle of a pistol aimed at her.

Her brown eyes burned.

Stone pushed his finger to the trigger.

But then a silenced shot whipped across his line of vision and he spun round as a Russian appeared at the lookout post. Stone planted two bullets in the man's skull.

Getting to his feet, Stone saw a second Russian climb into the lookout post, this one armed with a shotgun. He took a fleeting glance down the stairwell and saw that Pavla had retreated.

Fuck!

Angrily, he opened fire, taking out the shotgun carrying Russian. All around, the whistles continued to blast.

Darting forward, grimacing from sharp pains in his leg wound, Stone scooped up the weapon. He rushed the lookout post and saw the Russians below were pulling back as the wardens closed in on the area. It was a moment that would save his life as another explosion hit the communications room.

He was sheltered from the blast but threw himself down as the air filled with flying bits of brick and plaster. He scrambled to his feet and burst into the room firing. The shotgun boomed and he rapidly pumped the slider as he moved sideways through the smoke-filled room.

But he saw the doorway to the roof was empty. The Russians had blown it but not continued with the attack. They were in full retreat.

Tossing the empty shotgun, Stone headed for the trapdoor and dropped through it into darkness.

NINE

Stone moved silently through dust-filled rooms.

There were doorways with no doors, walls half-collapsed, ceilings pitted and with gaping holes here and there. He guessed he was moving through a row of abandoned tenements, further and further from the safe house.

Reaching a dead-end, he crashed through a boarded-up doorway onto a street that was rain-swept and deserted.

The asphalt was riddled with jagged cracks and water-filled holes. Streaks of white moonlight glistened in the puddles, disturbed only by the wind. Trees grew randomly, branches drooping and bending. Shops with rusted and faded signs were empty shells, not even boarded up. Further down the street stood rows of tenement blocks, occupied, lights flickering behind shutters.

Taking shelter in a dark porch, the stench of piss filling his nostrils, Stone reloaded his pistol.

Then he started walking, looking for the others.

Smoke poured from the safe house as the flames consumed years of covert work.

There were people on the streets, citizens drawn out into the rain and dark to watch the building burn, and Stone moved amongst them, head ducked, the rim of his fedora concealing his eyes.

Ahead, a group of wardens had formed a cordon around a body lying face down in a pool of blood. The crowd swelled. Stone hid within the numbers. The wardens were angry. They glared at the citizens, holstered their pistols and drew batons.

Stone could taste the tension. He looked down at the body for a second time and saw the blood-spattered uniform of green.

One of their own had been killed...

Instinct kicked in. He knew what was coming. Licking his lips, he moved through the uneasy crowd, bumping shoulders and shoving people aside. _Any second now it was going to get uglier..._

A whistle blew and the wardens surged. There was shouting and screaming as batons were swung and people were beaten. Stone glanced over his shoulder and saw dozens of civilians running away but just as many were still standing, determined to fight.

He was about to turn a corner when he spotted Olson signal to him from a narrow alleyway.

Hurriedly, he made his way across the street. The bearded man was propped against a brick wall, covered in blood.

"We have to get out of here," he said, gasping for air.

"Where's Cali and Palmer?"

"They took her... I saw it all... it was the Russian... she didn't..."

"The Russians took her?"

"Not the Russians... the wardens... the wardens have her."

Stone growled. "What happened?"

"We got onto the street... a warden came up on us, covered us with a shotgun, just a girl... then..."

"Then?"

Olson started coughing. He spat blood and his face crumpled with pain. Stone lifted the man off the ground.

"We need a new safe house," he said.

Draping Olson over his shoulder, he jogged along the alleyway.

"Jenny," said Olson. Tears rolled from his eyes. "I want to go home and see my little girl."

Stone could feel his shoulder soak with blood. "You'll see her again," he lied.

He reached the end of the alleyway, breathing hard. A group of men came running past, one of them holding a revolver. There was a sharp whistle and several wardens came chasing after them.

"No noise," said Stone. He carefully placed Olson on the ground. The bearded man grimaced.

"Please don't leave me... please."

Stone clamped his hand over Olson's trembling mouth and whipped out his pistol.

"Keep quiet," he said.

He placed his finger on the trigger and waited in the darkness.

The men fled toward a dirt yard and disappeared into a crumbling block. The wardens closed on them, drawing level with the alleyway. Stone held his breath, gun raised, ready to open fire the moment they looked his way. He had no respect for the green uniform. And no fear of it. _Change the name, change the past._ People had been beaten for no reason. He guessed the name had changed but...

They went by, without a glance in his direction, and warily approached the block, slowly fanning out.

Stone wondered how many there were in the city. He wondered what weapons they had at their disposal and if he would have to kill them all to get Cali back.

Olson grabbed him. "Stone..."

"Yeah," he said. "I hear them."

He glanced back along the alleyway and saw the outline of two wardens moving in their direction.

Scooping Olson off the ground, he carried him onto the street. Gunshots boomed but they were not being directed at him. There were muzzle flashes from the block. The wardens were pinned down. One of them yelled into a handheld radio for extra officers. The wardens in the alleyway started running.

"Stone," gasped Olson.

A strip of light appeared ahead as a door cracked open.

Stone pointed his gun.

"You need to get off the street, mister," said a woman. "Hurry, before the wardens catch you."

* * *

The six-story building was on the corner of the southern district, standing beside the river, locked up for the night.

A sign hung over its shuttered front doors.

JUNKERS. We buy! We sell! We trade!

There was no buying or selling at this hour. No staff. No customers. No haggling over prices or arguing about deals.

But on the floors above, in square-shaped rooms with blackened windows, where lamps burnt and cigarettes were smoked and coffee drank, men and women continued to work long into the night and the work had nothing to do with the trade and sale of mysterious first-world junk for a handful of coins.

This was the dirty war and the master of it, Vadik Babkin, wondered why he had been instructed to oversee such a poorly-organised and poorly-executed attack earlier in the evening.

He lit a cigarette, sucked hard and held the smoke in for a long time before letting a few wisps escape.

"Well, these won't get to kill me now. She will."

"You have nothing to worry about," said Dimitri Sokolov. "I have assured her there was an error in communication, nothing more."

"Did she believe you?"

"Yes."

"Then why is our meeting on the roof, Dimitri? You know what we use the roof for, yes?"

"You worry too much, my friend."

Babkin offered him a sour smile, revealing discoloured teeth. He was a dishevelled man in his forties. His clothes were rumpled. His shoes were battered. He had a bald patch half-concealed with thinning brown hair.

Rubbing his unshaven jaw with a nicotine-stained hand, he took another long drag of his cigarette.

"I didn't give the order. It was a clumsy attempt to grab Palmer and his companions. All it achieved was to alert them to our presence here in the city. And the information was incorrect. There were only three, not four. And one of them, this man, Stone, was extremely dangerous."

"I've told you, Vadik," said Sokolov, his voice relaxed. "It was a mistake. Nothing more than that."

His companion was standing at the door. He was the polar opposite of Babkin in every possible way; pressed clothing, neatly-trimmed beard, polished shoes.

"Let us walk, Vadik."

The office-lined corridors above the junk shop were busy. The click and hum of machinery and voices drifted from behind closed doors.

Sokolov marched, Babkin shuffled, wreathed in a cloud of smoke.

"I did not agree with the attack on the safe house, Vadik. But she outranks us both. We are captains. She is a major. But she does not understand Atlanta. The wardens will shut down the city. This will damage our operations for weeks to come."

"I've spent a year trying to find that safe house," said Babkin. He lit a cigarette with the dying end of his current one. "She came across that information in a matter of hours."

"Yes," said Sokolov. "Yes, she did. How do you explain that?"

The two men stopped at the foot of a staircase. Hanging lamps cast shadows.

"She has an insider," said Babkin.

"I agree. One of the United Republicans is betraying his or her own kind. I wish we had the identity of this individual."

They climbed the stairs in silence. The door to the roof was closed. There was no handle, only a metal push bar.

Sokolov reached for it. Babkin looked at his cigarette. "This will be my last. You know she will kill me."

On the roof was a helicopter gunship, covered with tarpaulin. There were power lights and several armed men on duty.

Pavla stood on the edge of the shelter. Lean and athletic. Black clothing. A black cap over her cropped hair, legs parted, hands clasped behind her back. Even from this distance Babkin could see her side holster was empty.

"Don't let her murder me, Dimitri," said Babkin. "Please, think of all we have been through together."

"This will not happen, my friend. I trust her."

Rain-soaked gravel crunched beneath their shoes as they walked slowly across the roof.

"Do you know the Americans refer to the past as the Before?" said Sokolov.

"What? Yes, I've heard that."

"They blame us for ending the Before. They teach their children that we fired the death missiles and broke the world."

"I know."

"And we teach our children that _they_ fired the death missiles, slaughtering millions of our ancestors."

"I know, I know," said Babkin, impatient with his friend. "Why are you telling me what I know?"

"But that's it," said Sokolov.

He stopped. The heavy rain darkened his immaculate clothing.

"You don't know, Vadik. Nor do our teachers. Nor do their teachers. _We don't know who fired the missiles and never will._ "

Pavla watched the two men.

"Which means we are both guilty and both innocent," said Sokolov. "This means we are the same and not the same."

Babkin frowned. "You are talking in riddles."

"No, I am talking in reality. There is no end to this war, my friend. It has lasted for hundreds of years and it will never finish. But I will not lose you. I must protect you from her."

"You said you trusted her."

"Look at her, Vadik. She is a killer. Her weapon is drawn. She will execute you for that botched kidnap attempt and your body will be in the water in seconds."

Babkin reached for a fresh cigarette. Sokolov placed a hand on his friend's arm.

"Information is power, you know this. She has it. You have it. Tell her your secrets. Reveal the names of the American traitors inside New Washington and she will know how important you are."

Sokolov began walking. Babkin trailed a few steps behind him, wiping the sweat from his brow.

"I cannot expose them to anyone," he said.

"Then I cannot protect you, my friend. I cannot halt an assassination attempt on you."

"But..."

"Tell me the names, Vadik, and I can protect you. Who are the New Washington traitors that have been feeding us information? Who betrayed the mission of Jeremiah Cartwright?"

Babkin reached the edge of the shelter. He stared at Pavla. She was dead-eyed and without movement.

_This is the end_...

His stomach somersaulted. His boots stuttered.

"I didn't..." he began.

She moved quickly, in the blink of an eye, widening her stance, bringing up both arms.

Babkin saw the pistol in her gloved hands, the silencer fixed to the muzzle.

Her finger squeezed the trigger, twice.

He stared, mouth hanging open, as his friend, Dimitri, fell to the ground, two holes in his face.

Pavla walked toward him, the gun loose in her right hand.

"He wanted the names of the traitors inside New Washington, yes?"

Babkin looked down at his oldest friend.

"Sokolov was a traitor." She unscrewed the silencer, pocketed it. "We have been aware of him for some time."

Holstering her pistol, she walked forward, mouth clenched.

"I never knew Dimitri had betrayed us," said Babkin. "He hinted you were going to execute me because of the botched ambush earlier."

"I did not authorise the ambush. Sokolov lied to you. I had no need to ambush them. I already knew their movements. The ambush was a ploy. It was meant to fail. It was a message, a warning for Stone that we knew they were in the city. A handful of street thugs would be no match for him. Come with me, Babkin."

Lighting a fresh cigarette, his stained fingers no longer trembling, Babkin followed her beneath the shelter.

Pavla watched him stare at the helicopter. "Impressive, isn't she?" she said.

Babkin nodded, saying nothing.

She barked at two of her men and they rushed across the roof to dispose of the body of Sokolov. Babkin watched with pain in his eyes as heavy weights were secured to his dead friend and his body carried toward a large circular metal vent that ran from the roof of the building to the ground floor, curving at the bottom and disappearing beneath the waterline.

Babkin swallowed hard as Sokolov's body was thrust into the vent. "What is our next move?" he asked.

"The safe house has been destroyed. I have the American weapon. Their mission is over. The United Republic will not rise from the ashes of North America."

A tall black man appeared from the shadows, a satchel hanging from his shoulder.

"You!" said Babkin. "This was the man who chased me on the street earlier."

"This is one of the men who have been helping us. He told us when the weapon was coming into Atlanta and gave us the location of the safe house. Vadik Babkin, meet Captain Palmer of the United Republican Army. Captain Palmer, this is Vadik Babkin, Russian Intelligence."

Palmer snorted. "Russian Intelligence? You like look shit." He shook his head and unclasped the satchel. "It doesn't matter to me. We're done with you people now. We kept our word."

"You did," said Pavla. "It was fortunate you revealed your true identity in Silver Road. I might have killed you otherwise."

"Yeah, keep believing that. You and all these motherfuckers don't scare me a bit. Take this rag and get rid of it, like we agreed, and initiate the prison release from your slave camps. But understand there can be no public burning. That was the deal we made. You destroy the flag secretly. Yeah?"

Pavla watched his expression change as he reached into the satchel. "What is it, Palmer?"

"That little bitch," he said. "How did she do that?"

Babkin dragged nervously on his cigarette. Several armed men wandered over, taking assault rifles from their shoulders.

"Look," shouted Palmer, pulling an old coat from the satchel. "Look." He threw it on the ground.

"Is this a joke?" said Pavla, her right hand wandering to her pistol. "Do you think you can make fools of us, Palmer?"

"Stone figured it out. He must have got Cali to switch the flag. They still have it."

Pavla turned from him. He started to speak but she raised her hand and Palmer fell silent. He looked around the roof, counting seven men. He didn't like these odds. He licked his lips, waited.

Babkin smoked, remaining silent.

Pavla walked toward the helicopter and placed a hand against it.

"At dawn we hunt Stone and take the flag." She stared at them "This time we end him and his mission once and for all."

TEN

"I'm a nurse," said the woman. "I can help."

She was in her fifties, short and lean with heavily-wrinkled pale brown skin. Her hair was mostly grey and wrapped inside a faded head scarf. Her clothes were simple; shapeless trousers and a loose-fitting shirt with the sleeves folded to the elbow. There was a burn on her left forearm.

"Your friend is losing a lot of blood, mister."

Her eyes were hazel-coloured, calm despite the escalating trouble outside. _Maybe this is a regular night for Atlanta, thought Stone._

He was short on options and Olson was fading fast. The city streets were crawling with wardens after the safe house attack and this woman was offering refuge. As if reading his mind, Olson grabbed Stone tightly. "We need help. I can't make it. I want to see Jenny... _please!_ "

Warily, Stone carried him into the building.

"Put him on the sofa," said the woman. "Quickly."

The room was small with only a few pieces of furniture; a table with food-stained plates and empty mugs, a few chairs, a scarred wooden unit lined with candles.

The woman called into another room. "Jorge, wash the blood away."

Jorge emerged from a back room where more candles burned and the smell of spices wafted. He was stocky and black-haired with pale brown skin and clearly the woman's son. He nodded at Stone and bustled onto the street with a bucket of water in one hand and a scrubbing brush in the other.

Olson cried out as Stone lay him on the sofa. The woman knelt beside him and wiped his face with a damp cloth.

"I'm Mischa," she said. "I will help you." She glanced at Stone. "You are covered in blood. Take off your shirt. Jorge will find you a fresh one."

Jorge came back into the house. The water in the bucket was red. Mischa told her son to fetch her medical bag and a clean shirt. The boy closed the front door of the house and rushed into the back room. Stone tucked his pistol into his waistband and looked down at his shirt. It was soaked with blood. He took it off and then loosened the shoulder holster so he could remove his blood-soaked undershirt.

"Thank you," said Olson. "Thank you, thank you."

He was grimacing as he forced the words out. The bleeding on his face had slowed but the wound across his stomach was leaking heavily.

"Save your strength," said Mischa. "You will be OK."

She has the voice of a nurse, thought Stone, and the lies they have to tell.

Jorge came back into the room with a fresh shirt in one hand and a black satchel in the other.

"Here," he said, speaking for the first time. He placed the shirt on the table, next to Stone's shoulder holster.

"Not many would've taken us in," said Olson.

"There are still good souls in Atlanta," said Jorge.

Stone heard it in his voice; not nerves, but not the truth, either, and he knew, in that sickening moment, that the house was a trap.

A blade glinted in the candlelight as Mischa pulled a hatchet from the satchel with her left hand. She pressed the edge of the weapon against Olson's throat and snapped out her right hand, aiming a hand-crossbow at Stone.

Stone was fast but he had only half drawn his pistol when Jorge jammed a sawn-off shotgun against his head.

"Don't even blink, motherfucker," he said.

"Take his gun," said Mischa. "Watch him, Jorge. That's one mean looking son of a bitch."

Stone was caught between the two of them; crossbow in one direction, shotgun in the other and Olson with a hatchet at his throat.

Jorge reached with his left hand. Stone saw he wasn't shaking. The kid had done this a hundred times before.

Stone didn't budge. His pistol was taken and tossed on the table.

"A bastard like him will have more weapons," said Mischa. Her finger was taut on the trigger of the crossbow. "Search him."

Stone stood shirtless. His hard torso was covered in scars. Symbols were branded on one forearm. But it was obvious he was concealing no other weapons on the upper half of his body.

Jorge stayed behind him and began to lower at the knees as he patted down Stone's trousers. The shotgun was tilted but still too close for Stone to make a move. The boy quickly found his knife, strapped inside his boot.

"Now you are defenceless," said Mischa.

Stone said nothing.

She got to her feet, lifting the hatchet away from Olson but keeping the crossbow on Stone.

"Jorge," she said, her hazel eyes never leaving Stone. "Check his pack. Then fetch the wardens. They will pay a lot for a man like this."

Jorge moved to the table, right hand holding the swan-off, left hand reaching for the buckles on Stone's pack.

"Why do you people come here?" said Mischa. "You strangers wander into our city and do nothing but violence. Guns, explosions; you people make things worse. And now look at you. Nothing without your weapons."

"What the fuck is this?" said Jorge. He was pulling at the flag. "Mama, take a look at this thing."

Mischa flicked her gaze for a split-second and that was all Stone needed...

He moved, lightning fast, a skill honed over years and years of fighting and killing and putting men and women in the dirt. He attacked the hatchet, grabbing it quickly with his right hand whilst his left hit the crossbow, pushing it upward. Mischa fired and the bolt thudded into the ceiling. Stone rammed her with an elbow, spun round and threw the hatchet.

Jorge screamed as it struck him in the chest. He lost his balance and crashed into the table.

Stone threw a kick and sent him spinning and twisting. Mischa whipped a knife from her bag and stabbed at Stone. With his right hand flat, Stone chopped her in the throat, twice. She slammed into the wall and the blade slipped from her hand.

Jorge was back on his feet, staggering. He prised the hatchet from his chest, tears streaming from his eyes, blood gushing from the brutal wound, and came forward swinging it wildly.

The boy was near-delirious. Stone lunged for him, grabbing his arm and slamming it against the wall. The hatchet dropped. He threw the young man onto the floor and stamped repeatedly on his head, reducing it to a bloody mess.

Breathing hard, splashed in blood, Stone stepped over Jorge's body, his shadow rising along the wall.

"Don't kill me," said Mischa. "I have coin, food, information and..."

"How can I kill you?" said Stone. His eyes narrowed. "I'm defenceless."

Without expression, he drew her body against his and pinned her. Then he clamped his right hand over her mouth and nose.

She wriggled.

She kicked.

She stamped and elbowed and fought to get free.

But Stone's eyes were empty.

Her body went limp and he let her drop.

Taking his pistol, he went into the back room and saw it was a poky kitchen. There was another room with two bunks and a handful of junk in an open chest, no doubt possessions from previous victims.

He went to check on Olson. The man's eyes were closed. Stone prodded him with his boot.

"You need to tell me what happened to Cali before you die."

Bleary eyes stared back at him. "You killed them both."

Stone said nothing.

"You could've... you... I can't believe you killed them."

"They knew how it would end if they trapped the wrong one."

Olson coughed blood. "Is there any water?"

Stone took a canteen from his pack and helped the man drink.

"Talk," he said. "You don't have long."

"A Russian killed the warden," said Olson. He was wheezing as his lungs filled with blood. "Cali tried to shoot him only he ran. It happened so fast..."

"What was Palmer doing when this was happening?"

"Cali tried to give me the satchel but Palmer took it and ran. He has the flag."

"Palmer took nothing," said Stone. He opened his pack and showed Olson the flag inside. "I told Cali to switch the flag with me before the Russians attacked. I didn't trust him and I think he gave them the location of the safe house. Is he Russian?"

"No," said Olson.

"Why is he pretending he wants to find the flag for New Washington?"

"You don't understand New Washington. It's not like Atlanta. People are safe there. But some people are afraid of change and responsibility... they don't want the United Republic... they want to remain isolated... _I should've stayed with Jenny_..."

Stone gripped the man's shoulder. "You have my word you won't die for nothing. They'll be brutal payback on all these bastards."

Olson choked. "You're a good man."

Stone said nothing.

"You have to be careful in New Washington." Olson gritted his teeth. "There is a shadow organisation... with their own agenda... politicians, military, business... they are known as _Division 29_. They don't want the flag or the Republic."

"So Palmer is one of them."

"He must be... _he must be_..."

"This is why he came south. It wasn't to aid Jeremiah and his rangers. It was to make sure that flag stayed in the past."

He nodded to himself.

"Where did the wardens take Cali?" he asked.

"The precinct house... south district... south... the docks..."

"What will they do to her if they think she's killed one of their own?"

Olson was silent.

Stone waited.

No answer.

"Don't worry," he said, closing the man's staring eyes. "I know someone I can ask."

ELEVEN

The door crashed open.

Stone burst into the apartment, pistol drawn, and moved through the darkness. He rushed from room to room until he reached the bedroom.

A shape was halfway out of the bed.

"Keep still or you die," he said.

"What do you want?" said a woman's voice.

Stone hesitated. He'd been expecting a man's voice. _Was this the wrong apartment? Or had the information he'd paid for been false?_

Narrowing his eyes, he spotted the outline of a lamp.

"Light it," he said.

She did, clumsily knocking over an ashtray and an empty bottle. The yellow glow illuminated her. She was naked, her white skin covered with tattoos – arms, legs and stomach, even the sloping tops of her breasts. She had dark hair, long and tangled and damp with sweat.

Her eyes faced his gun with nonchalance. She placed her hands on her curved hips, jutted out her chin.

"What?" she said.

"Who are you?"

"Angel," she replied. "Who the fuck are you?"

"I'm looking for Ricardo Garcia. A guy on the street told me he lives here."

"He went out when the shooting started. Do you mind if I get dressed?"

She scooped her clothes off the floor, tossed them on the bed and hesitated.

"You see something you like? I cost but I'm worth it. You can keep the gun on me if that's your thing, man."

Stone said nothing and tucked his pistol into his waistband.

He went onto the street and walked quickly down the rain-slick sidewalks. He was angry at the waste of time. His plan was a simple one. He would grab the Garcia boy and keep him hostage until his sister, Antonia, freed Cali. If she failed to comply she would lose her brother.

Despite the rain and the wind, there were enough people out and about for him to blend in. He was another citizen, a regular man. His clothes were stolen but clean; an unbuttoned shirt over an undershirt, dark trousers and new boots, all taken from the house that had belonged to Mischa and Jorge.

He spotted the Garcia boy close to the burnt-out safe house. He was talking with a bystander, a tall black man with a bandaged head. He was scribbling into a notepad as the tall man told a highly-animated story.

Stone hung back in a darkened doorway and brooded, his thoughts awash with the faces of those he'd lost and those he might still lose.

Footsteps suddenly echoed along the sidewalk.

He waited until Ricardo was level and then lunged, grabbing the young man and dragging him into the doorway.

Ricardo gasped. "I don't have any money. Please, I..." He stopped, recognition in his eyes. "Stone?" A broad smile lit his face. "The man who killed Ko-Lin. I'd like to interview you about..."

"I need to talk to your sister," said Stone. "Where is she?"

"Antonia? I don't know."

Stone took a step toward him. "It's important."

"I have a radio that I can reach her on," said Ricardo. "What's this about?"

"Contact her. Do it now."

"OK, OK," said Ricardo. "There's no need to come down heavy on me. I haven't done anything to you."

Shrugging, he took out the radio.

"Tell her you need to meet," said Stone. "Tell her it has to be tonight and it has to be right now. And don't mention me."

Ricardo hesitated. "What's this about?" he asked, for the second time.

"Just do as you're told, boy."

"No."

Stone knew the boy wasn't a fighter and he didn't want to hurt him but the wardens had Cali and there was no time for this fake bravado. He thrust out his right hand and grabbed Ricardo in the crotch. The young man squeaked.

"Contact your sister," said Stone. "And I'll make sure to leave enough of this for your friend, Angel. OK?"

Ricardo nodded.

"Please let go," he whispered.

"OK?"

"Yes, yes," he said. "I'll do it."

He switched on the radio. There was a hiss of static. Stone released him.

"You are a badass," he said. "Antonia said..."

"What did she say?"

"Nothing," said Ricardo. "Nothing bad, anyway."

He twisted a few dials and spoke. Antonia answered with bursts of static breaking up her words. Stone could make out most of what she was saying and was surprised by how comforted he felt hearing her voice. She had a warm but agitated tone. It was the same when she'd spoken to him on the transport barge. He liked that about her.

You need someone who can listen to all that crazy shit in your head, someone you can, you know, do the nasty with...

You're a man, right? You got needs...

"I'm in Lugar Segura," said Antonia. There was a crackle of static. "I'll be back in the city in one hour."

Ricardo thanked her and switched off the radio.

"Can I go now? I have a story to write up for the Journal. We print twice a week and with the..."

"You're not going anywhere," said Stone.

Ricardo looked at him. "Are you... are you taking me hostage?"

Stone clamped a hand on the young man's shoulder. "I wouldn't call it that. But then I'm not good with fancy words."

* * *

Rain drilled the docks. Moored boats creaked and rattled. Out on the black waters, the warden gunboat patrolled, its searchlight sweeping the nearby bars and diners, open late into the night, voices and laughter spiking the darkness.

Ricardo pointed across the quay. "That's the precinct house," he said.

The grey building stood apart, streaked with rain. Its windows were barred, lights glowing behind them. There was a chain-link fence topped with razor-wire and towers with lights and a solitary gate with a gatehouse and armed wardens. Beyond the fence, a row of jeeps fitted with heavy machine guns were parked on an asphalt lot.

Stone rubbed his jaw, leathery palm scraping his beard. He narrowed his eyes and twisted his mouth.

He hoped his plan would work because if it didn't then the alternative wasn't an easy one.

"Where are you going?" asked Ricardo. "I told Antonia to meet us here."

"We'll be close by."

"A bar," said Ricardo. "Now that's my scene. You'll have no problem with me, I can promise you."

Stone gripped the young man by the elbow and steered him across the street to a row of quiet looking buildings. Only one of them showed lights.

"Here? No, no. Please, not here. The bars in Atlanta are..."

Stone looked up at the wooden cross over the doorway. "I don't trust these places, either, but it has a good view of the docks."

A man looked up as the door hissed shut behind them. He was in his fifties with light brown skin, a bald head and protruding ears. He wore black with the white collar at the throat that Stone had seen before.

Maybe a bar _would've_ been a better idea...

He started toward them. "Good evening, I'm Father Milan. Welcome to the Church of Saint Anthony. Are you here...?"

"Fuck off," said Stone.

The man did not recoil at the blunt words. He resided in a deprived part of the city with crime, a lack of education, limited hope, poor sanitation and gangs that thrived on corners, creating epidemics. Harsh words were of little concern.

He spoke kindly. "What's troubling you?"

Stone slowly turned his head. His eyes glared from beneath the rim of his fedora.

"Fuck off, holy man."

Milan was unperturbed. "I'm here if you need me." He looked past Stone. "Good evening, Ricardo."

"Good evening, Father."

"It's good to see you again. It has been too long for you and your sister. How is Antonia?"

"Busy, work, you know how it is."

"I understand. And you?"

"The same." Ricardo nodded, meekly. "Busy, work."

"Yes," said Father Milan. He looked between both men. "You are welcome here as long as you like."

The bald man retreated to the back of the church.

"There was no need to treat him like that," said Ricardo.

"You don't know what these people are capable of," said Stone.

He bristled with anger and something bordering on fear. Not so long ago he'd been on the wrong end of organised religion. The world, for him, was calmer without the cross overshadowing it; a man could draw back his shoulders, be free. These people and their customs of prayer and obedience unsettled him.

The interior was hung with crosses and there was a cloth-draped altar with more crosses and candles but the building itself did not resemble the churches he'd seen in Ennpithia. Those places had stood for centuries. This one had been converted from a first-world store. Maybe it had once sold clothing or drink or books or those curious plastic devices that littered the ruins of this world, an item useful only as a hand-thrown projectile.

Stone went to the window. He had a perfect line of sight to the docks.

Ricardo sat on a metal folding chair and washed his hands over his face.

Father Milan busied himself at the rear of the building, shuffling papers. Ricardo yawned, licked his lips and stretched out his legs.

A solemn silence descended, interrupted by only the weather.

Stone continued to watch and wait; waiting was something he was adept at. But not Ricardo.

The young man quickly grew restless and the only way he knew how to fill the void was to talk.

"Were you involved in that massacre tonight?" he asked.

Stone said nothing.

"The wardens have been unable to identity any of the dead men. They don't appear to be regular citizens."

Nothing.

Ricardo turned in his chair. "Why did you come to Atlanta, Stone? We get drifters from time to time but none like you."

Nothing.

"There _is_ something different about you. Antonia spotted it. I can see it, too. You _are_ different."

Nothing.

"Fine, ignore me." Ricardo glanced at the ceiling, sighed. "I've more of a chance of conversation with Him up there than you."

Stone couldn't help but smile.

Moving from the window, he began to walk around the building, his boots leaving wet prints.

He spotted two booths along the left hand wall with closed doors.

"What are these for?" he said.

Father Milan looked up but it was Ricardo who answered.

"Confession," said the young man.

Stone tugged open the left hand door. There was a wooden stool inside and a closed grill in the right hand wall.

"That's where you sit," said Ricardo. He chuckled. "Sit there and confess all the evils of your life to Father Milan."

The black-clothed man rushed across the church as Stone reached for the second door.

"Can I help you, my son?"

The door was locked.

"I don't think so," said Stone. He shrugged, already losing interest. Ricardo was grinning at him.

"I'm thinking you'd need a few days to get all your sins out."

He's like Antonia, thought Stone. If she's the rock then he's the calm water that flows round it. And he's nothing to do with any of this...

Stone took up his position at the window.

Are you really going to kill him if Antonia doesn't bust Cali free?

Of course I am...

Would Nuria want that?

She's dead. She doesn't get a say.

But do you want that?

I don't care.

Do you kill the innocent now?

I've killed innocents to save innocents. Why should one more matter? Antonia gets Cali out of the warden precinct or I murder her brother.

Stone cleared his throat. "You're a reporter, right?"

"That's right."

"You can read and write."

"Yes."

"That's a good thing."

"Can you read?"

"I can read."

"That's a rarity," said Ricardo. "When this is over, I'd like to give you a copy of our newspaper. You can take it with you. It might be of interest."

Stone said nothing.

"Normally, I don't give away copies. We have to charge for them. I'm making an exception with you. You'll benefit from it."

"You charge people to read?"

"There's nothing free in this world, Stone."

"Dying is free."

Ricardo coughed. "I suppose it is."

"Why do you do it?" asked Stone.

"What an odd question! I want people to be informed, to carry knowledge, the way it was in the past when information was at the push of a button."

Stone frowned, looking confused.

"The Journal has two full-time reporters and now a cartoonist. Do you know what a cartoonist is? They draw pictures with jokes."

"Why?"

"To make people laugh."

Stone grunted.

"Paper and ink is a huge challenge, though the Administration has given us a man who works miracles. But the greater challenge, beyond materials, production and delivery, is that most of the people in Atlanta cannot read. Children become adults in the blink of an eye. We have schools but education is focused on developing manual skills such as construction and repair rather than struggling with printed words from a time no one remembers or can even understand. People question why I waste my time with the Journal. _I even question it, too._ But I have to make a difference in this world, like the reporters of the Before; they sought the truth, even during the most desperate of times. I have to do this. It's in my blood. I cannot go through life being..."

"... the same as everyone else."

"Then you do understand."

"I understand a lot of things."

Stone peered through the rain-smeared window. The gunboat cruised by the docks. There was still no sign of Antonia.

"Go home," he said.

"What?"

"You heard me."

"But I'm your hostage. I'm not stupid. I know your friend was arrested tonight for killing a warden and if Antonia doesn't get her out of the precinct you're going to put a bullet in ..."

Stone whirled. "Cali didn't kill any warden. It was the Russians. Now go home. I won't tell you again."

Ricardo pushed back his chair and got to his feet. Father Milan held his gaze on the two men.

"The Russians?" There was a sparkle in his eye. "Why don't we go for a smoke and a chat? You can tell me all about these Russians."

Stone nodded. "I could do with some air."

As they stepped from the building, a girl came out of the gloom. She looked about sixteen. Her face was flushed. She wore a short jacket, zipped up. It rode up over the waistband of her dark red trousers, exposing a thin band of olive skin. She brushed by them and ducked into the church.

The door closed behind her.

Ricardo lit a joint. "Now this is _proper_ dope. Much better than the shit you get on the streets. I have a connection." He handed it to Stone. "What do you think?"

Stone dragged on it. "I think there are men who deserve to die and you're not one of them, Ricardo. Go home and keep Angel warm."

"No, I'm staying." He took back the joint. "I want to hear about the Russians."

TWELVE

The airboat skimmed out of the blackness, engine droning, large propeller whining as it spun furiously. The warden gunboat, patrolling the docks, fanned a searchlight over the small craft, illuminating Antonia on an elevated seat, one hand on the control stick. She signalled to them with her free hand and the searchlight swept away.

Switching off the engine, she moored the airboat and leapt onto the dock, her face twisted in annoyance. She wore boots and trousers with an unbuttoned pale green shirt over a T-shirt. Her stomach was flat. She was damp from the rain.

Stone watched her, thinking how beautiful she looked in moonlight.

She marched toward her brother. "What is it? Why did you call me back?"

He hugged her but she pushed him away. "You stink of dope and sex."

"You could do with some of both," he said, laughing, and then he cut his laughter short as Stone emerged from the shadows, rain trickling off the rim of his hat.

"What's he doing here?" she said.

Ricardo glanced at Stone, took a deep breath and explained. Stone waited for her anger. It came lightning fast. There was no middle ground with her, he realised, and he liked that.

She whipped out her pistol and aimed it at his chest.

Stone didn't move.

She kept the gun on him, eyes furious.

"Don't ever threaten my family, you motherfucker. You never do that. Never, do you understand me?"

His scarred face glistened in the rain.

"He told me to go," said Ricardo. "I'm here because I want to be, Antonia. I know that was his plan but I doubt he was ever going to go through with it."

"He's a fighting man," said Antonia. "Men like that are capable of anything."

"A warden was shot and killed," said Ricardo. "Stone's friend, Cali, was wrongly arrested." He dug out his notepad. "I have witness statements claiming she fired at the man who shot your officer. She's innocent; wrong place, wrong time."

"My job is to keep you safe, Ricardo. It was a promise I made to our father."

"He was too gone to know," said Ricardo.

"Shut up, baby brother." She turned back to Stone. "I was taught to enforce the law in this city. Then I learned how to bend it so I can still send trash to Starkville prison. Now and then I've had to break it and I'll break it with you if..."

"Are you done?" said Stone.

Antonia glared at him. "Don't ever hold my family hostage."

"He wasn't going to hurt me," said Ricardo.

"He isn't your new best friend, baby brother."

"Stop calling me that," said Ricardo. He turned to Stone. "You weren't going to hurt me, right?"

Stone looked at him, saying nothing. Antonia laughed, suddenly, and lowered her gun.

"I told you, Ricardo, he's a fighting man; fighting men are dangerous."

"I need your help," said Stone. "And if I don't get it I'm going to march into that building and sort the problem myself."

"There are over fifty wardens in there, Stone, and hundreds more on the streets. Are you going to kill them all?"

"Get Cali out of there and I won't have to."

"I'll see what's happening. If your friend is innocent I will put this right. Ricardo, you come with me and bring your notepad."

"I'm coming too," said Stone.

"No," said Antonia. "You wait out here. I wouldn't want you to kill all our wardens. Who would protect our city then?"

* * *

From the Church of Saint Anthony, Father Milan watched the three of them standing at the docks. He knew Antonia and Ricardo but the tall man, the brutish one, was new to the city; a mystery.

Stepping from the window, he walked slowly to where the sixteen year-old girl in the short jacket and dark red trousers was knelt at the altar, finishing her prayers.

She made the sign of the cross and rose, brushing dust from her knee. He held her at once. She was shaking in his arms. He kissed her cheek. Her skin was slick with fear.

"Father Milan," she said. Her voice was croaky. "I'm sorry," she stammered. "I was trying to help."

"Hush, Ingrid, hush, you're not in trouble."

"I am in trouble. You know I'm in trouble."

"I have put in a good word for you, Ingrid. You are our newest recruit. Mistakes can happen with new recruits."

Ingrid stared at the confessional booth.

"Is Fox here?"

"Yes."

"I'm scared, Father Milan. I went against..."

"Fox will explain everything, Ingrid. It will be OK. We will set you back on the right path."

Ingrid shook her head. "I wanted to help. That's all."

"Then explain your feelings to Fox. Be truthful, Ingrid. That is all the Lord asks of you."

"He does, doesn't he? He asks for truth."

Father Milan nodded.

"He does, child. And what we have undertaken is in his Truth. It is God's mission we strive to complete."

"I'm trying to do the right thing, Father Milan. You know that, right? I got it wrong, that's all."

Milan's smile widened.

"Talk to Fox."

Gingerly, she stepped into the left hand booth and closed the door.

* * *

There was no turning back now.

Ingrid sucked in her breath. She sat on the wooden stool and stared at the closed grilled panel.

Fidgeting, sweat trickling from her armpits, she waited. There was a scraping sound as the panel was drawn open.

"Why did you choose her, Ingrid?"

It was Fox, voice disguised.

She had never seen him but she had spoken to him many times through the grilled window.

She began to talk, the words tumbling from her mouth, a disjointed mess, trying to justify her actions, explaining about the tenement she lived in and how dangerous it was and how the wardens never came round to drive away the gangs. She told of her uncle and the ongoing feud with the Perez brothers over coin that had been borrowed and never repaid. She told of her work at the diner, where she had met the woman she had chosen and Fox listened, wordlessly, until Ingrid was exhausted.

Her head hung like a lead weight. She began to cry, softly.

"No more, Ingrid, no more."

There was a long silence. Ingrid wiped her tears.

"Are you going to punish me?"

"No, Ingrid, no."

Another silence.

"But you leave selection to the experienced members from now on. The work we undertake is unique. We have to ensure that we are not... _conned_... by undeserving souls. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, Fox."

"The mission is more important than our personal feelings. Do you understand that?"

"Yes, Fox."

"Have you told anyone of your membership?"

"No, Fox."

"Ingrid...?"

"I swear, I haven't told anyone. No one. I swear it."

More silence.

"Have you told your uncle?"

"Yes." She began to cry once more. "I wanted to make him happy. I wanted him to know I was doing God's work... I wanted him to be proud of me."

"You tell no one else, Ingrid. Secrecy is important. There are people who would stop God's work."

"I promise, Fox, I won't tell anyone else."

"Then you are forgiven, Ingrid. Now, I have an errand for you to run. Father Milan will provide you with the details."

* * *

The rain continued to fall.

Stone wondered how long it was until dawn. It had been a long day and an even longer night. His body needed a few hours rest and he was hungry, thirsty. He guessed Pavla and Palmer would strike back at dawn, with a vengeance, once they discovered they still didn't hold the flag and had sacrificed men for nothing in attacking the safe house. Stone would be ready for them with a volley of bullets.

It was then he saw the three of them emerge from the precinct house and his pulse raced. He got to his feet and rushed across the docks through the pouring rain, moving as fast as he could with his limp.

Cali looked at him and curled a smile. She'd been beaten.

"The charge has been dropped," said Antonia. "Two officers have been placed in holding cells for attacking her. They will be dealt with in the morning when Chief Jackson arrives."

"Bring them out here," said Stone. His hand drifted to his pistol. "I'll deal with them now."

"No," said Cali. She caught his arm. "Let her do her thing. I just wanna get out of here." She paused, lowered her voice. "Man, you were right about Palmer. He took the bait and grabbed that satchel the moment I was down. Lousy cocksucker! You see anything of Olsen?"

"Dead."

"For real?"

Stone nodded.

Ricardo cleared his throat. "I'm Ricardo Garcia," he said. "We met earlier when the transport barge was attacked."

He extended his hand toward Cali. She gripped it. "Yeah, I remember you, pretty boy."

"I know it's late and you must be tired but I'd like to interview..."

"Man, you stink of dope... and that's all good, you feel me?"

"I have a suggestion," said Antonia. "Cali, you can stay with my brother tonight and rest. Stone, we need to talk."

No one had any objections. As Ricardo and Cali prepared to leave, Stone reached into his pack and called to her.

"I got something for you," he said.

Her tired dark eyes lit up. Stone handed her the sawn off shotgun he'd taken from Jorge.

"Sweet," she said. She nodded and turned it over in her hands. "Man, you _know_ who I got in mind for this."

She tucked the weapon behind her, into her belt, and let her unbuttoned shirt fall loose over it.

THIRTEEN

"I got your friend out of a hole," said Antonia. "Now you're going to help me with a problem I have."

Stone waited.

"You saw the burnt out houses in Lugar Segura," she said.

He nodded.

"There is a maniac killing families. He dresses up in a monster costume and burns them alive."

They were still on the docks. Cali and Ricardo had gone.

"There isn't going to be an investigation because it happens in the wetlands and the Administration doesn't care about the people there."

"Why does the killer dress up?" asked Stone.

Antonia sighed. "Stories are passed down. You know how it is. When the Before ended the monsters appeared; deformed things altered by the weapons that were used in the conflict. They were known as the _Shraal._ My people suffered at their hands but eventually they died out, unable to reproduce, to continue their line."

She placed her hands on her hips.

"Atomic Mutants, Stone, one of the many gifts from the first-world."

"Why were these families targeted?"

She shook her head. "I don't know. There is no connection. Ordinary families. A husband and a wife, children as well."

"The Stoats?"

"No, I have mostly ruled them out. They like to torture victims, hack bits off them. This does not fit their pattern. Dead people cannot be stolen from."

"So I go back to the river community where the pirates want me dead?"

She patted his arm, her hand lingering for a second. "I think you can handle it. Here, take this."

She passed him a radio.

"I will put you in touch with a man named Deco. He is a good man and will help you. When you find something out, and I am confident you will, then contact me using the radio."

He nodded. "I'm sorry about using your brother."

"Understand this about me. You did what needed doing. I said what needed saying but now that is over. The air is clear between us, Stone." She ran a hand through her hair. "Do you have another name? Apart from Stone, I mean? A first name I can use?"

You're a stone cold killer...

The voice blasted in from the past. Coldness swept him. "I don't remember."

She let out a short laugh but quickly stifled it as his expression turned grave. _He isn't joking, she thought._

"When you have finished helping me maybe I can help you with more than freeing your friend." She paused. "You're here to kill someone, yes?"

Stone said nothing.

"I'm not going to arrest you for something you haven't yet done."

"What about the wardens who beat Cali?" he asked.

"You're good at changing the subject," said Antonia. "They will be punished. You have my word."

"I think I can trust your word."

"You can." She looked at him evenly. "You're a good man, Stone."

"You're the second person to say that to me tonight. And both of you are wrong."

"Then you're not a good man. Are you happy now? But you do good things. You did a good thing on the river and now you have the chance to do another good thing."

He took off his fedora, shook the rain from it, and set it back on his head. "You're right," he said. "I'm here for vengeance and I won't stop until I get it."

The rain continued to soak them.

"I know heartache," she said.

She took a step toward him.

"We bury it in here." She placed her hand against her chest. "We build walls for people to climb. And when they climb we build more walls."

Tentatively, she lifted her hand from her chest. It dripped with rainwater. She extended her arm and flattened her palm against him. He didn't budge.

"But we still hurt," she said.

Stone looked at her. Her hair and clothes were drenched. His grim eyes roamed her body, truly noticing it for the first time. She tracked his eyes and had no problem with them.

Her radio suddenly burst to life. "Antonia, _code three_. Captain Garcia, do you read me?"

She whipped her hand off his chest and unclipped a radio from her belt. "This is my night off, Major Cook."

"Not anymore," crackled a static-filled voice.

The location was ten minutes away. Stone went with her. She explained that a _code three_ was a body, a new murder victim for the city.

"A _code two_ is the killing of a warden. A _code four_ is rape. Assault is a _code five_ and so on."

"What's a _code one_?"

"An attack on the city. We've never had one of those in my lifetime."

The body had been dumped in an abandoned lot. Grass and weeds surged through the cracked asphalt. Ancient vehicles were angled in different directions, long since stripped of any usable parts. The brown rusted hulks creaked in the wind, darkened interiors home to vermin.

Two green-uniformed wardens paced in the rain, brandishing shotguns and chatting about the _big shoot-out tonight_. A skinny black man in trousers and a shirt was talking with a stern white woman who was smoking a cigarette. She smoked with her right hand. Stone saw the left was missing, her arm bent behind her back.

"That's Chief Jackson," said Antonia.

"How did she lose her hand?"

"She and her husband were captured by the Stoats. Her husband was murdered. She was tortured."

Stone nodded.

The black man was gesturing toward the body and Jackson continued to listen and nod as he spoke.

"Wait here," said Antonia.

He hung on the street as she marched into the lot. Two black men with white hair and wrinkled skin were sat on an open windowsill, legs dangling, sharing a bottle and looking on.

You're a stone cold killer.

The words continued to chase. Childhood was haunting him. There was too much space in his world. He had Cali but he was still empty, devoid. He missed Nuria. The past was finding a way to claw its way inside and torment him.

Killing would help. Killing Pavla. And more of her men. As many as she could send against him.

A horse drawn wagon appeared at the end of the street, hooves clattering, wooden wheels bouncing over gaping potholes. It drew to a halt and two men jumped down. One of them fetched a stretcher from the back. The horses snorted and Stone stroked them, calming them with quiet words and soothing sounds as the men went into the lot and returned a moment later with the body of a young girl.

She looked about sixteen, black hair and olive skin. Her throat was slashed open and covered with blood. It shrieked loud in the dark night.

Stone frowned, said nothing.

Antonia came out of the lot a few minutes later.

"I saw that girl a few hours ago," he said.

* * *

The building was in darkness.

Antonia rapped a bunched fist against the door. No answer. She beat against it a second time.

"Shut up with that noise," cried a voice, in the distance.

"Warden business," shouted Antonia. "Go back to fucking sleep."

Stone hit the door with his boot. It splintered and cracked open. Antonia glared at him.

"You cannot do that."

He went into the gloom. Light poured from a side door as Father Milan appeared, looking sleepy.

"What is going on?"

Antonia walked between the rows of folding chairs. "Captain Antonia Garcia," she said.

"I know who you are," said Father Milan.

"I need to question you."

Once again, Stone waited as she went about her _warden business._ He thought of black coffee and meat and his stomach rumbled. When Antonia came back to him she was shaking her head.

"Her name was Ingrid Cadecci. She lived with her uncle. Father Milan said she was here for confession."

"What was she confessing?"

"He can't tell us that. Confession is sacred. If you believe in that kind of thing."

"Do you?"

"No."

"Good."

Stone marched toward Father Milan and drew his pistol. He grabbed hold of the bald man and dragged him across the church.

"What are you doing?" protested Father Milan. "You cannot treat me like this. I am a Holy Man. Captain Garcia, Captain..."

"Shut up," said Stone.

He reached for the nearest of the two booths, the right hand one. He hesitated at the lock for a moment and then yanked the door wide, tossing Father Milan inside.

"What did the girl tell you?"

"This is a Holy House and you have no right. Captain Garcia, please."

Antonia did nothing.

"Talk. Now."

"I cannot believe you will..."

Stone cocked his pistol and jammed the muzzle against Father Milan's forehead.

"OK, OK," he shouted. "May the Lord forgive me for what I am about to do."

Antonia walked over. "Well?"

"Ingrid has... had become a thief. She was stealing to pay off her uncle's debt. Her uncle owes coin. That is what she came here to confess."

Stone watched him. "He's hiding something else."

"How dare you?" said Father Milan. "First, you break into this sacred building and assault me and then you..."

"Who is the uncle in debt with?" snapped Antonia.

"The Perez brothers."

They went back onto the street. There was no one around. The gunboat continued to patrol the waters at the docks.

"Father Milan has friends. He will stir trouble."

"I did what needed doing."

Antonia laughed, surprising Stone. "You do that a lot. I wish I could live that way but I have the burden of law. Listen, I have to track these men down. It is likely they killed Ingrid as a warning to her uncle but I cannot take you with me. You are not a warden, Stone. I will contact you once it's done."

"I think I'm staying."

She smiled faintly. "Shall I get you a green uniform?"

"I don't like uniforms," he said. "Who are the Perez brothers?"

"Luca and Thiago Perez," she explained. "Nasty boys who carry guns and knives and are not afraid to use them. They rob stores and steal from people's apartments but their real business is lending coin. They lend to people who should not borrow and demand twice the coin back. Many people live this way. They struggle. And, once the brothers have their hooks in you, then that is it."

"Where can we find them?"

"There are a few bars we can try but first we have to talk with Ingrid's uncle."

She unclipped her radio and spoke into it for several minutes.

"The Cadecci's rent an apartment in one of the poorest districts of the city," she said. "This way."

He followed, alert. The heavy rain, still tipping from the black sky, had forced the night people into doorways, leaving the stoops and corners rain-slick and empty.

"Look at this district," said Antonia. "There is no school here and no playgrounds for the young children. No parks, no safe places to walk, not even in the day. We are only safe because we are carrying guns but sometimes that is not enough. Even the trees have died and you've seen Atlanta, Stone, we have no shortage of trees. Here we force people to live like animals... so they behave like them."

The building was a sagging tenement with pitted brickwork and wooden shutters over empty window frames.

They went inside.

A gloomy hallway buzzed with flies. Antonia covered her mouth and nose at the rank stench.

Quickly, they took the stairs, boots echoing on worn and cracked tile. Antonia went first. Stone followed.

"Here," she said.

It was a corridor lined with closed doors, bleached with a scrap of moonlight from a half-boarded over window at one end.

Someone was snoring.

"Third one on the left," whispered Antonia. She drew her pistol. "The door is ajar. _Something is wrong._ Cover me."

Stone pulled out his gun, stared along the barrel and waited.

Antonia crept silently down the corridor, leaving a trail of wet boot prints. She was half-crouched, gun extended.

Stone continued to keep his gun on the doorway, finger on the trigger.

The door budged a few inches.

He fired, without hesitation, three quick gunshots, deafening booms, no target in sight, the slugs tearing into wood and brickwork.

A man appeared, low down, dark brown skin and curly black hair, a revolver in his fist. The muzzle flashed and a bullet zipped along the corridor.

Antonia rolled and let off two rounds. The man choked and toppled forward, the revolver slipping from his grasp.

"That was Luca," she said.

And then the two of them were racing toward the apartment, Stone a little slower, his leg throbbing as his boot hit the floor.

"Thiago," yelled Antonia. "I'm Captain Garcia. Give up your gun or you end up like your brother."

His answer was a volley of bullets. The darkness lit up with muzzle flashes and Stone and Antonia split from the door as the bullets tore chunks of brickwork from the wall opposite.

Breathing hard, beads of sweat popping on her forehead, Antonia looked at Stone and held up three fingers.

He nodded, held his breath...

Three, two, one...

They swerved round the door, blasting.

"Fucking wardens," cried Thiago, firing back.

Antonia cried out. Stone watched her body twist and saw a flash of blood on her left hip.

He shaped his body, spotted the outline of Thiago Perez, and fired. The man cried out but Stone hadn't taken him down.

Thiago limped toward a window, still cursing the wardens. Panting hard, he forced open the shutters and scrambled through onto a rusted fire escape.

"Fuck you, wardens."

Stone squeezed the trigger.

The slug hit Thiago in the chest and he fell backward, screaming as he plummeted toward the street below.

"Are you OK?" called Stone.

"Motherfucker," said Antonia. She winced as she clutched her bloodied hip. "I'm OK, I'm OK."

No one came to investigate the shooting. The surrounding tenants, woken by the shots, remained silent and hidden.

Franco Cadecci was in the only bedroom, tied to a chair, wrists bound with wire, a gag knotted over his mouth.

Antonia took off the gag. "They were going to kill me," he said.

Crouching, Stone carefully unwound the wire binding him to the chair. His wrists were reddened but the skin was unbroken.

"Ingrid is dead," said Antonia, ignoring the pain in her hip. "I am sorry for your loss. They cut her throat."

He nodded, saying nothing for a moment, and then lumbered to his feet. He was a tall man with a shock of white hair and lined skin. There was the smell of drink and smoke on him. His clothes were cheap and patched and unwashed. He went into the kitchen, still saying nothing, and lit a lamp.

The apartment was threadbare; worn and rickety furniture, no personal possessions, no identity, barely existence.

This man has nothing, thought Antonia, even less than nothing after tonight.

"Why did they kill Ingrid?" she said. "Money lenders do not kill. They threaten, break bones, rape."

"Ingrid is... _was_ a good girl," said Franco. His voice was broken. Shaking hands found a bottle. He uncorked it and drank and then the tears bubbled from his eyes.

Stone watched the man's world crumble and said nothing.

"Thiago said the loan had been paid off... tonight... _double_... the extra coin was to kill me and... and Ingrid."

He wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his worn shirt. Antonia wondered if he would drink himself to death once they had left.

"Who paid them to kill you? Did they tell you?"

Franco reached for the bottle. Stone grabbed his arm. "Answer her question."

"It doesn't make any sense. It was the person who Ingrid was working for. Why would he want to kill her? And why would he want me dead? I didn't know him."

"What's his name?"

"Fox," said Franco. "His name is Fox." He shook his head. "Ingrid was helping people. She had a beautiful soul. She was so special."

This time Stone didn't stop him reaching for the bottle.

* * *

They went to her apartment.

She lived in a poor neighbourhood. Stone wondered if all the neighbourhoods in Atlanta were poor.

She lit a lamp. "I need to stitch this wound," she said. "There is a bottle in the kitchen."

He fetched the bottle. It was plain, half-filled with pale green wine. He uncorked it, took a swig.

Her apartment was simple with little space and even less to fill it with. She ate, slept and relaxed in the same room. A door led off into a small side room. He couldn't see her but he could hear her. She was talking on her radio, asking a fellow warden to search for the alias _Fox_ amongst a list of known criminals.

Stone took off his soaked shirt and unfastened the shoulder holster, laying it down on a table.

Picking up the bottle, he carried it toward a chalk board that stood beside her bed. It was covered with names and drawings and questions marks and plenty of underlining and crossing out.

He drank. "What's this?" he called out.

She came back into the room. "I have no life."

He continued to study the board, not looking at her.

"It's the names of the victims in the river murders," she said. "Possible suspects, connections and so on."

He pointed with the mouth of the bottle, turning at the same time. "Is this...?"

She was naked, muscled arms loose at her sides, one hand resting on the freshly stitched gunshot wound.

"Don't look so surprised," she said. "It's what we've wanted from the beginning. And what we need."

He put down the bottle and peeled off his sodden clothes. Wordlessly, he lifted her into his arms and carried her to the bed.

FOURTEEN

"Pretty boy," said Cali. "Get your skinny ass back in this bed. I ain't done with you no way."

"You're an animal," called Ricardo.

He strolled back into the bedroom, grinning, carrying two mugs of coffee in his left hand and a box in his right hand.

"And there's nothing wrong with my ass."

"That better be your dope box."

"This is the good stuff," he said. He shook it at her. "Not that shit they sell on the streets or in the wetlands."

He climbed onto the bed.

"This is supplier quality dope," he said.

Cali sat up, single sheet falling away. She was naked. There were bruises across her breasts and stomach.

"This stuff better be good because I fucking ache." She groaned. "Bastard wardens did a number on me."

He lit a joint, took a deep drag, and then passed it to her. She placed it between her lips, sucked down hard.

"Fuck," she said. Her eyes rolled shut for a moment. "This is good. Man, you know what you need to do?"

His hand wandered between her legs.

"Nah, not that," she said. She opened her eyes. "You should write about me in that newspaper of yours, you feel me?"

"I intend to," he said.

"Innocent girl comes to Atlanta and gets a beat down and... _what did you say?"_

Smoke streamed from her mouth.

"You were arrested, taken into custody and brutalised without any investigation into the facts."

Cali stared at him. "What the fuck are you chattin' about? I was only kiddin', man."

"I'm deadly serious." He sipped his coffee. "Try your coffee. It's the best. I work hard for this city, Cali. I don't believe in second best."

She kicked back, lifted the coffee mug. It was damn fine. And so was the dope. She watched Ricardo. She'd got all she needed. Now it was time for fun...

"You don't believe in second best? But I was second best. Well, I was _second_ anyway, yeah?"

"I don't know what you mean." He dragged on the joint. "What do you mean?"

"Man, I know you had a bitch in here before I rolled up. Can smell her in this bed."

"I... no... that's..."

Cali started laughing.

"Man, chill the fuck out. I'm messing with you. Ain't nothing hostile. We both had a good night, you feel me? I needed that after all the shit I've been through. Sometimes I wish I hadn't gotten involved and had stayed in Kiven..."

"I didn't know you were from Kiven." He leaned forward. "Did you leave because of the revolution?"

"Yeah, yeah," said Cali. She smoked his dope, drank his coffee. "The what? What revolution?"

He slid off the bed and went into another room, returning a few moments later with a newspaper.

"This," he said.

Cali rubbed the paper between her fingers, disinterested in the words, seeking out only the artwork. The texture of the paper elevated her to another place, one that was even better than sex or dope. She'd drawn since childhood, always a lump of chalk or a crayon or even a stubby pencil in her hand, putting her stories on tenement walls and cracked sidewalks but rarely on paper. Paper was a priceless commodity in the second age. She'd slit throats for it in the past.

There were a few pictures in the newspaper but there was something wrong with them. She didn't understand it and couldn't explain it, at first, but gradually she knew what they lacked; emotion. Her drawings were raw sketches but these, no doubt done by talented individuals, had lost something in the printing.

She shrugged, interest fading, as memories kicked in. She was a little girl once more, back in the city of Kiven, living in the dirt. She'd been unfortunate enough to have been born into the League of Restoration, one of three factions that formed the Alliance. The Society of Souls talked of civil rights; the Ministry of Progress talked of the future. But that was all the other factions ever did – talk. It was the League that sacrificed and suffered the most.

She wasn't gonna end up fat-bellied and terrified of a man's fist. No way. That life wasn't for her. She craved more and was gonna get more. She knew then the only way was the street and she honed her skills as a thief and deadly knife-fighter.

Being the best is what started me on this crazy adventure, she thought.

She handed him the newspaper.

"Can you read, Cali?" he asked, gently.

"I can read." She yawned. She smoked. "But I don't want to. What crazy shit has gone down in Kiven?"

"The League of Restoration has dissolved the Alliance. The ruling trio is no more. Kiven is now a dictatorship."

She stared at him.

"Man, you use too many words. What the fuck happened in that dump?"

"There was a revolution. The League has taken over."

"For real?"

"Is that why you left? Were you a member of the Society or the Ministry?"

"Man, do I look like I had a pampered upbringing? I was born into the League. _Got nothing, give everything._ Anyhow, I don't wanna talk about Kiven. And I don't want you writing no shit about me in your fancy paper, you feel me?"

He laughed. "This is you joking again, right?"

She glared at him. "I ain't fucking around, man."

He took the joint from her, smoked it. "Then I'll write about Stone. About how he bravely killed Ko-Lin, the pirate captain."

She lunged at him, hands going for his throat. He rolled backward, laughing. She climbed on him, her grip tight.

"Listen to me, Ricardo; I like you, I really fucking like you. But..."

"Cali... Cali, you're... you're hurting me..."

"You don't write shit about me and you don't write shit about Stone."

"But... but Stone is a hero... Cali... Cali, you're choking me... Cali..."

She released her hands, breathing hard.

He sat up, shocked.

The two of them were silent for a moment. Dawn light spilled into the apartment.

"You see this?" she said. She flicked aside her wavy black hair and jabbed a finger at the scar on her cheek. "You see this, Ricardo? Stone and me get more of this if you write stories about us. Kiven think he's dead and they probably reckon I am, too, you feel me? That's the way it has to stay, yeah?"

He stared at her. "I like you," he said.

"What?"

"I mean it."

"I just tried to choke you."

"Forget about it. You're beautiful."

"With this?" She pointed at her scar for a second time. "I ain't no beauty. A great body, that's all you see."

He took her hand, squeezed it gently.

"I see much more than that," he said. "I can talk to you."

She laughed, nervously. "Man, shut the fuck up, you're a player, I know that."

"You're right, I am a player. But I really do like you, Cali, I mean it."

She took a breath. "I like you as well. Seems like I've known you forever. Ain't that fucked up?"

"I feel the same way, too," he said.

They stared, holding hands and saying nothing.

Ricardo frowned suddenly. "What's that noise?" he said

Cali scrambled to the window. The horizon blazed red and orange.

"Oh, shit..."

* * *

Pavla was making her escape from the town. Her automatic rifle rattled, spitting a deadly spray of bullets. Nuria was tossed like a rag doll, thrown against him, covered in bloodspots...

Stone slowly opened his eyes. The apartment was flooded with daylight.

I haven't forgotten you, he thought.

There was the smell of coffee and frying, the smell of sex and heat.

Antonia was cooking; strips of meat in a pan, flames climbing from a blackened steel bowl. She smiled at him. She was wearing a simple robe, belted at the waist, gaping at the top. He got up and pulled on his trousers and undershirt.

He stared at the chalkboard as he fastened his shoulder holster. "I'll help you with this," he said.

"I know you will," she replied. "You gave me your word."

Strapping his sheathed knife to his ankle, he sat on the corner of the bed and tugged on his boots.

"But Pavla and Palmer will hit back this morning. They'll hit back hard. I need to be ready for them."

"First, we eat," she said. "Then you can tell me who they are and what is going on."

She cut four slices from a near-stale half loaf and smeared each one with a chunky dark brown sauce. Then she lifted the sizzling meat from the pan. Sandwiches made, coffee poured, they sat on the bed, eating and drinking in silence.

"This is good," said Stone, finally. "Thank you."

She smiled at him. "You're welcome."

He saw a flicker of weakness in her eyes. _This moment has touched her, he thought, even more than last night._

"I don't want you involved," he said.

"I'm a warden," she replied. "I have to be involved. And I will be, because of you."

"I don't want you dead."

She nodded. "Being a warden means I take that risk every day. Tell me everything, Stone, from the beginning."

He took a deep breath and told her what was happening inside her city and why, taking her back to his first meeting with Jeremiah and Cali. She listened carefully, understanding at once.

"What is this weapon you're carrying?"

He nodded at his pack. "Take a look."

She hesitated, then licked her fingers and wiped her hands on her robe, almost pulling it open. She unbuckled the straps on his pack and took out the flag.

"What is this?"

"It's the last flag of the Ancients."

She turned it over in her hands. "Taking this to New Washington will save lives?"

"That's what Jeremiah told Cali. He was an officer in the URA. His people want to pull us all together, a new nation, protection for all the cities and lost communities out there. Attack one, you attack them all."

He shrugged.

"I don't know. I'm not a politician."

Antonia put the flag back. She slipped off her robe, reached for her trousers and a dark green T-shirt.

"Was Nuria your lover?" she asked.

"She was my friend. We got separated when the Places of Bridges collapsed. Took her half a year to reach me in Silver Road. Pavla killed her."

She ran her fingers through her black hair and tied it in a ponytail.

"Where are you from, Stone?"

He didn't answer right away.

"Gallen." He dug out a map from a side pocket on his pack. "I can show you."

"That's looks very old."

"It is." He pointed. "The Ancients called it South America. We know it as Gallen."

"Is Atlanta on here?"

He showed her.

"You've travelled a long way."

"But the map is wrong. This land that connects the north and south is gone." She looked confused. "The land doesn't exist. It fell away, I don't know. Now there is a sea. We call it the Metal Sea. It's a horrible place."

She finished her coffee. "Why?"

"There are mudflats to the horizon dotted with metal machines from the Ancients. Cars, buses, trucks and ships... giant ships... and the cars that flew... planes. Then you reach the water."

His brow creased as he remembered almost dying on the journey.

"Why did you cross it?"

"This." He showed her the branding on his arm. "Tamnica, a labour camp. We were fighting a gang who were terrorising local villages. They captured us. Nuria suffered in there. She never really got over it."

Dark memories swirled in his eyes.

"The evil of men no longer shocks me," said Antonia. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean you."

He was silent.

His fingers touched the branding.

"I've done terrible things, I know that."

"But you are nothing like the animals I send to Starkville. I meant what I said last night... you _are_ a good man. I'm sorry, Stone. I really didn't mean you."

He quickly got to his feet.

"Don't apologise, that's not it."

"Then what?"

He stood before the chalkboard.

She joined him, fastening her holster to her belt. "What is it?"

"The asshole who ran Tamnica prison told us the most valuable thing in this world was people. Why would it be any different here?"

Antonia digested his words.

"How many bodies have you _actually_ found?" he asked.

"Five, I told you that."

"All men?"

"Adults, we're certain, but it's impossible to tell. The bodies were burnt to a crisp. They would fall to bits as we moved them. We always assumed each family had been killed in the fire. We do not have the technology of the Before to prove otherwise."

They both felt silent.

"They are not all dead, are they?" she said.

"The burnings are a cover. Only the men are being killed. I think the women and children are being kidnapped."

"I need to speak with Chief Jackson. She cannot refuse me now. This has become far more sinister."

"I could be wrong," he said.

"I don't think you are. It makes sense. Taking the women and children provides a motive."

He turned toward her. "And you need to talk with Father Milan. When I was in the church last night one of the confessional booths was locked. I thought it was locked from the outside but when I put Father Milan in there last night I noticed you couldn't lock the booth from the outside, only the inside."

"I saw you hesitate at the door. I thought you were having second thoughts."

"No, there was _someone_ in there last night."

"I wonder if it was this mystery man, Fox," said Antonia. "I will check with the precinct to see if his name has..."

Stone cut her off. "What's that noise?"

FIFTEEN

It was a heavy droning sound, like an engine, matched with a rhythmic beating...

Stone rushed to the window and nudged open the shutter.

The sky machine, the helicopter gunship Captain Rodriguez had spoken of, was painted across the sky, black against red; blades spinning, broad wings loaded with rockets, side door open, a heavy machine gun pointing at them.

"Down," he yelled.

The pair of them hit the floor as the heavy gun erupted and bullets speared the apartment.

The gunship swept upward and then curved round the building, engine roaring.

"Bastards," shouted Antonia.

The heavy gun opened fire once more.

Crawling across the floor, heading for the kitchen, they shouted at each other as gaping holes were punched in the walls.

The helicopter drew back a second time and then swept in again, its massive bulk casting a deadly shadow.

Antonia unlocked a crate in the corner of the room. Stone saw her pull out a pair of semi-automatic rifles. She slid one across to him.

The helicopter continued its attack; heavy gun rattling, slugs zipping overhead.

"Clips," she shouted.

The ribbed black magazines skated toward him and he slammed one home. He got to one knee and flicked off the safety.

It was then the gunfire stopped.

"They're reloading," said Stone.

He scrambled to his feet. Columns of daylight hung across the apartment. Nothing had been spared. Antonia's home was ruined. Stone picked an opening to fire from. He pushed the stock of the rifle into his shoulder, took a deep breath and nosed the barrel through the hole.

The helicopter was hovering over the roof.

"I can't hit it," shouted Stone.

The engine throbbed loudly.

Antonia's thoughts raced. _They have us cold. There could be only one reason they would pull back..._

"They're in the building," she said.

Stone limped for the door, his leg aching more than ever.

Antonia dropped to one knee and brought up her rifle, finger on the trigger, left hand cradling the barrel.

Gingerly, Stone reached for the handle. He looked at Antonia. Her dark eyes were intent. She was surging with adrenalin. He pointed to the right and she understood.

Licking his lips, he freed the door from the jam and yanked it wide.

The two of them swung round the doorframe – Stone left, Antonia right – and that was when several gas canisters bounced along the corridor and exploded.

Stone fired, cutting a deadly spray of bullets toward the stairwell, Antonia behind him, blasting in the other direction, the two of them coughing and choking as the gas spread in billowing clouds.

"Go," shouted Stone.

Spilling from the apartment, assault rifles rattling, they raced for the stairs. Stone's boot caught a body, dark clothing blood-spattered, a mask covering his face. He tore it off and tossed it at Antonia. She threw herself down and pulled it over her face.

Stone covered her, blasting along the corridor. Bullets whipped by him as the Russians closed in.

"Get a mask on," yelled Antonia.

There was no time. His eyes were stinging. His throat was burning. He went down the first flight of stairs. Three Russians surged toward him, masks and rifles. He swept them with a vicious arc of gunfire, cutting them to ribbons.

"Reloading," he shouted, his breathing ragged, lungs threatening to explode.

Antonia kept firing into the corridor, chopping down the dark shapes as they moved through the swirling gas. Her eyes flicked to her apartment door, her home devastated by the helicopter.

"Clear," she shouted.

They worked down through the building.

Reaching the last stairwell, Stone held up his hand and they stopped. There were shadows and concealed spots in the hallway below.

Narrowing his eyes, he placed one boot on the first step. A Russian swung into view, his automatic rifled jammed against his shoulder. Stone dropped and fired, the single bullet hitting the man in the forehead. He fell backward, his weapon clattering loudly on the floor. Another figure moved in the gloom. Antonia opened up with a burst from her rifle. He slammed against the wall. His body slid down, leaving behind a bloody smear.

"Reloading," she said.

Stone cleared the hallway and they made for the front doors. The sun blazed onto a street that was mostly empty, lined on both sides with old tenement blocks.

Above, the helicopter gunship droned in the early morning sky.

"We have to get to the precinct," said Antonia. "It's our only chance."

A deadly shadow filled the street. Stone kicked open the doors and fired up at the gunship. The metal beast wheeled sharply away.

"You didn't like that, did you?" he snarled.

The helicopter banked and then retaliated. Bullets peppered the doors and the two of them ducked out of view. Holes appeared in the brickwork. One of the doors fell from its hinges.

Stone plucked the radio from his belt.

"Ricardo, it's Stone, are you under attack?"

There was nothing but static.

"Ricardo? Cali?"

Her voice burst through, words breaking up.

"No... clear... coming to... you..."

"Stay away," shouted Stone. "Find somewhere to hide."

He switched off the radio and picked up his rifle.

"Let's hurt this bastard," he said.

They ducked forward and fired up into the sky, bullets raking the helicopter. There was a scream and the gunner toppled from it, hitting the asphalt with an ugly crack.

"Now," said Stone.

The two of them sprinted from the building. Antonia was faster. They kept to the sidewalk, hugging the buildings for a meagre scrap of cover. A few citizens were on the street, standing around and pointing at the sky, grinning like idiots. Antonia tore off the gas mask and yelled at them to get inside but they ignored her.

Stone, trailing behind her, spun and fired another burst at the helicopter as a second man took control of the heavy gun.

They reached the outskirts of the docks. The warden precinct was only two hundred yards away but the ground was exposed.

"We'll never make it," said Stone.

The helicopter swooped overhead and climbed higher in the blue and pink sky. Hot wind blew, causing them to shield their eyes.

Then it swung round, dropped height and roared toward them, heavy machine gun blazing.

Stone grabbed Antonia by the arm and ran across the street, disappearing into an alley.

* * *

Code one...

Chief Jackson watched the helicopter from her top floor office. The windows were wide open and the noise of the airborne predator filled her ears. Left arm behind her back, she lifted her right hand and dragged on the cigarette between her fingers.

The building was alive with voices and the clatter of boots as her officers donned body armour and headed to the armoury for automatic rifles. On the streets, the early morning labouring crews had thrown down their tools and disappeared. The gangs had launched balloons into the sky, a signal for the dealers to vanish.

Her city was emptying, its people gripped by fear. The helicopter gunship hung in the sun-drenched sky, unchallenged ruler of Atlanta.

"No," she whispered.

Major Cook bustled into her office.

"Why is there a delay in mobilising the jeeps?" she asked. Her voice remained calm, composed, despite the chaos and mayhem all around

"They're out of action. All of them."

She turned, let out a stream of smoke. "How did that happen?"

"Whoever these bastards are they had this well planned, Chief. They broke into the precinct last night and disabled all the vehicles. I have mechanics working on them now."

She nodded. "Get to the armoury, Major, you know what to use. Warning shots only."

Cook dug his thumbs into his belt.

"With respect, that's a mistake. I can shoot that bastard down."

"Major, let me make myself clear. I do not want that thing falling on our civilians."

"But I can shoot them out of the sky."

"What about the potential casualties that would cause?"

Cook fumed. "Think of the casualties if that thing turns its machine gun or rockets on our people."

"Warning shots only," said Jackson. "The Administration would not approve of anything more."

He marched from her office. _Antonia was right, he thought, it's all about paving the road from warden to politician._

SIXTEEN

The sun burned, the wind blew; Atlanta had woken to another hot day.

The sky was cloudless, a deepening blue with streaks of pink and red frozen in the heavens, a parting gift from the old world, not that anyone truly understood or really cared what the markings were.

The shattered buildings and towers sizzled in the early morning heat. The sidewalks baked.

Horse drawn wagons, brimming with stinking garbage, rumbled along the avenues, heading toward the recycling plants; the waste of the present was to be reshaped into the energy of the future.

Adults rustled up breakfasts of chopped fruit and oats. Children were readied for school or work; the cycle had begun once more.

And there was gunfire, lots of it, but that was nothing new. Even the appearance of a flying machine, though incredible and fantastic, paled with the reality of day to day existence, one that was hard-earned, never given.

As the sun climbed it burned down on a battleground. But Atlanta had been one before. For centuries after the collapse of the first-world and, perhaps, if fragmented history was to be believed, for the long centuries prior. The city and its people knew pain, understood it...but Antonia had known nothing like this. This was worse than the cowardly arson attacks in the wetlands. This was worse than any of the crimes that had challenged her as a warden. This thing could rip her city apart and she didn't have a clue how to stop it...

Hands on her hips, bent forward to catch her breath, she was astonished when tears fell from her eyes. She straightened and wiped her face with her bare arm. Stone, his breathing just as ragged, placed a hand on her shoulder and squeezed, saying nothing.

It was all she needed.

"We have to keep moving away from population," she said.

Limbs aching, faces covered in perspiration, they started running; threading along alleys and roads, weaving through buildings and scrambling through overgrown lots, disappearing into underpasses, rifles strapped across their backs, ammunition already depleted.

And all the time the gunship hunted them down, its mighty bulk searing across the rooftops, engine snarling, blades throbbing.

Cornered in a dead end of abandoned buildings, the helicopter appeared overhead, heavy gun firing. Stone found cover and hit back with his pistol. Cartridge cases spat from his gun and bounced onto the sun-baked ground. He fired off slug after hopeless slug.

The metal machine filled the sky, black against red. His stomach clenched. He, like Antonia, was clueless at how to kill it.

"Stone, in here," shouted Antonia.

She prised open a doorway into another derelict building.

The air was hot, thick with dirt. The walls were pitted, windows blown out.

" _Stone!"_

The voice came from above – _Pavla_ – calling him through a loudhailer.

"There is no point running."

He lifted himself from the rubble and dirt, eyes turning dark beneath his battered fedora.

He quickly reloaded his pistol.

"Don't waste your bullets," said Antonia, sweat pouring down her face and arms.

The helicopter settled on the roof of a nearby building. Its wings were loaded with fearsome rockets. One of those and it would all be over for them.

Gun in hand, he edged toward the doorway. "I'm going to kill you," he shouted.

Her voice barked through the loudhailer. "You've tried before and failed. I have a deal for you, Stone, where we both get what we want."

"Come down here and discuss it face to face."

"I don't think so. Put the flag in the open and we'll spare the lives of hundreds. We'll leave the city and there'll be no bloodshed."

"Is that your deal?"

"You'll be happy with it. I promise."

Antonia looked at him, frowning. "What is she saying?"

Stone turned to her. "She's going to unleash that bastard on your city if we don't surrender the flag."

"I have little patience, Stone," said Pavla. "Give up the flag. It was always going to end this way."

He peered round the doorway, heart heavy. His veins raged with hate but he knew there was only one choice.

"OK," he said.

"What?" said Antonia. "You can't be serious."

"I know what she's capable of. She'll butcher your people in a heartbeat."

"It's a bluff."

"She doesn't bluff."

Stone took the flag from his pack. He rolled it into a ball and threw it out of the building, onto the ground.

Angrily, he stared up at the helicopter. It held its position on the rooftop, blades going round and round at an impossible speed, dizzying and hypnotic. He could see Pavla, sitting beside the pilot; the dark hair and scarred face, cold eyes looking back at him.

"Good," she said.

Three men sprang from the helicopter and hurriedly scrambled down the building, reaching the ground with weapons drawn.

Two of the men were Russian. They were white and dark-haired, bulky men in dark clothing, both young, early to mid-twenties, automatic rifles held on the hip. Palmer was the third man. His pistol was holstered. The sun gleamed off his bald head. He swung his thick, muscled arms as he walked toward the flag and nudged it with his boot.

"I'm sorry it had to go down this way, Stone," he said. "You fought a good war. But it's over."

Stone said nothing.

Palmer nodded. "I understand." He turned to one of his companions and spoke in fluent Russian.

The young man stepped forward, eyes watching Stone and Antonia. He scooped the flag from the ground and rushed back to the helicopter.

"Enjoy the burning ceremony with your new friends," said Stone.

"There'll be no burning," said Palmer. "The flag won't be used to stoke up hatred in their people."

He placed his hands on his hips.

"I know history, Stone, you don't. It has to be this way. Our ancestors destroyed the world."

"A long time in the past."

"But it could be the future. Do you think this planet could take it again? We have to make certain it can't happen. The way to stop a war is to make sure there's only one side. I believe in New Washington but I don't believe in the United Republic."

Stone said nothing.

"We have it," said Pavla, through the loudhailer.

"I'm sorry, Stone, I really am."

There was a sudden rush in the sky, catching them all by surprise. A rocket soared overhead and hit one of the empty buildings, erupting in a giant fireball.

"Cook," said Antonia, smiling for the first time.

Palmer and the soldier looked behind as the helicopter began to take off.

"No," he shouted. "No, no, no. Pavla? Pavla? What the fuck are you doing? We had a deal..."

A second rocket lit up the sky. It hit another building. There was a shocking bang as it exploded in a ball of flame. The helicopter wheeled away, the clattering noise of its blades slowly fading.

Palmer and the remaining solider spun round Antonia shot the Russian, an instant kill, one slug in the forehead. She didn't fire at Palmer – she knew Stone would want to take him out.

"There go your new friends," said Stone.

The two men faced each other as the helicopter became a black dot in the sky.

"We can make a new deal," said Palmer.

There was the sound of running boots. Cali and Ricardo emerged into the area. Cali was holding the sawn off shotgun.

"I don't think so," said Stone.

"I can help you. Deal with me."

"I dealt with Pavla and didn't enjoy that too much."

"But I have information."

"You sacrificed the soldiers Jeremiah sent on this mission. You sacrificed him and got Cali tortured. And your bullshit in Silver Road got Nuria killed. You ratted out the location of the safe house to the Russians and even more died there. Why would I deal with a piece of shit like you?"

Palmer scraped his boots against the ground.

"I'm sorry your woman got killed, man."

Stone snarled through gritted teeth. "She wasn't _my_ woman. She was my _friend_."

"Don't do it," whispered Palmer. "I don't want..."

The two men drew. Stone's right hand was lightning fast. He fired from the hip, a gut shot. Palmer cried out, tried to aim. Stone fired a second time, hitting Palmer in the leg, dropping him onto one knee. Stone lunged forward and kicked him across the face, busting open his mouth in a shower of blood and teeth.

"Get up," said Stone. "You bastard traitor."

Gripped with pain, leaking blood, Palmer climbed to his feet.

"You don't even believe in the United Republic," shouted Palmer. "They wouldn't want your kind, Stone. Why the fuck are you willing to risk your life for them?"

Stone glared from beneath the rim of his battered fedora. "Tell him, Cali, tell him why."

"Because there are thousands of lives at stake," she said, simply. "Innocent lives, man. People who ain't got the strength to fight the fight like we do."

She smiled fondly at Stone.

"That's why he was put in this world, man. To do the kind of shit no one else is willing to do, you feel me?"

"It won't do anything," said Palmer. "The flag is nothing ... I have information. Give me your word you'll spare me, Stone."

Stone spat on the ground.

"Will the information give me Pavla?"

"Yes."

He nodded. "I won't kill you," he said.

"I'm not stupid," said Palmer. He grimaced in pain. "You'll get one of these to kill me."

Antonia stepped forward. "You have our word," she said. "You're losing a lot of blood. Now tell Stone what you know."

Palmer nodded. He had no loyalty for Pavla. She had left him here to die.

"They can't fly north," he said.

"What?" said Stone.

"They don't have enough fuel to make the journey. A truck is making its way from Kiven across the Black Region. It will be here in two days. They'll camp outside the city until then."

"He's a lying rat motherfucker," said Cali. She stepped toward him. Ricardo hung back, scribbling words into his notebook.

"Pavla betrayed me," shouted Palmer. "That means she'll betray the organisation I work for."

"Division 29," said Stone.

"How did you know?" He looked down at his bleeding gut. "It doesn't matter. But it means there _will_ be a burning ceremony for her people."

"Where is this camp?" said Stone.

"I don't know the location, I swear it."

"Two days, right?"

Palmer nodded. Blood ran from his busted mouth.

"But you don't know where."

"No."

Stone fired twice. Palmer went down, howling in pain, both slugs in his chest. He stared at the cloudless sky above, clinging to life.

"I..." he choked. "I have... I have a family... a wife, two girls... my kids... my kids ... you don't... you don't understand..."

"Understand this, Palmer," said Stone. "You'll never see them again."

He nodded at Cali. The shotgun boomed, splitting open his face.

"Holy shit," whispered Ricardo.

"You gave him your word," said Antonia.

"I lied," said Stone.

He walked away and found a patch of shade to sit in. Slipping off his hat, he ran his hands over his face and through his hair.

He had to think...

He had to think...

"Pavla will expect us to come right after her," said Stone.

"That's what we're gonna do, right?" said Cali.

Stone could hear the adrenalin in her voice.

"That helicopter is long gone from here and we're on foot," he said. "We can't catch it and we can't take it down."

"We have rockets," said Antonia. "You saw that."

"Some rockets," said Cali. "Why the fuck didn't you shoot that thing from the sky, you feel me?"

"I can only imagine the rockets were used as warning shots to drive the helicopter from the city."

"That doesn't matter right now," said Stone. "If Palmer was lying then it's already too late and Pavla is long gone. If he was telling the truth and they're waiting on fuel we have two days to do some good in this city before we go."

Cali nodded. "What's the plan?"

"We go to Lugar Segura and catch the fire bomber," said Stone. "And then we'll come back and find the camp before the fuel truck arrives."

"Back into the river community?" said Ricardo. "What about the Stoats?"

Stone wedged his fedora across his head. "We're hunting someone worse than them," he said.

SEVENTEEN

Antonia marched into the warden precinct, boots and trousers grubby, T-shirt hanging loose, ponytail swishing from side to side. Cook saw the look on her face and grabbed her by the arm.

"I'm glad you're in one piece," he said. "But you need to calm down."

He wheeled her into the gym, closing the door behind them.

"Do you know who attacked you?"

"They targeted the building," she replied, folding her arms.

Cook snorted. "They went for your apartment. You'd better get your story straight before you face Chief Jackson."

"Is that an order, Major?"

"Damn right it is."

"Why were none of the jeeps deployed? What is the point of training drivers and gunners and running drills if we don't use them?"

"Disabled last night. Takes a lot of planning and resources to breach the defences of this precinct. Who are these people, Antonia?"

She shook her head.

"This is way beyond street gangs," said Cook. "Is this a military strike from another city? Is there more to come?"

"I don't know," she said, raising her voice. "I don't know." She calmed. "Was that you with the RPG?"

Cook nodded.

"The helicopter was stationary. Why didn't you blow the damn thing up? I led it away from population."

"Let me tell you how that played out with the boss."

He repeated his conversation with Jackson.

"I need to talk to her," said Antonia.

"Just don't go at her full throttle. It's been a tough morning."

"You don't need to tell me."

She found Jackson in her office, sitting in her chair. The windows were wide open, hot air blowing in.

"Are you OK, Antonia?"

Closing the door, she slumped into a chair opposite her boss. "No, I'm not OK. My home has been destroyed."

"There are rooms available in the precinct house. You can stay here until you find a new apartment to rent. I know you prefer to live in the city than here."

Antonia nodded, said nothing.

"Who attacked you?" asked Jackson.

She lit a cigarette as she waited for an answer. There wasn't one. Antonia stared at her with a blank expression. Smoke curled toward the ceiling until it was caught in the breeze and drifted at her. She wrinkled her nose.

"I don't know who they were," she said. "Cook and the RPG sent them running."

"They were specific in targeting your apartment."

"They hit the building."

"No, they attacked your apartment. And then they pursued you through the streets."

Antonia shrugged. "They wanted to kill a warden captain and almost achieved it."

"What about the man who came into the city yesterday? He was with you, wasn't he? Was he the intended target?"

She's good, thought Antonia. She moves slow but misses nothing.

"I wrapped up the Ingrid Cadecci murder," she said, in a less than subtle attempt to push the conversation in a new direction.

Jackson dragged on her cigarette and said nothing.

Stalemate!

Noise from the city flowed through the windows; airboats on the water, horses and wagons on the streets.

Both women continued to watch the other.

It was Jackson who broke the silence. "It would've been better to send Thiago and Luca to Starkville. They would've suffered there. But I understand that in a shootout there is only the thought of survival."

Antonia nodded.

"Something else?" asked Jackson.

"The Perez brothers went after Franco Cadecci as well, Ingrid's uncle. He survived. He said they were gloating that they'd been paid to kill him and his niece. He said the money he owed had been paid off in full."

Chief Jackson placed her cigarette between her lips, dragged on it.

"And?"

"The killing of Ingrid Cadecci was nothing to do with money owed. It was a hit. She was targeted. I have an alias of the man who hired the Perez Brothers."

"Have you passed the name to records?"

"I radioed it through last night. They didn't find anything."

"What is the alias?"

"Fox," said Antonia. "I also think Father Milan at the Church of Saint Anthony is involved."

"How so?"

"I don't know. But Ingrid was at his Church last night and I believe she met with this _Fox_ and was sent to her death. I'll look into it further and keep you updated."

"Good," said Chief Jackson. She nodded firmly. "Antonia, on a personal level, I'm delighted that you're safe. That must have been a terrible ordeal this morning."

"I'm OK, thank you, but I have a request."

She got to her feet, paced for a moment, knowing she was about to reopen an old argument.

"I want to investigate the burnings in Lugar Segura," she said. "I have a new theory. I don't believe this is mass murder."

Jackson narrowed her eyes. "What is it then?"

Stone had looked at it in such a different way, lending his experience of life beyond her city, alluding to the possibility that something far more sinister was at play. It was now her moment to test his beliefs with her boss. A rush went though her as he filled her thoughts and her heart quickened. She could still taste him. She could still smell him.

"Five burnings and five bodies," she said. "We assumed all family members were killed but I think only the men, the husbands, were murdered and the properties burnt to hide the truth that the women and children were kidnapped."

Jackson stared for a moment before stubbing out her cigarette. "It's an interesting theory," she said, her voice calm and composed. "But you know what I am going to say, Antonia, don't you?"

"Yes, that it's just a theory, I know, which is why I am requesting to go to Lugar Segura today in an official capacity. I don't need extra manpower and I can take my own airboat. I can approach this mystery with fresh eyes and find the evidence..."

Chief Jackson rose from her desk, instantly concealing her left arm behind her back.

"No," she said.

"What?"

"You are not going to Lugar Segura. Your request is not granted."

The games had gone on long enough. Antonia exploded. "Are you fucking crazy? What the fuck is wrong with you? Are you a warden or a politician? Is this all about numbers and a way into the Administration for you? There has been multiple murder and possible kidnap. These are serious fucking crimes. What the fuck does it matter where they were committed? Isn't this why we became wardens?"

Jackson showed nothing, not even a flicker, untroubled by the outburst. It was as if it had never happened.

"There have been two major incidents in the city in less than twelve hours," said Chief Jackson. "We have a massacre in an abandoned part of town with bodies we have not been able to identity. We have recovered weapons that are far superior to anything the street gangs use and would rival pieces we have in our own armoury. There is also evidence of explosive devices being detonated. We know nothing about the victims or attackers. And this morning our city experienced its first _code one_ since before you were born."

With her right hand, she lit a fresh, hand-rolled cigarette. The pungent smell wafted across the office.

"I will say this only once, Captain Garcia," she continued, her tone deepening for the first time. "You are required here today and every day that follows and those days will be spent serving the people of Atlanta, not the people of the river community. That is why you became a warden. This matter is closed and will not be revisited. Do I make myself clear?"

Antonia folded her arms and shifted her weight from one foot to the other.

"Well?"

"Fuck you," she said. "Fuck you and fuck your numbers for the Administration and fuck them from turning you into this; whatever the fuck you are now. You had bigger balls than any of the men who wore the green and carried this." She dug out a wallet made from canvas and tossed it on the desk. "I know the real reason you don't want me in the river community. You want them to suffer like you suffered when the Stoats murdered your husband and you were tortured. The river people did nothing and you see these crimes as their punishment."

Jackson walked to the window, stood sideways and looked down at a convoy of slow-moving barges.

Antonia swallowed hard, waiting for the reaction. It came but it wasn't what she had expected...

"Do you know how we were captured by the Stoats?"

"You and your husband had gone to the new restaurant that had opened and..."

"No," said Jackson. "That was a lie."

She stepped from the window.

"My husband, Gerald, was a drug addict."

"What?" said Antonia.

"He owed so much to the street gangs that the dealers refused to sell to him. So Gerald, desperate and stupid, took a barge to Lugar Segura to buy from the Stoats. The Stoats knew who he was. He was a prize for them. The husband of the warden chief. They took him hostage. I went alone that night to pay the ransom but it was a trap. Now they had us both. I made a rookie mistake." She paused. "I watched him die. He was dismembered, piece by piece. Then they began on me. They attempted to rape me and when I fought back and blinded one of them they severed my hand."

Gingerly, she took her left arm from behind her back and stared, as if noticing her hand was missing for the first time.

"I'm sorry," said Antonia.

"For the loss of my hand? I have come to terms with it. For Gerald? He was a waste of space; a nasty, vindictive, cold and brutal man. What he experienced at the hands of the Stoats was no less than he had put me through in our marriage."

"I didn't know any of this. I'm so sorry. I wouldn't have..."

"Antonia, I have never held a grudge against Lugar Segura, despite having a strong motive, because that is what makes us wardens. We are brave enough, strong enough, and even stupid enough, to make this stand; to wear the green, as you put it. The people of Atlanta and Lugar Segura are not. I do not blame them. I never have. But I need you here."

"One day," said Antonia. "If I can find nothing then I will never mention it again. I promise."

"No, I will not..."

My last card, thought Antonia. A nasty one to deal...

"If you will not let me leave then the next edition of the Atlanta Journal will run with the headline of _Warden Chief's Murdered Husband A Drug Addict._ How do you think the Administration will react to that?"

"There is no proof."

"It doesn't matter. People will believe anything."

"Half the city is illiterate."

"I'm certain it's more than half but enough of them will read it and they will lose all faith in you."

"I told you that story in confidence."

"You are forcing me to be this way."

"Then I will allow you one day to return with a suspect or proof of your theory."

Antonia let out a deep sigh. "Thank you."

Jackson picked up her radio. "This is Chief Jackson. I want six officers sent to the printing press of the Journal. The building is to be locked down. No one is allowed entry."

She switched off the radio.

"Now, this is what is going to happen. You have until dawn tomorrow and if you fail not only will your brother's beloved printing press never spin again but you will be out of a job."

EIGHTEEN

The airboat skimmed across the water, leaving Atlanta behind.

Stone sat in a bucket seat beside Antonia, though her seat was higher for increased visibility as she steered the lightweight craft utilising a solitary control stick.

Her black hair blew in the wind, her face in deep concentration as she guided the airboat along the river. But Stone could see her eyes carried sadness. She was trying to hide it only it wasn't working. He had known her for less than twenty-four hours and already he could see into her heart. But he would not look for too long in case he fell in there and he no longer wanted the pain of growing close to someone knowing that one day they would be gone.

All she had told him of her meeting with Jackson was that, after a heated debate, she had been given permission to look into the murders once more. It was obvious, to Stone, her job as captain was on the line.

He would make sure he got an answer for her. This had to be the work of the Stoats. He was convinced of it. Gutless pirate scum stealing women and children to rape and torture.

He recalled when the Stoats had attacked the transport. Ko-Lin had been keen on Cali until he'd spotted her scarred cheek. Then he'd turned his attention to the woman with the infant. He had promised to make her belly fat – a brutality he'd never gotten the chance to inflict.

Stone reasoned by the end of the day they would be at war with the Stoats and the river through Lugar Segura would be filled with more bodies.

It was a good thought.

But none of this was bringing him closer to Pavla and the vengeance he had vowed back in the town of Silver Road; sitting on the edge of Nuria's grave, a whiskey bottle in one hand, his pistol in the other, her bloodstained body several feet from the soles of his boots. He had said the words over and over, as the sun dropped on the horizon, promising her corpse he would never stop, would never give up, despite the losses and the pain.

He turned his thoughts to Palmer. He had liked the man. He had been untroubled by killing him – killing was a way of life, it had been since childhood – _you're a stone cold killer_ – but he had truly enjoyed the man's company. His final words could've been a pack of lies but there was something in them that rang true.

I would've executed him no matter what, thought Stone, and he would've known that. The story about the delay for fuel, a truck being sent from Kiven, might be the truth.

Truth or lies, Stone knew he couldn't catch up with that damn helicopter and he had no way to bring the bastard down into the dirt – not yet, anyway.

He glanced forward at Cali and Ricardo, sitting in bucket seats at the front of the low-bottomed vessel. The two of them were talking intently and holding hands.

The river bent round banks of trees and tangled undergrowth. Antonia navigated the craft expertly.

Stone glimpsed more of the ruined buildings he had seen the day before. Rampant greenery, streaked gold from the blazing sunshine, surged over rooftops and wrapped around pitted walls. The lower floors were not visible, consumed by a murky swamp.

Once more he turned to look at Antonia. She was deeply burdened. It was clear her job was at stake, maybe more?

"I'll make sure you don't lose your job," he said.

A smile touched her lips. "Is there anything you don't notice?"

"I don't think so."

Bits and pieces of traffic littered the way ahead; rowboats, rafts and barges, floating on the grey-green water.

Weather-beaten wooden houses came into view, surrounded by trees with branches bending in the hot wind. There were moored houseboats and houses built on stilts and shacks made from mud and tin. Clothes blew stiff on washing lines. Shirtless children raced in the shadows and scrambled up trees whilst others swam the river. The air was wreathed in smoke from cooking fires and filled with the noise of work.

A man, standing at a small dock, began to signal them.

"That's Deco," said Antonia.

He was huge, roughly six foot four, maybe taller, with a barrel chest, meaty arms and a thick neck. His skin was dark brown and leathery from a lifetime spent under a burning sun. His hair was grey and cut short. A wide-brimmed straw hat was wedged over his head. Stone noticed the man was missing his left ear; all that remained was a patch of mottled skin. His clothes were simple, homespun, as worn by all the villagers; a plain shirt, the top few buttons open, loose-fitting trousers and sandals.

Antonia moored the airboat and the four of them stepped onto the dock. Deco threw his arms round her and kissed her on both cheeks. He shook hands with Ricardo and ran his eyes over Stone and Cali.

"I have never seen a man draw so fast." He shook hands with Stone. "God blessed you with speed."

"He had nothing to do with it."

Deco let out an uncertain laugh. Stone noticed he wore a simple cross around his neck.

The big man turned his attention to Cali. "And you were pretty fearsome, as well. Ko-Lin chose the wrong day to attack us."

"You got enough men 'round here to handle your own shit," she said. "You didn't need us."

"We have the numbers," he replied, sadness in his tone. "But what we lack is the courage."

"We can discuss this another time," said Antonia. "There is work to do."

Deco nodded. "Yes, but first we eat."

* * *

The house was at the top of the village, surrounded by tall trees. Three small children played in the grass; two boys and a girl.

A woman, no older than Cali, emerged from the house. She had dark brown skin and a narrow, unsmiling face. Her hair was brown, long and straight, worn in a high ponytail. She was wearing a simple dress tied at the waist, emphasising her curved hips and slim waist.

"This is my wife, Mia Rosa," said Deco. He gestured toward Stone and Cali. "Our heroes from yesterday."

Her eyes flitted across them, lingering for a moment on Ricardo.

"Children," said Deco. "Lay the table for our friends."

The table was beside the river with benches along both sides. The three little ones stopped playing and hustled into the house without protest, hurrying back with bits of cutlery and mismatched cups and bowls. Mia Rosa followed behind them and served up fried vegetables, fried fish and pieces of flatbread.

"Bring the water, Mia Rosa," said Deco.

She fetched two pitchers of clean water, sliced lemons floating on top, and moved round the table, pouring carefully.

Stone swatted away a fly and drank, satisfying his parched throat.

The children clambered onto the benches. Stone looked down at a tiny boy no older than six. The boy smiled and made the shape of a gun with his hand, firing off shots the way Stone had done the day before.

Mia Rosa chose not to eat and remained in the doorway of the house, watching in silence.

"How is your father?" asked Deco, wolfing down spoonfuls of fish.

"No change," said Ricardo. "There won't be."

"He is what he is," said Antonia.

"I understand, I understand, but how is he?"

"King of the Castle," said Ricardo, and laughed.

Cali asked Ricardo what was wrong what his father.

"Our father is different. He cannot remember things. He forgets names and faces. He forgets to eat or dress and so he lives at the Castle. It's a shameful place where we shuffle the people we do not understand. They are very sick in here." He tapped the side of his head.

The meal was finished in silence. The children scampered back to play in the grass, tumbling and laughing. Stone watched them; the innocence of children never ceased to fascinate him. His childhood had been brief, cut short in the most brutal of ways.

You're a stone cold killer...

Deco uncorked a fat bottle filled with pale orange fluid and poured. The drink was bitter with a kick that burnt in the back of the throat. Stone watched Ricardo over the rim of his cup. He was holding Cali's hand but more than once his eyes had strayed toward Mia Rosa.

"I have not found out anything new," said Deco. "I talk to my friends and I talk to their friends but everyone is convinced the _Shraal_ are responsible."

Antonia shook her head.

"Monsters are for children. I do not believe in them, Deco. Besides, we have come up with a new theory for the burnings."

"We?" said Cali, lighting a joint and taking a deep drag.

"Let me explain," she said.

Stone listened as she laid out his theory. It _was_ only a theory, a gut reaction, little more than instinct, but Antonia believed in his words and Deco looked convinced by them as well.

"We're going to raid the Stoats' camp," said Stone. "Antonia said you know the location."

"Yes."

"How many men do they have?"

He chuckled. "Less since yesterday." He paused, licked his lips. "Maybe thirty."

Stone nodded.

"This doesn't bother you, no?"

He shook his head.

Deco laughed. "You are one bad motherfucker."

"Finally," said Stone. "Someone has worked me out." Antonia offered him a wry smile.

They began to plan the assault. Stone noticed that Cali was more interested in what Ricardo was looking at and that was Mia Rosa. Stone reckoned he was playing with fire - not from Deco but from Cali.

"Spend some time with Ricardo," he said. "The boy won't be coming with us and this is all straightforward."

She nodded, got up from the table and dragged Ricardo away by the arm, leading him into the trees.

Deco had laid a handful of stones on the table. "These are the old ruins they live in, and here is where the main track is. They have a watchtower so you will not be able to approach from the front."

"We'll have to come from this direction," said Antonia. She pointed to the rear of the buildings

"No," said Deco. "The ground will swallow you up. This is where they moor their airboats. And you cannot take your own; the noise will alert them."

"We'll take the flank," said Stone. "Work through the trees."

"But they have traps scattered in the trees. Giant metal things that will snap your foot off."

Stone thought for a moment.

"You could go in at night," said Deco. "The cover of darkness will allow you..."

"We cannot wait that long," said Antonia, her brow creased.

"Well, there is _another_ way."

They looked at him.

"It is a very dangerous route and..."

He shook his head.

"Tell us," said Stone.

Deco let out a sigh and topped up his cup. "There is a network of tunnels beneath us."

"I like tunnels," said Stone.

"Not these. It was believed the _Shraal_ used them to launch surprise attacks on us in the past."

There was raw fear in the man's eyes.

"You only need to show us the entrance," said Stone.

"Many of the entrances are blocked. But I know where there is one and it will take you here." He pointed at the table. "It is an area beside the watchtower. They will not see you come out and there shouldn't be traps this close to the camp."

"Why would the Stoats leave themselves so vulnerable?"

"The Stoats don't know of the tunnels. Not many do. I went through them once, with my cousin, Paulinho. We were very young and very stupid. The tunnels stink and are full of garbage."

"Then that's our way in," said Stone.

He got to his feet, drew his pistol and checked the clip was fully loaded.

"We'll kill the Stoats, free the women and children they have hostage and save your job, Antonia."

"That will be the easy part," said Deco. He laughed and then grew serious. "What about the _Shraal?_ "

"The only monster in those tunnels will be me," said Stone.

NINETEEN

Cali kissed Ricardo.

"This might take a while," she said.

"I'll be thinking of you the entire time."

"Good, because you're starting to mean something to me and I don't want nothing to fuck it up."

"It won't."

"Then keep your eyes off Deco's wife or it will. I know you're a player, Ricardo, but you don't do that kind of shit with me, you feel me?"

He hugged her.

"I'll come with you," he said.

"You ever fire a gun?"

"I've never even held one."

"Then you ain't no fucking use for this trip. I'll tell you all about it when we get back and you can put it in your damn newspaper."

"Cali," called Stone.

"I hear you, man," she called back.

She kissed Ricardo once more and stared into his eyes. "I've known a lot of guys. Man, you'd better wipe that look off your face; _I didn't say I slept with them_. I've just known a lot and most of them were assholes. There was this one guy a while back but he was in love with this other girl. Besides, he got himself blown up."

She paused.

"I'm really into you, Ricardo, and I know you feel the same way so don't fuck this up for the pair of us, you feel me?"

She walked back to the table where Stone was waiting with Antonia and Deco.

"OK?" he said.

"Yeah," she said. She glanced back. "Sweet."

"Wait," said Antonia, suddenly. "There's Father Milan."

He was standing outside a house nearby, shaking hands with a young couple and making the sign of the cross as he left. He still wore black with the white collar. The sun glinted off his bald head. He saw them, clustered at the riverbank, nodded and began to walk away.

"Not this time," said Antonia.

She marched after him and placed a hand on his shoulder.

Stone and Cali watched. Antonia had a furious look on her face but Father Milan was smiling and gesturing with his hands.

"What the fuck is going on, Stone?" said Cali.

He didn't answer. He moved quickly, grabbed the man by his collar and shoved him toward the water's edge.

"Who was hiding in that confession booth last night?"

"I demand that you let go of me."

"Was it Fox?" said Stone. "Who is he?"

"Take your hands off me. You mustn't treat me this way. I am the voice of God."

"You speak His words? Then let's see if He can talk underwater."

Stone dragged him into the water and drove his head beneath the surface. There were gasps and cries all around as Father Milan thrashed and flailed his arms. Stone wrenched him from the river.

"I can't hear Him," said Stone.

Drenched and spluttering, Father Milan turned to the gathered villagers. "Please, somebody help me."

A few men took a pace forward but Stone looked over his shoulder, brutal eyes and a scarred face glaring from beneath his fedora, and the men backed away, fearful.

"Father Milan," said Antonia. "A man named Fox paid the Perez brothers to murder Ingrid and Franco Cadecci. Ingrid is dead, an innocent child, but Franco survived. Tell me who Fox is and why this happened."

"I don't know anyone by the name of Fox."

"Liar," said Stone.

He thrust Father Milan into the river for a second time. There were more gasps. The holy man had little fight left in him. His kicks began to weaken. Stone still held him under, a desolate and faraway look in his eyes.

"That's enough," said Antonia.

Stone released him, barely aware the man was on the brink of death, and Father Milan crawled onto the bank, choking and spluttering.

"There... there was... there was someone... it was Fox."

"Who is he?" asked Antonia.

"I do not know this man. I never see his face."

"Why did he want Ingrid and Franco dead?"

"I don't know why... I don't know anything... I swear."

"You're still lying," said Antonia.

Stone reached for him. "Leave it," she said. "We will deal with him once we finish with the Stoats."

Tears streamed from Father Milan's eyes. "I do God's work," he said. "I answer to Him. I cannot help you."

* * *

"They're gone," said Ricardo.

Mia Rosa was inside the house, washing dishes in a large basin.

"Good," she said. "Your friend is an animal. How dare he attack Father Milan!"

Her voice was deep and sharp.

"Now, make yourself useful."

Ricardo picked up a cloth and began to dry.

"Do them properly," she said. "This isn't the city. We have standards."

"I never meant to hurt you," he said.

"You didn't. It was a mistake. It is the past. You have a new woman now. Do you love her the way you loved me?"

"I care about her, yes, but she isn't staying. In a few days she'll be gone. Then it will be _us_ once more."

Her hands stopped in the water. She stood motionless for several seconds, saying nothing.

"There is no _us,_ Ricardo. It was once and it was a mistake."

Wiping her hands on a cloth, she went and stood in the doorway of her house, her back to him.

Village life unravelled before her. Her children played on the bank.

"The same faces," she whispered. "The same routine."

She turned.

"Do you believe in monsters, Ricardo?"

"No."

She came back inside, sat at a round table with stools. He sat with her and tried to hold her hand but she snatched it away.

"You do not believe."

"OK, OK," he said. "I believe in monsters."

She smiled for the first time. It lit up her face. Her dark eyes sparkled.

"But only human ones," said Ricardo. His tone grew serious. "I've seen plenty of them. I've sat nose to nose with real-life monsters in Starkville. After such terrifying interviews it's hard to believe in ten-foot tall mutants that shoot fire."

"Is that your dramatic reporter voice used for trapping women under your spell?"

He smiled, sheepishly. "Is it working?"

"No."

She laughed and he laughed with her. The laughter stopped. Her eyes began to moisten. Gingerly, she reached for the straps of her dress and lowered them.

"Deco?"

She raised her dress, hiding the bruises.

"Bastard!" said Ricardo.

"A lot of men are. Like your new friend."

"I'm sure Stone isn't like that."

"How can you say that? You saw how he treated Father Milan."

Silence.

"I never realised Deco was like this," said Ricardo.

More silence.

"I have to tell you something," said Mia Rosa. "It's very important and I want you to listen carefully."

He waited.

"If something happens to me and the children, if we... leave here... I want you to know I still love you... despite this tramp you bring to my house."

He tried to interrupt but she glared at him and he fell silent.

"I just want you to know I'll be OK. Do you understand?"

"Are you planning on running away? I can help. I can find you an apartment in the city and..."

"Shhh." She took his hand, massaged his skin against her own. "I care for you very much and I do not want you to be sad when I'm gone."

"Gone? So you are going to leave him. You have such courage..."

"Not like that," said Mia Rosa.

Ricardo narrowed his eyes. "What's going on?"

"You city people never understand, do you?"

"I'm from here."

"You were born here, Ricardo, but you are a city boy. What does a city boy know about suffering?"

"The city is filled with suffering. I write stories in my newspaper about..."

"This is not about your newspaper," she said, raising her voice. "Carlos used to beat his wife. Samuel beat his wife _and_ his children. Aldo was a thief. Diego sold drugs. Felipe... Felipe _touched_ his children."

"Who are these men?" The names tumbled through his head. Realisation landed in his eyes. "The male victims of the burnings."

She nodded. "Soon, I will be in a better place and my children will no longer watch their mother suffer. It will be Deco who suffers."

Ricardo opened his mouth. No words came out. He shook his head, trying to find clarity.

"How can being kidnapped by the Stoats be better?"

She laughed. "The Stoats have nothing to do with this."

He got to his feet. "What? My sister is about to risk her life and you've known this all along."

"How could I say anything with Deco here? He would beat me more. I have not been able to tell anyone except Father Milan. Why do you think he comes here? He listens to us; to the wives, daughters, sisters and aunts... he listens to the women, Ricardo, and he finds the ones amongst us who need to be set free from the evil that men do. And then he summons Fox. And our new life begins."

"Stone was half-right," said Ricardo. "But where are the women and children?"

"I cannot tell you that. They are alive and safe and they are no longer victims."

"So who is this man Fox? Why does he dress up as a monster?"

Once more she laughed. "Fox does not dress up as a monster, Ricardo. Fox _controls_ the monster."

TWENTY

Deco prised open the rusted metal cover. The smell hit them at once. He lit a torch and shone it over the hole.

"You'll need this," he said.

Taking the torch, Stone peered down into blackness and grimaced. An iron ladder descended into the gloomy depths. He tested his boot on the first rung. Confident it would hold his weight, he clambered down out of view.

His boots sunk into garbage-choked water. He fanned the torch and saw he was in a long brick tunnel with grimy ledges and a central channel.

The stench was rank.

"It's empty," he said.

Antonia came down next, followed by Cali.

"I will leave it open," called Deco. "Good luck, my friends."

Stone led the way, holding the flaming torch in his left hand, pistol gripped in his right.

Black water sloshed around his boots and trousers, soaking them. They walked for ten minutes, saying nothing.

"Stop," said Stone.

The three of them came to an abrupt halt.

"Listen," he whispered.

They had quickly gotten used to the sound of their own movement echoing in the tunnel. _This was something different..._

"Is that someone calling us?" said Cali.

"Ricardo," said Antonia, angrily.

There was a splash behind them, and then clumsy and rapid movement.

"Follow the light," shouted Stone.

Ricardo emerged from the darkness, his clothes drenched, dirt smeared on his face and hands.

"I fell from the ladder," he said. He was panting and shaking. "You have to turn back."

"What are you talking about, baby brother?"

He lurched away from them, doubled over and vomited.

"Calm down, Ricardo," said Antonia. "What is wrong?"

"Mia Rosa... she ..."

"I told you to stay away from her, man," said Cali.

"Be quiet," said Antonia.

"Man, fuck you."

"Please, stop arguing," said Ricardo. "The _Shraal_ are real. I can't believe I'm even saying this but they are. We have to get out of here. The women and children are alive but the Stoats have nothing to do with this. It's Father Milan and a man named Fox..."

"Fox?" said Antonia. "What has he got to do with this? Ricardo, what exactly did Mia Rosa tell you?"

He was still bent at the waist, hands gripping his thighs, heart racing as he tried to get out his words.

The three of them listened to his story.

"I don't care if this man Fox is helping the families," said Antonia. "He had Ingrid Cadecci murdered and killed five men."

"Men who beat their wives and children," said Ricardo. "Men who deserved to die. Stone, you understand, don't you?"

Stone shrugged, said nothing.

A deep rumble suddenly filled the tunnel. The four of them stared back the way they'd come.

Stone shone the flickering torch.

There was only blackness.

"It can't be," whispered Ricardo.

There was a second rumble. The tunnel shook.

Stone narrowed his eyes. The blackness began to move, sending ripples along the water-filled central channel.

He handed the torch to Antonia. "Take Ricardo and run." There was hesitation in her eyes. He nodded firmly at her. "It'll be OK."

He turned from her.

"Cali, with me," he said.

She rushed beside him, pistol drawn, held with both hands.

The rumble became a deafening roar, deep and primal. Antonia still hesitated, her terrified brother at her side.

"Go!" shouted Stone.

She grabbed Ricardo and the two siblings fled along the tunnel, torchlight bobbing.

"Two lefts and a right," she called back.

The blackness was drawing closer, taking shape, filling the tunnel. Another roar erupted at them.

"Man, tell me these _Shraal_ fuckers ain't real," said Cali, a tremble in her voice.

The blackness grew in size and speed, bearing down on them, the outline of a body, arms and legs, a head, no neck.

They both fired, gunshots deafening in the tunnel. The thing kept coming at them, the slugs doing nothing.

The light continued to fade as Antonia and Ricardo moved further away.

Stone and Cali fired until their guns clicked empty.

And then the torchlight was gone and the tunnel was plunged into darkness.

"Oh, shit," whispered Cali.

A wisp of orange light appeared before them, illuminating a humanoid outline for a split second – giant arms and short legs, a towering body covered in fur, a face that was no man or beast they had ever seen before.

The creature roared, its gaping mouth filled with teeth.

"Run," shouted Stone.

He grabbed Cali by the wrist and pulled her along the tunnel as the deadly orange light grew behind them.

A column of fire blasted toward them and they threw themselves down into the murky black water, choking on mouthfuls of filth.

Stone dragged himself off his hands and knees, pulling Cali out of the water and shouting at her to keep moving.

A second cone of fire tore along the tunnel, followed by another deafening roar.

Stumbling and gasping, they rounded a corner. There was a glimpse of light ahead, Antonia and Ricardo, and then it disappeared.

Stone and Cali ran and the _Shraal_ thundered after them, roaring. Another blast of fire shot along the tunnel.

Cali screamed.

Stone felt her sag. He kept pulling at her arm, his wet hand sliding down toward her hand.

Antonia and Ricardo were waiting for them round another bend.

"Our guns are useless," said Stone. He was panting hard. "It's still on us."

He took the torch from her and fanned it over Cali. Her leg was smeared with blood, the skin torn and rippled.

Ricardo gasped.

"Can you run?" asked Stone.

Cali nodded.

The beast roared, closer now...

Scrambling desperately through the filth, arms and legs aching, pulses racing, they reached an open area with more tunnels and a ladder disappearing up into darkness.

"This is the way out," said Antonia.

Stone handed her the torch and hurriedly reloaded his last magazine of bullets. Cali leaned onto Ricardo, tears streaming from her eyes.

Antonia scrambled up the ladder, wet boots slipping on rusted rungs. She flashed the torch over a circular metal plate, identical to the one they had come through.

Balanced precariously at the top of the ladder, she pushed at the cover but it refused to budge.

"Take this," she said.

She handed the torch to Ricardo.

"Wait, I haven't..."

The torch hit the water, the flame going out with a loud hiss.

Darkness.

"Sorry," said Ricardo.

Stone waited, gun raised, finger on the trigger.

He listened; laboured breathing from his companions, gentle whimpers from Cali, his heart pounding in his ears.

The tunnel was in silence.

"It's gone," said Ricardo.

"Why?" said Stone. "It has us trapped and our bullets were doing nothing."

Light exploded into the tunnel but it wasn't fire – this time it was daylight and it came from above.

Hands thrust down, grabbing Antonia.

"No," said Ricardo.

Without thinking, he scrambled up the ladder and was immediately caught. His legs kicked as he was pulled above ground.

Stone moved, pointing his gun upward. He placed his boot on the ladder and saw an olive-skinned man looking down at him.

A Stoat...

He fired, one shot, the single bullet smacking the man in the head and tossing him from view.

There was the loud cocking of weapons.

"Come out or your friends die. Now, now. Move."

Stone glanced at Cali, hiding in the darkness, covered in filth, blood leaking from her burnt leg.

He said nothing to her, made no movement or gesture.

Slowly, she huddled further back into the dark.

Swearing under his breath, Stone climbed the ladder, half-blind from the brilliant sunlight. He emerged into a tree-lined clearing where a dozen armed men waited for him. Antonia and Ricardo were pinned to the trees, muzzles jammed against their throats.

"Throw down your gun," shouted a Stoat.

He was shirtless, his bare chest covered in ink and necklaces of beads. He wore a bandana with feathers hanging from it.

A submachine was resting against his hip, finger on the trigger.

"Down, down."

Stone was quick, he knew that, but there was no way he could take them all down with that submachine pointing at him.

"Last chance," said Feathers.

Stone tossed his pistol on the ground.

* * *

The metal cover slammed shut.

Cali shivered as the light disappeared. There was the sound of muffled voices and scuffling from above and then nothing.

Her leg throbbed.

There was no time to feel sorry for herself; no fucking way was that her. She had to move and move fast.

She placed her boot on the rung of the ladder, attempting to keep the open wound out of the diseased water. Working by touch alone, she reached into her lightweight satchel and took out a half-bottle of whiskey. She swigged a mouthful and held the lip of the bottle over her leg, knowing the alcohol would clean any infection.

She hesitated.

"Pussy," she muttered.

A scarred cheek and now a scarred leg.

"I'm dead if I stay down here," she said to herself.

Angrily, she splashed whiskey over the wound, gritting her teeth to stifle her cries as pain racked every nerve in her body.

Quickly, still working in darkness, she wrapped her calf with a clean bandage, her last one.

A roar speared through the tunnel.

"Oh, man..."

There was thudding and splashing as the beast came running through the blackness toward her.

She tucked her empty pistol into her shorts.

Taking out the sawn-off shotgun, she levered open the twin barrels and slotted in two shells.

The roar came once again, bouncing off the walls of the tunnel.

"No more running," she said. "I ain't going out like no bitch."

Her leg stung. Sweat poured down her face and arms. The stinking black water swirled round her ankles.

As the deadly creature appeared in the distance, Cali gripped the shotgun and got ready to die.

TWENTY ONE

" _Wake up!"_

Stone opened his eyes and grimaced with pain.

"We have to find a way out of here," said Antonia.

He wanted to smile at the sight of her but his jaw ached. They'd clubbed him to the ground and beaten him good but he knew that was only the beginning.

Throat parched, he coughed and spat.

"Did they find Cali?" he asked.

"No," she said. "They sealed up the tunnel and brought us here. Once they finished beating the shit out of you. Are you OK?"

He nodded and immediately wished he hadn't as pain ripped through his skull. He lifted a hand toward his head but stopped to examine the iron chains secured around both wrists. He looked down and saw a second pair around his ankles.

"I don't think they trust you," said Antonia.

Blinking, coming into focus, he saw they were in a cell with no window. Through the bars was a long corridor, lit by a hanging lamp.

"Where's Ricardo?"

"I'm here," he said. He shuffled out of the gloom. His face was tear-stained. "I want to go home."

"Shut up, baby brother," said Antonia.

"What numbers are we up against?" asked Stone.

"More than thirty," said Antonia. "Deco was wrong. I guess about fifty. But only a handful of them have automatic weapons. Most are armed with machetes, crossbows, knives, bits of wood."

"How long have we been here?"

"Long enough for me to put things together. I have spoken with Ricardo about Mia Rosa. She has a job in the city. It was where she met Ingrid. She told Ingrid about her husband beating her but Deco is not like that, Stone. I have never seen him raise a fist to a woman or even his voice to his children."

"I saw the bruises," said Ricardo.

"What does that mean? All men have fists, baby brother, and Mia Rosa likes men, despite the fact she is married."

Antonia nodded at her brother.

"Isn't that right?"

He hung his head and said nothing.

"Ingrid told Mia Rosa that she was a member of a special organisation who takes care of battered women, giving them a new life. Ingrid said her group was responsible for the burnings and that only the husbands had been killed, just like you thought. But the women and children have not been kidnapped; they are safe in a shelter inside the city. She said that Fox, her boss, controls the _Shraal_ and would summon one for her."

Stone continued to listen.

"When Mia Rosa spoke with Father Milan he did not believe Deco was responsible for her beatings. He named another man in the village. There are rumours she is with this man when Deco is not around. Mia Rosa was furious with Father Milan. She told him she wanted her new life or she would expose the organisation. This has to be why Ingrid was killed. She talked too much and chose the wrong one in Mia Rosa."

Stone nodded. "You can tell this to your boss once we get out of here."

"Do you have a plan?"

He shook his right boot. "I still have my knife. That's a start."

A door at the end of the corridor opened and six men marched inside, talking loudly. Young and black-haired, wearing shorts and sandals, they gathered at the cell.

" _I ain't never fucked a warden. We should all fuck her at once..."_

" _I'm gonna make that pretty boy my bitch..."_

" _Who's gonna fuck the old man?"_

" _Rage'll deal with him. Rage will bury him in the arena..."_

They began clattering machetes and knives against the bars and started a chant.

" _Rage! Rage! Rage! Rage!"_

Stone got to his feet, his huge body unfolding. "Why don't you take these off?" he said. He held up his chained wrists. "And I'll fight this asshole called _Rage._ And all of you."

Another Stoat pushed through the pack. Stone recognised him. It was the man he'd surrendered his pistol to. The Stoat wore his shoulder holster and battered fedora. The hat was now decorated with a handful of feathers.

Stone clenched his fists, bared his teeth and growled at the man.

"You keep quiet," he said. He still brandished the submachine gun. "We have been doing this a long time. We are not fools."

He issued orders to his men. A bunch of keys jangled in the cell door.

Stone got ready.

Two Stoats rushed inside, both with revolvers. They pushed Stone into the corner, weapons pointing at him. Feathers followed next, the submachine on his hip, aimed directly at Stone.

Feathers was right, thought Stone, these fucks have done this before. There was no way he could move an inch without being riddled by slugs.

"Take them," said Feathers.

The remaining Stoats poured into the cell, grabbing Antonia and Ricardo. The two of them were dragged into the corridor. Antonia flashed him a grave look.

Feathers backed out of the cell, accompanied by the Stoats armed with handguns.

"You pay the ultimate price, old man. Move, move, quickly, quickly."

Stone shuffled toward the open cell door, body aching from the beating he'd been given a few hours earlier. Feathers and his men kept their distance. They knew he was dangerous, even restrained, and were taking no chances.

Moving slowly along the corridor, Stone grew frustrated at the lack of opportunity to overpower the three men and seize their weapons.

He wondered what was happening to Antonia and Ricardo. Had he condemned them by bringing them here?

Maybe I should visit the Church of Saint Anthony, he thought, and sit in the booth of confession...

No, he had _nothing_ to confess. If Antonia and Ricardo died he would take the guilt and pain and allow it to drive him. He would brutalise the evil in this world for what he carried in his black soul.

And he would never stop...

A wry smile touched his lips.

"Walk faster, old man," said Feathers.

You'll die soon enough, thought Stone.

Outside, he stood in dwindling sunlight, the heat still intense, a hot wind rushing against him.

He was in the remains of a small town, an oval-shaped area surrounded by ruined buildings that sagged and leaned. There were faded store signs, the words no more than ghostly imprints, the metal bubbled and scorched. Above were apartments with long strands of greenery clinging to the grimy brickwork and weaving through holes. Women with swollen stomachs and grubby-faced children watched through empty windows.

The sun continued to fall, lighting the tops of trees that dotted the sidewalks and surrounded the town.

Stone was herded toward a large gathering of Stoats. As he walked he looked for an exit once he'd broken free of his chains. There was a car lot crammed with rusted metal vehicles. But the lot backed onto more buildings and these were boarded over.

No way out that way, he thought.

In another direction, two roads led away from the cluster of buildings but they were blocked with more brown rusted vehicles, dragged into place to form barricades.

A third road, the asphalt heavily-potholed, was clear of wrecks and ended at a gate topped with razor wire. Two men stood in a nearby watchtower, armed with rifles.

Possibilities with the road, he thought, and the gate, but he would have to take out the riflemen first.

Feather pushed him and Stone trudged forward, plotting his escape route. The chains didn't matter and his lack of weapons wasn't important, for now. Once free, he would fight his way to an automatic weapon – and then the _real_ mayhem could begin.

Children followed him, shouting abuse and spitting. One boy, no older than five or six, boldly got in his path and drew a line across his throat, quickly wheeling away, laughing.

He was led to a stretch of dirt ground where the Stoats stood cheering and waving weapons.

Stone saw Antonia and Ricardo for the first time. The siblings were staked against a wooden wall, bound with rope, arms and legs spread. There was a large table before them, wooden planks stained with dried blood.

"Move," said Feathers.

Stone was shoved into the crowd. He was punched and kicked and spat on as he limped through the Stoats, the chains restricting his movement. Breathing hard, he kept the pain inside and showed the pirates no weakness.

A square-shaped arena had been constructed in the middle of the dirt ground and was bordered with a five-foot high wooden fence. Stone saw the inside of the fence was lined with coils of razor wire.

Led to an open gate, a gun was placed against his head as the Stoats unlocked his chains and pushed him inside.

The gate closed behind him.

The Stoats surged around the arena, yelling.

Stone was unmoving, arms loose at his sides, wind rippling his blood-stained clothes.

He glanced at the fearsome wire and saw streaks of dried blood stained to the metal.

Grimly, he nodded, mentally preparing for the ordeal to come.

Lit torches cast long flickering shadows as the evening wind picked up.

A sudden hush descended and the crowd of Stoats moved aside for a man who commanded immediate fear and respect.

He was olive-skinned with straight black hair worn in a ponytail. He was a short man, no more than five-eight, and wore loose-fitting black trousers and a matching jacket, no shirt. His feet were bare. His chest was inked, the same image Stone had seen on the pirate flag the day before.

A curved sword hung from his belt.

He thrust his arms into the air. "I am Rage! I lead you!"

The crowd erupted with cheers.

"You are my people. I protect you. I provide you with food and wealth and women to grow our future generations."

Stone watched on in silence.

"This man has murdered our brothers," said Rage. "He has come to the land of the Stoats and butchered our young warriors."

There was hissing.

"He and his companions will face the punishment of the arena. No one defies us. No one will exterminate us."

Once more the crowd cheered.

"We will not forget our fallen brothers."

The name of _Ko-Lin_ rang through the camp.

"You," said Rage.

He drew his sword, blade glinting in the flickering torchlight, and pointed it at Stone.

"You will fight in our arena and for every man you fail to beat the woman will be taken and the man will lose a limb."

He sheathed the sword.

"And then we will start again."

Stone continued to stare, his scarred face grim and emotionless.

Rage was talking once more, the crowd hypnotised by his words. Murder, kidnap and brutality were a way of life for the pirates; the only way they knew how to survive in this world, and Stone knew he'd committed similar and possibly worse acts in the wastelands, but he was done listening to this smug little asshole. He turned his back on the man and looked across at Antonia. She bore a hard expression, hiding the fear and anger that boiled inside.

"You do not turn your back on Rage," shouted the Stoat leader.

Not this asshole again!

Stone turned slowly and flexed his fists. "Fuck you," he said.

The gate to the arena opened and a bare-chested Stoat stepped inside. Only half the crowd were cheering him on, the other half were laughing.

Stone waited in the centre of the arena, boots in the dirt. There wasn't a lot of room to manoeuvre, the arena was possibly fifteen feet across, if that, and hitting the razor wire was something he really wanted to avoid.

Most of the Stoats were crowded on the left and right hand sides, pressed against the wooden fence, cheering and yelling. A smaller number stood by the gate, where Rage now sat on an elevated chair, his pirate throne. Behind Stone, where Antonia and Ricardo were tied to the wooden wall, he'd counted only four men, the numbers deliberately thin to offer a clear view of the rape and mutilation the rest of them expected to witness.

But that wasn't going to happen...

The Stoat swung at him, his huge muscled arm sweeping through the air. He threw another punch, and then another, but Stone easily dodged his blows. The crowd were even less split now with most of them laughing. It seemed they had little faith in the man and he'd been tossed inside the arena as early entertainment rather than a genuine threat.

Stone continued to tread cautiously, working his angles, understanding the space he had been given to fight in.

The Stoat, headstrong and foolish, rushed forward, without thinking, without a plan, and Stone sidestepped. Hard laughter erupted in the crowd. The Stoat came at Stone for a second time, swinging his meaty fists.

Stone lunged and drove his forehead into the man's face; bone snapped and blood spurted.

The Stoat recoiled, howling in pain, unsteady on his feet. Stone hit him with a huge right, driving his fist into the Stoat's temple, sending the man crashing to the ground.

The pirate lay in the dirt, unmoving, and Stone towered over him, his scarred face half in shade.

"Who's next?" he growled.

TWENTY TWO

He had no idea of how long he'd been fighting for or how many men he'd faced and beaten. There was no second to rest and replenish his fading energy. The Stoats kept coming, loudly cheered by a crowd now swelled in number by women and children.

The sun had gone down. The moon was curved and pale, an odd-one-out amongst the thousands of stars that glittered. No one knew what purpose they served but Stone had spent years staring up at them, during his time in the wasteland with his young friend, Tomas. The two men would huddle round a small fire, food eaten and weapons cleaned, humbled and captivated by the mysterious beauty of a night sky, sometimes talking, speculating, other times remaining silent, dreaming, only for a moment, of a world less foul and dangerous than the one in which they existed.

He had not thought of Tomas for a long time. He had watched him come into the world and when Tomas's family died he had been passed the burden of raising this skinny boy, shaping him into a man who knew how to fight and survive

But Tomas was gone, gutted by the blade of a tribal leader, a vengeance Stone had delivered on.

The stars continued to blink in the black sky.

Nuria had called them white lights. _Not stars. White lights._

He had met her at the end of his life, or so he thought it would be, as he exacted a blood vengeance that had haunted him for more than forty years - give or take a year or two.

She had helped him escape and shown him a new path. She had never attempted to fill the void created by the loss of Tomas but, in time, he had grown close to her and learned to trust again. But now she was dead, her skin no longer warmed by the sun or chilled by the moon. Her voice would become a memory, nothing more. And here he was, once more in a deadly situation, his new companions bound and helpless. At least Cali had survived...

A boot collided with his jaw.

He reeled, spitting blood and half a tooth.

Savage pain erupted along his nerves but he channelled it into aggression rather than allowing it to dominate him.

Fury poured into Stone's blood-smeared fists. He unleashed a clubbing assault on the Stoat he faced. His punches were brutal, ugly smacks of flesh against flesh, the onlookers growing more subdued as he dealt out another savage beating.

The pirate sprawled to the ground, unmoving.

Breathing hard, Stone picked up the man and hurled him against the razor wire that surrounded the arena. The Stoat cried in agony as the barbs slashed open his skin. He hung there, weeping, too weak to free himself. He flailed his arms, begging for help, but no one dared enter the arena.

Suddenly, with a pitiful cry, his weight pulled him loose, tearing open more skin, and he crashed to the dirt.

His blood-smeared body twitched. His pleas for help were little more than child-like whimpers. Stone brought his boot down on the man's skull and continued to stamp until it cracked wide open.

The enthusiasm of the crowd slackened. _This wasn't the entertainment they were used to._

The Stoat leader, Rage, scowled from his throne, unable to accept how this man _\- this old man_ \- was better than any of his young warriors.

Stone stood with his legs apart; body bruised, blood steadily running from a deep wound on his forehead. He wiped the blood with his hand but it didn't stem the flow and the blood trickled into his eye, causing him to blink rapidly.

Pulling off his undershirt, revealing his scarred chest and back, he tied it around his head, knotting it tightly, stopping the blood at once.

Rage signalled to two abnormally muscled men. They nodded and headed toward the arena.

"No," growled Stone.

He limped toward the gate and raised his arm.

"You."

The heavily-muscled Stoats hesitated. A low chant began in the crowd and slowly grew in volume.

Rage! Rage! Rage! Rage! Rage!

The small man rose and slipped off his black jacket. The crowd erupted with noise; cheering and singing. Rage loosened the sheathed sword at his waist and placed it on his throne. With a measured walk, exuding confidence, he approached the arena, his bare feet leaving marks in the dirt.

Stone ignored the performance and was wondering if Cali had found a way clear of the beast in the tunnels.

Yeah, she was clear, he was certain of it. The girl had guts and guile and could talk and fight her way out of most situations. But where was she? The odds were shitty, he knew that, but they'd faced shitty odds in the past. Had she gone back to the village to get help from Deco? No, the villagers had chosen not to fight the Stoats – why would they now? The wardens? No, he couldn't imagine her dealing with those bastards, not after the way they had treated her.

Then?

Had the Shraal got her?

No, no, no...

But that thing was real, that wasn't some guy dressed up like a monster; it was real, a twisted descendant from the mutants formed during the atomic age...

No, Cali was alive – he couldn't lose her – she was alive and out there in the dark, waiting for the right moment to strike...

Stone felt the knife in his boot and knew he was about to deliver the right moment for her.

The gate opened and Rage stepped into the arena... followed by the two muscled Stoats.

"Shit," whispered Stone.

He took a few paces to his right. The three Stoats began to circle the arena, calling to him. They were in no hurry. The numbers were in their favour. Three against one was a devastating advantage in a tight enclosure ringed with razor wire - no matter how tough and experienced the _one_ was.

Stone wasn't going to hang around. This diversion to his mission was taking too long and keeping him from tracking down Pavla's location. He needed to put a bullet in her skull and retrieve the flag.

Time to end this...

He went on the offensive, silencing the pain that ripped through his body. Feinting right, he went left, and hooked one of the muscled Stoats by the arm. Stone spun him and forced him into a headlock. The Stoat flailed with his arms but Stone tightened the grip, bicep bulging.

Rage leapt at him, stretching his left leg with tremendous speed. But Stone had seen what was coming. Rage was half his size but was nimble and toned and Stone would never judge an enemy based on something as trivial as size.

With the Stoat in the headlock, and Rage's kick searing toward him, Stone threw himself backward, taking the muscled pirate with him. Stone hit the dirt with his back. The Stoat went face first. The pirate groaned and didn't budge.

Stone rolled clear and sprang to his feet. Pain wracked his wounded leg and he lost balance for a moment. It was enough for Rage. The small leader sprang at him and unleashed a vicious kick. The blow clipped Stone, rocking him. A second kick sent him crashing toward the barbed wire. He regained his footing, just in time, dropping to his knees to avoid the deadly barbs. Rage kept up the rapid kicks, coming in high and low. The Stoat leader was light on his feet, almost gliding over the dirt.

Stone attempted to catch one of Rage's kicks, but the man was too fast. No sooner had his foot struck then the leg was snapped back.

The Stoat on the ground was back on his feet. His face was smeared with blood and dirt.

The two muscled men flanked Stone. Rocking on his feet, Stone readied for the twin assault. A devastating volley of kicks and punches hit him. He was battered from side to side.

He hit back, with crunching punches, but the men thundered against him and at last the numbers began to count.

Stone threw himself at the man to his left, piling his weight into the man's stomach, hitting him with his shoulder and lifting him from the ground.

Both men tumbled into the dirt. Stone pinned the man with his legs and wrestled for control of the man's arm but the Stoat had no intention of letting that happen. The two men sweated and grunted, Stone desperately trying to force the muscled Stoat's thick arm into a lock. The Stoat was incredibly strong and continued to resist, thrashing and kicking and clawing.

Rage hit Stone with a kick.

Pain coursed through his body. Stone ignored the blow and continued to work at the Stoat on the ground.

Teeth gritted, face streaming with sweat, Stone finally got the Stoat's arm into a lock. He bent it, straining ligament. Another kick from Rage hit him. He held onto the Stoat, keeping him pinned to the ground, bending the man's arm at an unnatural angle until there was a sickening crack of bone.

Stone rolled clear as the crowd went silent.

Antonia, staked to the wooden board, allowed herself a small grin. A Stoat saw her expression and backhanded her, splitting her lip. She cried out and the noise distracted Stone for a moment...

Rage launched a ferocious attack, a deadly succession of lightning fast kicks with his left and right.

Stone was battered. The other muscled Stoat moved into his flank, unleashing punches.

Twisting and bending, he managed to avoid the muscled Stoat's attack but it took him directly against Rage. The small man sprang through the air and drove a kick into Stone's chest.

Legs giving way, his vision blurring, the impact sent Stone crashing into the razor wire.

The barbs tore at his exposed back.

With all his strength, Stone ripped himself from the fence. Blood wept down his back.

The two men began to circle him, ready to move in for the kill. Once more, Stone went on the attack. He charged the last of the muscled Stoats, dipping his body and hurling himself off the ground, slamming his shoulder into the man's stomach and blasting him off his feet.

The two men went down.

Stone hooked his thumbs into the Stoat's eyes. The man screamed. Stone lifted the man's head, thumbs still gouging, and smashed it against the ground.

Blood spread in the dirt.

A kick crashed into Stone's ribs. Gasping for air, he tried desperately to crawl away...

Rage owned the arena, lithe body slick with perspiration. He aimed another kick, connecting once more.

Stone collapsed... finished...

For a second, as Rage bounced from corner to corner, he acknowledged the spirit and trickery of the old man. His skills had outwitted many of his toughest warriors.

But the old fighter was down, unmoving, nothing left...

Rage signalled to his people and they roared, cheers echoing in the dark night, eyes peering on from the surrounding buildings.

Stone was crumpled in the dirt.

Antonia looked on with a stab of pain in her chest. She had woken in his arms; satisfied, renewed, energised for the days to come. She knew he would leave the city once his mission was complete. He might ask her to go with him. Tempted, she would refuse. She had a job to do. She had citizens to protect. Her father was still a patient at the Castle and, though he no longer recognised her, she recognised him and couldn't abandon him for anyone. She glanced sideways at her brother. His head was lowered but he no longer cried.

She whispered to him. "I love you, baby brother."

It was over for all of them. Stone would die at the hands of Rage and she would suffer at the hands of the Stoats.

And Ricardo?

Another backhand cracked open her mouth.

She tasted blood, spat it out.

"Don't worry," said the Stoat. "You'll soon have something tasty to swallow."

She turned her eyes from the leering man, understanding what she would endure, knowing only that whilst air flowed in her lungs there was still the opportunity to fight.

Rage moved in for the kill...

Stone was still on the ground. Antonia had suspected he was attempting to lure Rage closer but now she wasn't so sure.

He looked beaten... finished....

Rage stood over him, leg raised, ready to grind Stone into the dirt and show his people who ruled the wetlands...

It was time for the old man to die...

TWENTY THREE

Stone erupted from the dirt, moving at incredible speed, his body unfolding, muscles straining.

His right arm thrust savagely and grabbed Rage at the throat. The Stoat reached for Stone's wrist, trying to prise open his fingers, but the grip was vice-like. Rage stared along Stone's taut arm, seeing darkness in the old man's eyes that chilled even his brutal heart. He'd succumbed to one of the oldest tricks in fighting and he knew in that terrible moment his people would pay the price.

Stone lifted the man off the ground, right arm extended, grip unflinching. Rage's feet lashed out but the kicks barely reached Stone and those that did were ineffective without the strength of his body powering them.

Standing in the centre of the arena, bloodstained shirt tied round his head, rivulets of blood trickling down his back from where he'd landed against the barbed wire, his face and chest bruised, Stone had at last silenced the Stoats. The tribe were in shock, numb, uncertain of how to respond.

In that final moment, the Stoats saw a blade glinting in Stone's left hand. As guns and crossbows were raised, Stone sprinted toward the wire fence, every step sending waves of pain through his body. He carried Rage by the throat and slammed him onto the barbed wire. Rage cried out in agony as his limbs became entangled but that was the least of his worries. The knife flashed and Stone ripped open his throat. Blood gushed as the flaps of skin were viscously severed.

Switching the knife into his right hand, Stone vaulted the wire fence, using Rage's body as a springboard, and landed on the outer wooden wall. He dropped down and swung at the nearest Stoat, slashing him across the face and wrestling free a pistol.

Weapon cocked, Stone began firing.

Stoats went down, grunting and bleeding. He rushed to Antonia and sawed through the rope bound round her right wrist. He handed her the knife and turned his attention back to the Stoats.

The pistol blazed. There was screaming. More bodies went down. The gun clicked empty and he tossed it. He seized a machete and lunged into the pirates, hacking and slashing, raging like a madman. The crowd broke and many ran for the safety of the surrounding buildings.

Antonia was on her feet, bullets whipping round her. She hurried to Ricardo and began to cut him lose.

Stone chopped a man to the ground, hacking at him relentlessly, the blade cutting deep across his face and body.

Reaching down, he lifted a submachine gun.

Shirtless, drenched in blood and filth and sweat, Stone cocked the weapon and brought the stock into his shoulder.

His finger went to the trigger.

You're a stone cold killer...

The muzzle flared, bullets spat into the crowd. Blood erupted and screams ripped through the night.

He kept firing until the magazine was empty. He didn't look at the bodies. He knew what he'd done; it was survival and survival was a game he played only one way and it didn't matter about those who lay dead or dying.

Running back to Antonia and Ricardo, he guided them away from the arena where they were horribly exposed. They dashed toward a wrecked car, pelted by a volley of bricks and arrows and bullets.

They reached the car and dropped behind it.

Bullets zipped over them. The Stoats had recovered from losing Rage. They were forming into two large parties.

"They're going to flank us," shouted Stone.

Another volley of bullets forced their heads down.

"Where's Cali?" said Ricardo. His voice shook as he spoke. His face was stained with tears.

"She can't help us," said Antonia.

Come on, Cali, thought Stone, if you're out there, I've given you your moment...

There was a sudden roar, like thunder, and the three of them looked at each other, immediately recognising the sound.

The Stoats faltered and began to look around. Arguments broke out. Then the roar was heard a second time.

"They know what it is," said Stone.

Fire exploded from the black night and engulfed the watchtower. Flames covered it without mercy. The two Stoats leapt, crashing to the ground. One of the men shouted in agony and went down clutching his leg. The second had no time for his companion and began to run, rifle in hand.

A cone of fire poured into a nearby building. There was screaming.

Stone had his eyes on the watchtower guard. The man had been heading for the building but had changed direction now it was on fire and was running straight for them.

The guard saw them hunkered down and slung the rifle over his shoulder. He drew a pistol and cracked off shots as he ran at them.

Bullets pinged off the wrecked car.

"Do something," shouted Ricardo.

"Shut up, baby brother," said Antonia.

Crouched, Stone held his knife by the tip.

The Stoat was getting closer, pistol blazing.

Stone prepared to throw... when a gunshot rang out and the Stoat went crashing to the ground.

"What the fuck?" he whispered.

She emerged from the black smoke, shorts and a T-shirt, leg bandaged, armed with two pistols.

"Watch those cocksuckers run," said Cali.

Ricardo smiled.

Stone wiped sweat from his eyes with the back of his hand. His heart was pounding, adrenaline racing, but he took a split-second to allow himself a half-smile at the sight of Cali.

Then he saw what towered beside her...

It was the _Shraal_... eight or nine feet tall, short arms and short legs, a huge body that was covered with blackened fur. Its head was grotesque, beady eyes, a flared nose, and a giant mouth of teeth.

Stone broke cover and ran, half-crouched, toward the dead Stoat. Snatching up the rifle, he dropped to one knee, slammed the stock into his shoulder and turned his aim on the beast.

"No," shouted Cali. "Don't shoot him."

She ran into Stone's sights, defiantly jutting out her chin.

"Ain't what you think, man, you feel me? This thing is with us."

The _Shraal_ ignored Stone and let out a terrifying roar. He swung his right arm at the Stoats and poured fire on them.

The pirates fled, streaming into the buildings on the far side of the camp, heading for the swamps and airboats beyond.

The creature stomped after them.

Stone got to his feet, using the rifle to balance his exhausted body. Cali ran to him, desperate to explain what had happened down in the tunnels, but there was too much to say and she didn't know where to begin. She nodded at him and he nodded back. Antonia and Ricardo emerged from behind the wrecked car and joined them.

The Stoats had scattered. The camp was deserted. Buildings crackled and burned as the fire spread.

The _Shraal_ stopped its pursuit of the pirates and marched back to them. The four of them stood in billowing smoke, staring at it.

"I don't believe it," said Ricardo. "It was all true."

Stone raised his rifle.

The _Shraal_ raced toward him, roaring, raising its arm.

"Put the fucking rifle down, man," said Cali. "It ain't gonna hurt us none. I swear to fuck."

A cloaked figure emerged from the swirling smoke. "She's right," said a voice. "He won't hurt you. Not unless I tell him to."

"This is Fox," said Cali. "She controls it."

Antonia stared open-mouthed. "What? No... Chief Jackson?"

The figure drew back the hood with her right hand. Her left arm was bent behind her back. She _looked_ at the _Shraal._ The creature lowered its arm and eased down onto the ground.

Stone lowered the rifle and frowned. "You're in its head."

Chief Jackson approached them. "I have the gift."

"You," said Antonia. She stepped toward her. "It was _you_ behind this. Why did you? Why? I..."

"We need to leave this place," said Chief Jackson. "The Stoats will return. Your questions can come later."

Stone grabbed Antonia by the arm. "She's right."

Cali held on to Ricardo. "I'm glad those cocksuckers never cut nothing off you, pretty boy."

He collapsed into her arms.

"No," said Antonia. "I want answers now. Where are the women and children of Lugar Segura? What have you done with them?"

"I saved them," said Chief Jackson. "They're alive at a secret location in the city. A safe area. A new beginning away from the cowardly and brutal men of your village."

"This is why you blocked me every step of the way," said Antonia. "This was never to do with numbers. _How did I not see this?_ "

Chief Jackson nodded.

"But what about...?" started Antonia.

"Enough," said Stone. "You wanted answers, Antonia, and now you have them. We need to move quickly. Gather up weapons and ammunition, as much as you can carry, and then we head back to Atlanta."

He looked at Cali.

"We got a dead man's mission to finish, right?"

She nodded, firmly. "Yeah, you know it, man."

Stone walked away, leaving Antonia and Chief Jackson arguing. He came across the body of Feathers, cut down when he'd opened up with the submachine gun. There was the body of a small child slumped over him, peppered with bullet holes.

Leaning down, ignoring the child, he reclaimed his shoulder holster and battered fedora.

Yanking the feathers from it, he calmly placed the fedora on his head and walked away.

TWENTY FOUR

They took a boat back to Atlanta.

The night sky was a solid blackness, clouds obscuring the stars. It was not long before giant spots of rain fell, quickly becoming a downpour.

Stone eased a long sigh of relief as the rain drummed loudly on the overhead tin roof. There was a soothing quality in its sound. It appeared to slow time, allowing him to reflect. He supposed it came from childhood. He had been born in a dry land and rain had not fallen often. The wise people of his tribe blamed the streaks in the sky for the lack of rainfall. But when it came it would last for days and Stone, as a boy, would often sit for hours and marvel at it.

The lights and noise of Lugar Segura faded. He wondered if it was an end to the burnings. He was certain it was an end to the raids by the Stoats.

He wiped a hand over his sweat-stained face, feeling the long scar that ran from his eye across to his chin. The palm of his hand was spotted with blood. The wound on his forehead had not closed.

Beneath hanging lamps, with the rain beating down, he stitched the deep wound on his forehead, grimacing as the needle pushed through skin. Slowly, he tied a bandage in place.

Finished, he angled the battered fedora on his head, shading his grim eyes.

He wore a short sleeved shirt and an unbuttoned waistcoat. The clothing had been taken from one of the houses belonging to the Stoats. The material was old and frayed but freshly laundered. A pistol hung in his shoulder holster and a second gun jutted from the waistband of his trousers. He'd reclaimed his pack, possessions ransacked by the pirates, but he'd refilled it with supplies, food and a stack of ammunition. A bolt-action rifle was propped beside him.

Cali and Ricardo were at the rear of the boat, wrapped in each other's arms, talking in quiet whispers. The boatman stood a few feet from them, a rugged man in his fifties with grey hair tied in a long ponytail. He paid them no attention. His watery blue eyes had seen it all before. Stone wondered if he was the man who'd smuggled the women and children from the village and into Atlanta before the _Shraal_ was let loose.

Antonia and Chief Jackson were perched at the front of the boat, facing one another, Antonia's voice raised. There was fire in her tone. She was a woman of passion and he admired that in her and desired her now more than ever. But there was no time and in a few hours he doubted he would see her again. He wanted her to come with them but, in a way, he _didn't_ because he didn't want to end up burying her.

"You had an innocent child murdered," said Antonia. "You sent the Perez brothers to kill her and her uncle. All to protect Father Milan and your identity as Fox."

"How many innocent men, women and children did your companion murder to set you free?" said Chief Jackson. Her voice was empty, emotionless. She was smoking a cigarette. The smoke curled from her mouth.

"That's different," said Antonia. "They were Stoats. Ingrid was an innocent..."

"Ingrid wasn't innocent. She and Father Milan were part of a conspiracy to murder and deceive. As was I."

Stone shrugged and glanced down the boat at Cali and Ricardo. The two of them looked so happy.

I could have lost her down in those tunnels, he thought. I don't want her to suffer any more. And why should she? For a city she has never been to? For a people she doesn't know? For a flag from another age?

I don't want to dig her grave, either...

A dragging feeling spiked his gut and he knew the choice would be a tough one. If he left her behind he would be alone again. But that moment could wait for now. Cali was a skilled burglar and that was what he required back in Atlanta. One last job until he headed out into the wasteland to kill Pavla and retrieve the flag for the government of New Washington.

He looked back at Antonia and Chief Jackson. The two women were still going at it, one moral argument countered with another.

Sparked with sudden anger, he got to his feet, whipped out his pistol, cocked it and marched along the boat.

He planted the gun muzzle against Chief Jackson's temple. She didn't even flinch.

"One bullet and we dump her body in the river. Is that what you want?"

Antonia rushed to her feet, arms outstretched, hands open.

"Take your gun off her."

"You said that sometimes you go outside the law to do the right thing. This is one of those moments. A life for a life," he said. "Decide, Antonia."

"Don't shoot her," she said. "Please, Stone, please don't hurt her."

Stone pulled his gun away. "Then cut the shit. Both of you. Back there I did what needed doing and we got out alive. She's done no worse."

He dropped onto the bench at the top of the boat, sitting between them.

Chief Jackson calmly dragged on her cigarette and let out a wisp of smoke.

The three of them said nothing for a moment.

"I've seen it before," said Stone. "The power to talk from here." He tapped the side of his head. "The Muscane Brotherhood. I found them in the city of Kiven and the lands they call the Black Region. They take people in and care for them; people at the end of a long road. There's hardly any killing and that's because the Brotherhood have the power to climb into a man's thoughts and steer him away from violence."

"It doesn't work with everyone," said Chief Jackson, quietly. "But I have been able to exert influence over a number of people through the years. I tuned into the _Shraal_ when I was a prisoner of the Stoats. It was the _Shraal_ that rescued me. I knew then I had been given a chance to alter the lives of the women in Lugar Segura. I wanted to save them and their children from the horrors of what men can do." She paused. "I did what I had to do."

"This isn't over," said Antonia.

"Yes," said Chief Jackson. "It is. You cannot prove a thing, Antonia. No one even believes in the _Shraal,_ let alone a woman who can control them."

"How many are there?" said Stone.

"They are a family," said Chief Jackson. "Descendants from the Atomic Age. They have their stories, like us. They fear the monsters, as we do."

Antonia snorted. "What monsters do they fear?"

"Us," said Chief Jackson, simply.

Silence.

"What are they?" asked Stone. "Or what were they?"

Chief Jackson glanced at him. "You have an inquiring mind."

"Did you just read my thoughts?"

She shook her head with a stunted laugh. "No. No, I didn't."

"I've seen one-eyed girls heal bullet wounds with the touch of a hand. I've seen men with disfigured skin who can disappear when you put a sword through them. I've seen many things travelling. Yeah, I have an inquiring mind."

Chief Jackson nodded. "They were animals, existing in the wild, when the spears of metal fell from the skies and levelled the land. The obscene biological weapons that were used in the final war of the Ancients radically altered them so they survived where thousands of other animals became extinct. It strengthened them, physically and mentally, which is why your bullets were ineffective, and it gave them abilities to fight; the flame weapon."

"No wonder you couldn't resist using them," said Stone.

"The _Shraal_ want to be left alone to live and breed, like us humans. I use them to right the wrongs of our world. No more than that."

Chief Jackson flicked her dying cigarette into the river, rose from the bench and walked along the boat, left arm folded behind her back.

Antonia moved beside Stone.

"What am I going to do about her?" she asked.

"She's trying to help. Maybe adjust her method a little so there are no more fire bombings."

"I can go to the Administration," said Antonia. She nodded. "Let's see if they will introduce new laws to protect women and children from husbands and fathers who batter and abuse."

"Or you could just keep killing them. Seems a quicker way."

She looked at him. "You mean that, don't you?"

He shrugged.

The rain continued to lash the boat.

"Are you OK?" she asked.

He nodded.

"You killed a lot of people back there. I saw the bodies. There were..." She caught herself, unable to form the words. "My father told me, when I became a warden, that one day I would have to draw my weapon and kill someone. He said that it's a terrible thing for one person to have to take the life of another... even if they're a Stoat." She let out a short, humourless laugh. "But he also said a piece of you dies when you kill. A small piece of you dies with them."

"I've been doing this a long time," said Stone. He looked out onto the river. "There are no more pieces left."

The boat nudged through the rain-washed night. Lights glowed in the distance as they closed in on the city.

"You're leaving Atlanta tonight," she said. "Aren't you?"

"Come with me," he said, without looking at her.

"Do you mean it?"

He met her eyes. "I mean it."

"I can't," she said.

"I know," said Stone. He nodded. "I know."

They approached the docks. The warden gunboat swept them with a spotlight.

"I want to know your real name before you leave," said Antonia.

Stone said nothing.

"We shared something very special."

Silence.

"You owe me your name... at the very least."

Silence.

"Please," said Antonia.

When he finally spoke his voice was low, distant. "I was eight years old when I lost my family. Men in uniforms came from the city. Like your wardens but red instead of green. They came into our village and butchered us. I don't know why. My father, my mother, my sister ..."

She squeezed him.

"A group of us escaped, all children. Hector led us into the mountains where the old caves were. Hector was thirteen. Our new leader. We stayed there the entire night; shocked, crying, coming to terms with our loss. There was about twenty of us. We had a few weapons, some food, but it would never be enough for all of us to survive. You have to understand what kind of land Gallen is. There are no laws in the wasteland. You survive by making the hardest decisions."

He took a deep breath.

"Hector chose to save our people the only way he knew how. He hustled all the young boys together, nine or ten of us, and we were told to fight, to cut our numbers down so there would be enough food. Whoever was left standing could stay with the tribe. I killed friends... I did whatever I had to. When it was over, when the caves were littered with bodies, Hector put his arm round me and told me I was a _stone cold killer..._ "

You're a stone cold killer...

"The child in me died that night and so did his name."

His dark eyes were moist.

"I'm Stone."

"Then I will never forget that name. And I'm going to help you finish this."

"Good," he said. "Because this is what I need from you."

TWENTY FIVE

Stone and Cali crept through the shadows, blurred shapes in the gloomy rain. The city streets were empty. Lamps flickered in the tenement blocks, shutters open for the heat to escape and the rain to come in. The rundown buildings bunched up around them, centuries of neglect taking its toll on the brickwork and the people that cowered inside.

"That's the one," said Stone.

It was a corner building, on the edge of the river, six-stories high and standing in rain-swept darkness. The ground floor was shuttered and padlocked. The upper floors were sealed over.

A sign hung above a set of double doors _._

JUNKERS! We buy! We sell! We trade!

They fixed silencers and cautiously approached the rear of the store. Stone swung into view, gun raised. There was a rubbish-filled yard ringed by a chain link fence and topped with coils of razor wire. A row of covered boats were moored at a small dock, gently rocking from side to side.

There was no one around.

He lowered his gun. "Clear," he said.

Cali pointed at a large rusted metal pipe that was fixed to the side of the building. It curved and dipped below the waterline. "No way up that," she said.

Stone glanced up at the roof. "I don't think it's for going up."

She nodded. "Nasty."

"No guards and no lookouts," he said.

"You thinking a trap?"

He shrugged. "We can shoot out way out of anywhere."

"True enough." She gestured at the fence. "I got nothing to cut through that with. I lost some of my tools. We could try and climb it."

Stone shook his head. "I don't fancy tangling with any razor wire."

"Don't sweat it, man. I'll scope us a way in."

They circled back to the front. Stone remained on the street, lookout, whilst Cali inspected the building once more.

It was Captain Rodriguez who'd identified Junkers as a front for the Russians. She had been unable to tell him any more, being the first to die in the attack on the safe house. Antonia had filled in the story for him once he'd mentioned the name of the store.

Way back, about twenty years or so, a businessman named Turnbull arrived in the city, looking for property. After making a small payment to the Administration, he'd taken over what would become the busiest junk store in Atlanta. Back then, it had been rotting timber, broken walls and collapsed floors, but Turnbull had a keen eye and the location, surrounded by residential buildings and with access to the river, was exactly what he required.

It took a year to renovate but that time passed quickly enough. The nearby markets and small stores looked on with fear, sensing that trade was about to nose-dive, but the city was long overdue a store like Junkers.

"They have everything," Antonia had told him. "Long aisles filled with tools and clothes, guns, knives, furniture and jewellery. And they have many items from the past, like those plastic things with buttons that nobody can work. Some of the gangs use them as missiles."

Turnbull was recognised by the Administration for galvanising a district that was crime-ridden and poor. He employed more than forty staff in roles such as supervisors, assistants, stackers, cleaners and security. Even the Junk Men, a peculiar tribe of nomads whom Stone had encountered in the Black Region and the town of Silver Road, visited Junkers to trade, swapping relics dug from the ashes of the first-world.

The supervisors managed the day-to-day operation of the store. Any problems with valuations or angry rejections were dealt with by them. Any problems with staff such as stealing or persistent lateness were dealt with by them. All the assistants and the stackers and cleaners answered to the supervisors and the supervisors answered to Mr Turnbull, who was still hands-on after two decades of the business. Turnbull was an unremarkable and unassuming man. He was respected though mostly unnoticed. He never raised his voice and no one really knew anything about him but it didn't matter because the work was well-paid and the deals were good and Atlanta folk were happy for Junkers to exist.

Need food? Go to Junkers. Need a weapon? Go to Junkers? Want a glimpse of the things the Ancients had and discarded? Yeah, man, go to Junkers...

"Everyone uses Junkers," Antonia had said.

But that was all she knew.

What was known by only a few – including the now dead Captain Rodriguez – was Turnbull's real identity. His birth name was Oleg Gavolin and he spoke fluently the language of the Ancients, the tongue of the hated Americans, and had been sent to Atlanta to secure an outpost for Russian intelligence. It had been the first strike into the land of the Ancients and a silent and invisible victory for the Russians.

Once established, they had broadened into new cities, townships, even settlements and villages, always blending in, always gathering information for Atlanta to process and send back north, beyond the borders into the Russian heartland, into a place once known as Canada.

Stone waited, pistol in hand. Still no one about. The air was humid, even at this late hour, and his grim face glistened with sweat and rain.

Cali signalled him and he trotted toward where she stood at a large window covered with iron shutters and secured by four padlocks. It was down the side of the building, in a wide alleyway that ended at a locked chain-link gate.

"This will lead us right into the store," she whispered.

She took out a small canvas pouch and withdrew several lock picking tools.

Expertly, she worked at the padlocks, setting each one on the rain slick ground as she popped it open.

"You know, they might be laid back on the security because no one has ever tried to fuck with this place, you feel me?"

Stone grunted.

With the padlocks removed, they carefully opened the shutters. There was a sudden burst of voices nearby and the two of them froze.

Holding his breath, pistol angled toward the road, finger on the trigger, Stone rolled his eyes left as a small group of young men and women rushed into view. One of the men stumbled and crashed to the ground. A long-haired woman stopped and helped him back up, pointing and giggling as she did so.

Stone waited.

Cali waited.

And then the man and the long-haired woman dashed off after their companions, laughing as they went.

"It's all good," said Cali. "Let's do this."

She cranked open the window and they scrambled through, dropping onto a hard floor.

The store was dark, filled by rows of shelves crammed with items that were no more than black shapes.

Pulse steady, Stone waited for his eyes to adjust to the gloom. The ground floor was huge. There were clothes folded on tables, the garments new, manufactured in the city. There was furniture, old and new, and curtains and rugs and pots and pans and shovels and forks and buckets and bedding. Antonia had been right about the place. They had everything for a man or woman to build a settled life.

Which meant they had nothing for him ...

Cali trailed behind and he glimpsed her pocketing items from the shelves, slipping them into her shoulder bag.

With a wry smile, he moved further into the store, toward a large counter and two closed doors, both covered with metal gates.

A sound tickled his ear and he held up his left hand. The two of them dropped low and waited.

There was a jangle of keys and one of the doors opened. Lamplight illuminated a man wearing a shirt and trousers. He unlocked the gate, stepped into the store and set down the lamp. The yellow light flickered. Stone guessed the man was in mid-fifties, skin tanned, iron-grey hair cropped. A revolver was holstered on his hip.

Leaning against the counter, whistling a low tune, the man reached lazily across his chest into his shirt pocket.

Stone rushed forward, body expanding as he moved, the fedora pushed down over his bandaged head, a foreboding shape erupting from the dark.

"Not a sound," said Stone. "You got one chance to live. Do you understand?"

There was no reaction from the guard. His hand remained still, frozen in mid air.

"Put your hands behind your head," said Stone. "And take your time doing it or you're a dead man."

The grey-haired man slowly withdrew his right hand back across his chest, his lightly-coloured eyes never leaving Stone. He began to lower his hand toward his holstered revolver, without a flicker of emotion in his face.

Cali put her gun on him.

"Man, are you fucking stupid? We got you cold is what it is. It's fucking over for you."

"Take your guns off me, you punks," said the grey-haired guard. His voice was raspy, without fear. "No one robs Junkers."

Stone shot him, punching a bullet through the guard's right eye. The man jerked sideways and hit the floor with a loud smack.

"Shouldn't play hard-ass," said Cali.

Wordlessly, Stone went to the stairway. It was narrow and lit by hanging lamps. There was a single door at the top.

"Get behind me," he whispered.

They climbed the stairs.

Stone listened at the door, heard movement inside and reached for the handle. The door swung open into a small room. A frayed rug covered the floor. There was a sofa, a few easy chairs and a table.

A second guard, equally grey-haired and rugged, was sat at the table, taking a bite from a sandwich packed with meat and dripping with sauce. His eyes almost popped out of his head as they burst into view. He moved instantly. His right hand flapped at a holstered gun as his left hand reached for a large button on the wall.

The alarm!

Stone fired, two shots, silent and accurate and deadly, both bullets hitting the man in the chest and sending him crashing from his chair.

There was a second door in the room. Stone went to it and found it locked. He put his ear to it; muffled voices and footsteps beyond.

He stepped back, in case the Russians had heard the commotion, and prepared for them to start firing into the break room.

But nothing happened. They were still undetected.

Cali searched the dead guard. She pocketed a few items before digging out a bunch of keys and tossing them to Stone.

He slowly pushed one into the lock and turned it. "Ready?" he said.

She nodded. "You know it."

* * *

"No," said Chief Jackson.

They were in her office. The windows were open. Atlanta melted in the night heat, rain washing through its garbage-filled streets.

"It's happening," said Antonia. "I'm taking one vehicle and the RPG to take down that helicopter."

"I understand the trauma you have experienced," said Chief Jackson. "Why do you think I came into the wetlands tonight? I was informed you had left the city with your new companions. I didn't want to lose you, Antonia. But I will not allow you to take resources designated for protecting..."

"Enough," shouted Antonia. She waved her arms and began to pace. "Enough of all your rules and regulations. Sometimes you have to make a stand and do what is right. That is something you know a lot about... _Fox!_ "

Chief Jackson watched her.

"You can prove nothing."

"With my brother's help I can create enough doubt to finish your career in this city."

"You tried to blackmail me before and it didn't work. I still have wardens at the offices of your brother's newspaper."

"Stone will deal with them. You've seen what the man is capable of, haven't you?"

Antonia stood before her, hands on her hips.

"A helicopter attacked our city. There are Russian agents working beneath our very noses, gathering information for who knows what purpose. The people of Atlanta are not stupid. They all know about the man who came here from New Washington. They know about the plan the Administration has for us all."

"I don't know what you're talking about," said Chief Jackson.

"There is no time left for games. There are lives at stake. This man from New Washington wants Atlanta to join the United Republic. A federation of cities and townships under one umbrella."

"Is that what people think?"

"It's what people know," said Antonia. "It's what I know. And Stone is in the middle of this. He is part of a mission to help complete this. You have to allow me to take what I need. And, when it is over, we can work together with your plan. Father Milan can continue to learn of the vulnerable women and children in my village and we will bring them into the city, to your safe place. But there can be no more attacks by the _Shraal._ Order them to stop the burnings."

Chief Jackson rose from her chair and stood by the window. The warm air wafted in. She was silent for a long time.

Finally, she turned and faced Antonia.

"I'll help you," she said. "And when it's over you will help me." She nodded. "We will try it your way."

* * *

Men and women cried as they were ruthlessly butchered with silenced weapons. Retaliatory gunfire rattled and boomed.

Vadik Babkin eased back in his chair and smoked quietly as the gun battle continued to unfold.

There was nothing more to do. There was no way out of the building. He was a trapped rat.

In more ways than one, he thought, wryly.

Ash tumbled from the glowing nub of his cigarette onto his rumpled clothes.

More gunfire.

More cries as his compatriots were slaughtered.

Stone would be kicking open his door any second now...

His thoughts drifted to Dimitri Sokolov. His closest friend and ally had betrayed him and his people. He expected feelings of disgust but there were none. There had been warnings, plenty of them, now that he carried the truth, but he had missed them at the time. _How had Pavla known?_ She seemed to fight the dirty war better than he.

"She could've spared you, Dimitri," he said, aloud.

But Pavla was a ruthless killer, without pity. She was also a wife and a mother and yet none of that was allowed to enter her scope. He knew of her past and how she had saved the life of the President when she served in the military, taking down a handful of United Republican agents. She should've been recognised but, instead, other men – ineffective men – had taken her glory. It was that one incident that saw her leave the military to join the Peshkin mercenary army. There was bitterness inside her, a streak that had grown worse over the years. He knew of her atrocities in the field of war.

He stubbed out his cigarette, lit another, poured a drink and was raising his glass as the door crashed open.

Stone aimed his pistol at the man. "You're the shot caller from yesterday."

He walked into the room, eyes glowering beneath the rim of his battered fedora.

"That means you make decisions. Assholes that make decisions have information. Where is Pavla? Talk and you live."

Babkin lifted the glass to his lips and drank.

"We have both been in this game a long time," said Babkin, adopting the language of the Republicans. "It is all about how I die. Is that not right?"

"You're right," said Stone. "It's all about how you die. Talk and I'll make it quick."

TWENTY SIX

The dark green jeep was parked beside a row of abandoned tenements, miles from the store. Its heavy machine gun was wrapped in protective tarp and the flatbed was loaded with metal crates.

"Did you get everything?" asked Stone.

Antonia nodded. "Yes. You?"

"Tricky getting out. The area was crawling with wardens. But we didn't kill any of them."

She glared at him and then lowered her voice. "Are you sure about this? She will not be happy."

"She will in the end," he said. "That's all that matters. Where's Ricardo?"

"Here he comes," she answered.

Ricardo was jogging along the street, looking refreshed in clean clothes. Antonia wondered what was going on inside his head after their ordeal with the Stoats. _Is this a story you will write for your precious newspaper, Ricardo? I am not sure you will want to, baby brother..._

She turned her attention back to Stone. "Listen to me. I know your decision comes from a place of kindness. You want to protect her. I understand that. In a way, I think, she will understand that. But you cannot decide for her."

"I can."

"It has to be her choice."

He stared into her dark eyes. Her light brown skin glistened in the falling rain.

"She'll make the wrong choice," he said.

"That is for her to make."

"I want her to make the right choice."

"Right or wrong, the choice has to belong to her."

Stone grunted. "Not in my world."

They both turned toward Cali as Ricardo arrived. All at once the three of them were looking in her direction.

Cali stared back. _What the fuck is this?_

"Ricardo," she said. "You rock up to say goodbye, pretty boy?"

He didn't answer.

"What the fuck is wrong with you all?" said Cali.

She licked her lips and shook her head.

"No," she said.

She stepped into the heavy rain.

"Nah, nah, nah, not like this, man. I ain't going out like this, you feel me? We're a team, man."

Stone walked toward her. He nodded at Ricardo. "You got a connection with this asshole."

"Hey," said Ricardo.

"Shut up, baby brother," said Antonia.

"He's smart," said Stone. "But he's smarter with you."

"Man, fuck you," said Cali. "I ain't no fucking kid. I get to deciding when the game is done for me and it ain't done until Pavla is in the dirt."

"We'll be heavily outnumbered," said Antonia. "Going up against that helicopter could be a one way trip."

"Bitch, shut the fuck up." Cali started waving her pistol around. "What the fuck is this to do with you? You don't know shit about me so don't come stepping at me or you'll know soon enough."

"This is the way I want it," said Stone.

Cali continued to throw her anger at Antonia. "Why the fuck does she get to go and not me? What about Triple Death? Silver Road? The Reardon gang? Stone, man, that was us, that was me and you, man... _me and you_..."

Tears filled her black eyes.

"Timo was the Russian who slashed you," he said. "I killed him in Batesville. Your score is settled."

"But it was Pavla who gave the order. And it was Pavla who killed your friend."

Stone climbed into the jeep and gunned the engine.

"I'm not burying you, Cali," he said. He looked at Antonia. "I'm not burying any of you."

"What?" she said. "Wait, I'm going with you."

Without a word, he stamped on the gas and drove away, leaving them speechless.

TWENTY SEVEN

Dawn light bled through the darkness.

Stone sped along a four-lane highway, the road split by what had been a first-world train line. Most of the track and sleepers were missing and rain-drenched greenery had wrapped around what little remained. Towering trees, swaying in the wind, covered rising banks.

The round headlamps of the jeep blazed along the asphalt, revealing fissures and pot holes. He flashed by the wreckage of a heavily-rusted truck, tyres shredded. Further on he saw a rusted car mangled against the line of trees, bodywork riddled with bullet holes. The doors were hanging open, a glimpse of bloodstains as he drove by.

As more light spilled onto the horizon, the rain began to ease. He swerved the jeep round another gaping hole in the asphalt, tyres squealing. The gloom was lifting and he reached forward to turn off the vehicle's lamps.

Behind him, Atlanta faded – and with it his companions. They would be mad at him but at the end of today they would be alive. Now there was only the mission and exacting vengeance.

And if he died trying?

It didn't matter. He had never feared death. There was no amount of pain that could be inflicted upon him that he had not already endured. This world had scarred his soul, scraped his heart raw and bloody; death was merely a whisper in the dark.

More light seeped across the land.

Grit and dirt blew in the wind. One hand on the wheel, Stone raised a scarf round his face. He narrowed his eyes and pushed hard along the road.

There were twisted and rusted road signs, colours and words long since faded.

Pavla's base was still more than ten miles away. He couldn't pronounce the name of the town she was holed up in. The Russian, Babkin, had had no problem with the name. He'd surrendered it the moment he realised Stone would torture him for it – he was going to die, he reasoned, so why die in agony?

" _Will you kill her?" Babkin had asked. "I must know this is not only about the flag."_

" _She doesn't get out of this alive."_

" _I am no traitor."_

" _I don't care about that."_

" _Pavla is no comrade of mine. She... it doesn't matter. If I give you the location do I have your word of a quick death?"_

Stone had kept his word, putting a single bullet through Babkin's head the moment the Russian identified Pavla's location on the map.

Accelerating hard, Stone glanced fleetingly over his shoulder. Atlanta was falling away, its broken buildings silhouetted against a red sunrise. Cali would be fuming right now, waving her arms in anger, shouting and demanding answers. His day would no longer be peppered with her non-stop chatter. She had grown on him. She had earned his grudging respect and trust and he had earned hers. But it had to be about _her_ and never about _him._ Leaving her would keep her alive and she could build a life with Ricardo and he would make her happy and she would keep him guessing and Antonia would watch over the pair of them.

He turned his focus back on the ruined highway, brooding eyes bottling the ragged pain streaking through his heart.

Metal glinted ahead. There were spiked chains stretched across the road. For a split second he'd taken his eye off the mission and that was all it took...

Wrenching the wheel, Stone swerved the jeep onto the rain-soaked grassy verge to his left, narrowly avoiding the trap.

A shot rang out and bounced off the hood of the jeep. He glanced to his right and spotted armed men emerging from the trees. A second shot hit the jeep, punching a hole through the windshield.

A Russian ambush!

Gritting his teeth, trying to keep the vehicle steady, he glanced at the highway and saw he was safely past the obstacles designed to blow out his tyres. He manoeuvred the jeep toward the road and bounced back onto the asphalt, skidding on the surface.

More bullets rang out and pinged off the vehicle. The shots were coming from both sides of the road. He was flanked.

With no idea of the numbers he faced, Stone pushed down on the gas, swerving left and right, making the jeep a harder target for the gunmen, but still the bullets zipped dangerously close.

Hunched, scarred face grim and unsmiling, he drove through the gauntlet of shots.

A projectile whipped through the air and exploded on the road ahead. He violently turned the wheel and came off the asphalt for a second time, heading onto the grassy verge once more, the air behind him swirling with black smoke.

The ground was rutted and sodden but he was an expert driver and the jeep handled the terrain without a problem. But he knew he had to abandon the vehicle, for now. It was _him_ they wanted and he couldn't risk losing the jeep, especially with the weapons Antonia had loaded onboard.

Without them, he had zero chance against that helicopter...

He slammed on the brakes. The jeep whined and crashed side on into the trees.

Turning off the engine, he grabbed his rifle and leapt clear.

Shots tore up the ground.

Russian soldiers spilled across the highway, machine guns and rifles blazing.

Stone jammed the stock of his rifle into his shoulder and rolled round the side of the jeep, dropping to the mud. He fired, taking down a gunman with a machine gun. Rapidly, he drew back the bolt handle and then slammed it forward, lining up the next bullet. One eye closed, peering down the barrel of the rifle, he gently squeezed the trigger and took out another Russian.

There were eight of them left and they dived for what little cover there was; a burnt out car and clumps of bushes growing wild over the rusted railway tracks.

Stone fired again, taking down a third man with a clean headshot, the bullet drilling through the Russian's forehead, exploding in his brain.

Shots rang out from behind him.

Time to move.

Hanging the rifle on his shoulder, Stone drew his pistol and retreated into the trees, his bad leg slowing him down. There was a flash of movement to his left and a young man with black hair emerged from cover, a rifle aimed at him.

Diving, Stone fired twice, the muzzle blazing, his bullets peppering the Russian and hurling him backward.

Urgent cries rang out. More shots pinged through the trees, spraying pieces of bark into the air.

Quickly, he put distance between himself and the jeep. He would circle back and reclaim it once he'd put these fuckers down.

The shouting was closer now. All the words were in Russian. It was an ugly tongue; loud, gnarled and rapid-fire. Stone blazed with his pistol. Two Russians buckled and tumbled, riddled with bullet holes.

He moved once more, desperately racing through the forest. Tightly-packed trees spread in all directions, flooded with early morning sunlight.

Undergrowth crashed as the Russians looped round him, trying to draw a noose, the men superbly trained in hunting down an enemy. Rifles cracked and voices continued to bark instructions.

Stone knew his area was being closed down. Sliding down behind a large tree, he ejected the magazine from his pistol and dug out a fresh one from his pocket. Then his ear twitched. A sound from the highway. The growl of an engine.

Reinforcements?

He took his second pistol from the shoulder holster and eased onto his feet, heart thudding. He'd been in similar situations like this one before, and worse ones, but he was confident in his ability to kill them all and continue with the mission.

Only...

He was alone. No Cali. No Antonia. And no Nuria... as an ex-soldier, she'd always enjoyed a shootout...

With reckless hate surging inside, Stone burst into view, spewing bullets.

The Russians were ready for him...

He cried out and ducked back behind the tree, violent pain in his left arm. He took a split-second to glance at it. His shoulder was bloodied. He flexed the arm and pain shot through it. The blood leaked down his shirt sleeve. He bent his arm once more and decided it was too restricted to handle the second pistol. He holstered it and then felt his shoulder, breathing a sigh of relief at an exit wound.

Bullets cracked through the forest.

Ignoring the savage pain, Stone rapidly worked out the spots the Russians were concealed in. Two men were slowly nudging his left flank and would be upon him in seconds. He angled away from them, half-crouched. He sprang toward a hefty clump of trees, rolled, and came up firing, cartridges whipping from his pistol. He was faster than the men and gunned both down with two shots apiece.

He guessed there were at least six more Russians in the trees.

The vehicle he'd heard approaching was nearby, engine idling. Doors slammed and there were ragged bursts of gunfire. It didn't make any sense. None of the shooting was being directed his way.

No time to think. Time to move...

He continued to move through the forest, shots from the Russians lessening as they lost his position. He started to loop round, trying to move on their rear. There was a gunman ahead, light brown hair, a heavy beard, dark clothing, a rifle pressed into his shoulder, pulling off loose shots, hitting nothing but greenery.

Tucking his pistol into his trousers, Stone crept forward, right arm extended, right hand open. He drew closer to the Russian, close enough to count the beads of sweat on the young man's neck.

There were shouts nearby as the Russians nudged closer to his old position, where they'd clipped him in the shoulder. The man turned his head and replied to his fellow soldiers, drawing back the bolt on his rifle at the same time.

Stone was behind him now; could taste the young man's raw fear and excitement, the thrill of the chase, the impending kill, a big victory for their leader, Pavla...

Easing from the undergrowth, soundless, Stone clamped his right hand across the man's face, covering his mouth. The soldier reacted instantly, bringing down his rifle and ramming the stock backward into Stone's gut. But Stone was immensely strong and ignored the blow.

Raising his left hand, gritting his teeth as pain flared in his wounded shoulder, he forced the Russian into a headlock and swiftly snapped his neck.

The Russian sagged against him. He lowered the body to the ground, searched his clothing and took two grenades.

Stone slipped deeper into the forest. There was more movement in the trees but he couldn't pin down exact spots. The soldiers from across the highway, who'd first opened fire on him, must have joint forces with those that had arrived in the vehicle he'd heard earlier. His odds were narrowing dangerously. But he was just fine with that. The Russians had no idea what he was _really_ capable of...

Dropping behind a huge tree, he stripped off his shirt and tore a long strip from it. Quickly, he bandaged the gunshot wound. He flexed his arm. It hurt like hell but he was now confident of handling a weapon with it.

He drew his pistols. A shimmer of dawn sunlight touched his face. It was time to finish this.

He went on the offensive and sprayed bullets at two Russians, swiftly cutting them down as they advanced on his location by chance.

His position was exposed and there was loud crashing in the trees as the remaining soldiers raced toward him. Stone came out blasting with both pistols and another two Russian went down, riddled with bullets.

He dived for cover, rolling and crawling as loose bullets cracked overhead.

Dragging himself through the dirt, sweat dripping from beneath his fedora, he saw the highway. It was littered with bodies. He frowned. He hadn't taken out that many men earlier.

Bullets forced him back. He fled into the trees, firing in both directions, moving as fast as he could.

The Russians were surrounding him, barking instructions. One of his pistols clicked empty and then the other.

Three men were moving in from his left. He yanked the pin from one of the two grenades he carried and hurled it. The explosion ripped two of them apart. The third man dived clear and came up blasting with an automatic rifle.

Calmly, Stone took his rifle from his back, eased the stock against his shoulder and took a breath. His grimy finger curled inside the trigger guard.

The Russian, surrounded by the severed limbs of his fellow men, kept moving and firing, spraying ragged bursts, forcing Stone to cower in the dirt. There was a sudden click, as deadly as any gunshot. Stone swung into view, rifle aimed, grim eyes looking along the barrel. The Russian soldier had already ejected the spent magazine and was desperately jamming home a fresh one. He prepared to cock the gun but as he did so he knew, in that agonising split second, that he had been too slow and his life was over. He stared, breathing hard and open-mouthed, at the long-haired man with the scarred face and the hat wedged over his head.

The bullet smacked him between the eyes.

Out of ammunition, Stone dropped the weapon and whipped out his knife and the second grenade. Biting out the pin, he tossed it forward and a man was sent screaming and howling.

A bullet whistled past his ear so he dived back into the undergrowth, concealed.

A man rushed toward him, pistol blasting, one shot after the other, bullets whipping narrowly close.

Stone erupted from his hiding spot and hit the man with all his strength, thrusting in the knife.

The Russian crumpled, losing his weapon. The two men went down and rolled in the dirt. Stone yanked free the knife and drove the blade in a second time. The man cried in agony and hit him with a thundering right hook. The blow knocked Stone off him, his knife still protruding from the man's gut. The Russian scrambled to his feet, drawing the blade from his stomach. He lurched forward, jabbing and sweeping with Stone's knife.

Stone hurled himself forward, diving low, heading for the man's legs. He took him down. The Russian fell on his side, crying out once more, and then Stone was on top of him, grabbing the man's knife hand and forcing it down onto the ground. He hit the Russian in the face, and then again.

He kept hitting the man until there was no resistance.

Picking up his knife, Stone got to his feet.

He waited, listened.

The forest was silent.

And then he heard the engine of a jeep, accompanied by a _very_ familiar voice.

" _Stone, get down!"_

TWENTY EIGHT

The heavy machine gun pounded the forest but they had no idea the Russians were already dead. There was no point in shouting. They would never hear him above the deafening clatter of that weapon and the engine of the jeep as it was driven along the grassy verge. The voice had belonged to Antonia. She was manning the machine gun which meant Cali had to be driving. _That was the second vehicle he'd heard. It was the pair of them who'd killed the Russians on the highway._

The machine gun let up.

"Stone?" shouted Antonia. "Stone? Stone, where are you?"

Bloodstained and drenched with sweat, he scraped through the dirt and emerged from the trees. Sunlight blinded him. He got to his feet and stared along the verge at them. Antonia was standing on the flatbed of the jeep, the machine gun angled toward the sky. She was holding an assault rife. Cali was behind the wheel, a scowl across her face. He trudged slowly toward them, trousers and undershirt covered in dirt and blood, his left shoulder bandaged, unsmiling eyes beneath the rim of his fedora.

Finally, they saw him.

Cali sprang from the jeep and came up to him, mouth twisted, black eyes blazing with anger.

She lifted her right hand to crack him across the face but Stone was too quick and caught her wrist. He spun her and slammed her against the jeep.

"What the fuck?" she said. "What'd you do that for, man?"

Stone ignored her and turned to Antonia. "What are you doing here?"

"Saving your ass, you son of a bitch," she replied. "Leaving me behind wasn't part of the plan."

"They were dead already," said Stone. He gestured toward the trees. "I didn't need any help."

"Yeah," said Cali. "What about those motherfuckers?"

She pointed at the dead Russians littering the highway.

Stone shrugged, said nothing. He reached into his pack for fresh ammunition.

"Man, you keep wanting to dump me," said Cali. "But it ain't happening? You feel me? I'm gonna be there when we put Pavla down. Look that bitch in the eye when I put a cap in her head."

"And then what?" said Stone. He angrily pushed bullets into empty magazines. "It doesn't bring Nuria back." He looked up. "It won't take that scar off your cheek."

He loaded his pistols and pocketed the extra magazines.

"Then why the fuck are you here?" she said.

"Because it's what I do," he said. "It's what I've always done." _You're a stone cold killer._ "It's what I've had to do. It's what people know I do. I do the killing, Cali. You know that. That's why you and Jeremiah handed me this mission."

He tucked one pistol into his waistband and slotted the second one in his shoulder holster.

"One mistake with that helicopter and we're dead. One mistake with Pavla and her men and we're dead."

The two women said nothing.

"I can accept that. What about you, Antonia? Are you ready to die for a war that has nothing to do with you and your city?"

"I risk my life every day I step onto the street as a warden," said Antonia. "This is no different."

"But your city is back there." Stone nodded down the highway. "What does an old flag from hundreds of years ago matter to you?"

Antonia went silent. Stone rounded on Cali.

"Say we blow that metal thing to shit and kill Pavla. Do you know what happens then?"

"We go to New Washington," said Cali. She laughed. "Get a reward for bringing home the flag."

Stone shook his head.

"I'll tell you what will happen. They'll look at us like dirt. They'll treat us like dirt. They'll take that flag and parade it around and we'll be forgotten."

"I didn't think you were concerned about glory," said Antonia. "I thought this flag was supposed to save lives."

"It hasn't done a good job of it so far. Everyone who came after it is dead."

"We're still here," said Antonia. "And we want to help."

"She's right," said Cali.

He glared at the pair of them.

"I'm not digging your graves," said Stone.

"Man, I ain't keen on digging yours, fuckin' size of you. Be like dragging a fuckin' horse, you feel me?"

Stone turned his head away. Antonia scrambled into the back of the jeep. "Are you smiling?" she asked.

"I don't think so," he said.

He got behind the wheel. Cali slid in beside him. She glanced at the trees. "Pretty bad in there?"

"Yeah."

"Your shoulder hurt?"

Stone nodded.

"Teach you for leaving me behind. You need me, just can't admit it." She shook her head. "Cocksucker!"

Stone hit the gas. The jeep zipped along the highway. He weaved around gaping holes and a slew of brown rusted vehicles locked in an ancient tailback. Motoring across a bridge, the line of trees fell away to expose a bone dry river bed, boats wedged deep in the sun-baked mud. They flashed past ancient road signs with dirt roads that led to derelict buildings. The land was open, barren and lifeless. Nothing and no one moved.

"Stone?" said Cali.

He didn't answer straight away. "Yeah?" he said, finally.

"Sorry you got shot, man."

"OK."

"I was just angry."

"OK."

"We good, yeah?"

"Yeah."

He kept driving. Antonia, in the back, said nothing. She realised, in that moment, that a deeper bond existed between the pair of them than the one she had with him. It had been a physical need and little else. She felt sad and wondered why. Rarely did she grow attached to a man. Anything long term was too complex.

"How good is this Pavla?" she said.

It was Stone who answered.

"She's one of the toughest I've come across. She's always one step ahead, always ready with a plan B and a plan C."

Antonia thought for a moment.

"You beat her ambush," she said. "What's her next move?"

"We need to hit the fuel truck," said Stone. "That keeps her here. She'll no doubt have vehicles and will aim to get the flag away in those. Vehicles we can chase, not that helicopter."

He pushed the jeep off the highway onto a winding and rutted minor road, driving past collapsed buildings and toppled communication poles. They reached a derelict and empty town.

Stone eased off the gas and slowed to a halt. "Wait here," he said. "Keep your eyes open."

He clambered from the vehicle and jogged toward a cluster of buildings, binoculars in hand. Picking through filth-covered masonry, he found a half-concealed vantage point to observe the landscape.

A highway bypassed the ruined town, heading roughly south-east and then curving in a more easterly direction toward the town of Chattanooga. That was the name the Russian Babkin had given him and it was the name on the map. This was the route the Kiven fuel truck would take. It had to use this road. Any other route would've been a waste in fuel.

He rejoined Antonia and Cali at the jeep.

"No sign of the truck," he said.

"What if we missed it?" asked Cali.

"No." He shook his head. "We would've seen the helicopter leaving."

"What if Palmer lied about all this?" said Antonia.

"Man, don't be saying that," said Cali.

"I don't think he was lying," said Stone. "Pavla betrayed Palmer. She knew we would kill him. What she didn't count on, or didn't care about, was Palmer opening his mouth. This was Palmer's way of getting us to kill her. I believe he had no love for the Russians. He just didn't want the United Republic."

"Do you?" asked Antonia.

Stone shrugged. "If it saves lives and there isn't a war between New Washington and the Russians then it's a good thing." He looked around the ruined town. "But I don't want to be part of it."

"You know," said Cali. "We gotta make sure to take out those Kiven boys, Stone."

He frowned at her. "What's on your mind?"

"Ricardo told me the League of Restoration got rid of the Alliance."

Stone listened, his frown deepening.

"He said there was a revolution in Kiven. The Ministry and the Society got their asses kicked and the League took over. They run the show now. That means the fuel is being sent by them. They can't know you're alive."

"I don't understand," said Antonia.

But Stone understood loud and clear what Cali was saying and her warning was another added worry. The League had issued a death sentence against him during his time in the city but he'd tricked them into believing he was dead. If any of the men from Kiven survived today word could get back that he was still alive and then the hunt would be back on and the death squads would come after him once more...

"No survivors," said Stone.

Cali nodded. "You got it, man."

There was a distance rumble. The three of them looked toward the edge of the ruined town.

"This is it," said Stone.

He ran, wincing from his wounded shoulder and wounded leg. He reached the same viewing spot as before and raised his binoculars. A smear of exhaust fumes clouded a convoy rumbling in from the north-west. There were four vehicles – three were cars with grilled windows, spiked wheel caps and mounted weapons. The fourth was the truck, slow-moving, covered in coils of wire.

Stone breathed a sigh of relief.

He signalled to Antonia. She grabbed the RPG and a satchel of rockets from the jeep and rushed down the street.

"I was able to take four rockets," she said. He lowered his binoculars and held out his hands for the weapon.

"Let me take out the truck," she said.

"I can manage."

"Not with that shoulder."

"I got shot in my left," he said. "I'll rest it on my right."

"But you'll need both hands to operate it. I've trained with this weapon, Stone. I know how to use it."

He growled at her. "I can handle it."

She looked into his eyes, nodded. "OK."

Stone tilted the RPG and slid home a rocket. He lifted it onto his shoulder and was surprised by the weight, considering it was little more than a lengthy tube. The optic was missing but there were two metal scopes that he raised and slowly adjusted as the convoy moved along the highway. The truck was nearly three hundred metres out. He would have to wait for it to get closer to the ruined town before taking a shot.

"This will even the odds," said Antonia.

Stone suddenly glanced over his shoulder. Wind blew through the deserted town.

" _How good is this Pavla?"_

" _She's always one step ahead, always ready with a plan B and a plan C."_

"What is it?" said Antonia. Her hand strayed toward her holstered pistol. "Did you hear something?"

This is a perfect spot to hit the fuel truck, thought Stone. Pavla would've worked that out, if she thought Palmer might've betrayed her. Which meant...

"Check on Cali," he said, his voice urgent. "Now!"

Antonia looked back down the street. Cali was pacing beside the jeep, gun in hand, smoking a joint.

"OK," she said.

The convoy rumbled closer. Two hundred and fifty metres now. He'd fire around the two hundred mark.

Kneeling, pain shooting through his left shoulder and down his arm, Stone looked along the RPG. Holding both grips, he cocked the hammer and eased his finger onto the trigger.

The vehicles snarled along the highway, exhausts barking, engines growling, gears grinding. He could see the markings of the League of Restoration, the feared warlords of the city of Kiven.

And they believed he was a dead man.

Time to show them how ruthless a dead man can be...

He wet his lips.

Took a deep breath.

Two hundred metres now.

Just right...

"I don't think so, Stone," shouted a voice.

A cold ripple crept along his spine. He glanced over his shoulder. It was Pavla; it was always going to be Pavla...

She was dressed in black; black trousers, black short-sleeved T-shirt, black boots, black cap, dark cropped hair peeking beneath it. She stood at the jeep, a pistol in her right hand, raised and pointing at Cali's head.

Armed men emerged from the ruined buildings, rifles aimed at Antonia. These men looked nothing like the soldiers he'd faced in the forest. These wore bullet-proof body armour and grilled helmets. They had to be Peshkin mercenaries; Pavla's men, more deadly and dangerous than any adversaries he'd faced.

"Lower the RPG," she called. "It's over for you and New Washington. It's over for the world."

Nuria flooded his thoughts. They'd never held each other the way they'd wanted. It had been stolen from them. She was in the dirt now, her body slowly rotting. She had known nothing of the flag and nothing of the mission, but she'd died anyway, in a hail of Pavla's bullets.

"Man, blow that motherfucker," shouted Cali.

"Shut up," said Pavla. She clubbed her across the head. "Don't take that shot, Stone."

He'd warned them not to come. He'd left them in Atlanta for a reason. He had to stop that helicopter. He had to stop Pavla. He had to destroy that fuel truck. The cost no longer mattered.

Nuria was dead...

The convoy was directly ahead.

"Drop the RPG," said Pavla. She laughed. "You know I've always been better than you."

"Not this time," said Stone.

His finger went to the trigger...

TWENTY NINE

Stone swung from the fuel truck and fired.

The rocket erupted from the RPG and whistled down the street. It was a sickening gamble but he knew Pavla would have slaughtered Cali the moment he lowered the RPG or fired on the fuel truck. Now he'd given the girl a split-second opportunity to make a move and he knew she was good enough to pull it off.

He watched her dive into Pavla, flicking out a concealed knife. The two of them rolled across the ground and out of his line of vision as the jeep exploded in a giant fireball.

A Russian, leaning on the wing of the vehicle, was instantly consumed by flame and flying bits of metal and glass. He let out a blood-curdling cry as his body was shredded.

Throwing down the RPG, Stone whipped out both pistols and started firing into the black smoke as it swirled across the street. He had no idea who had survived but there was movement and he was blasting at it.

Ragged shots zipped back at him.

He took cover in the nearest building. The roof had collapsed and sunlight blazed down on him. Picking his way through the debris, he found a spot to open fire from. A concentrated, more accurate volley of bullets forced him back. These men were good. Much better than the Russians he'd battled in the forest.

Stone craned his arm through a shattered window and fired blind, pistol bucking, cartridges spewing.

Weapons cracked through the smoke. He ducked back, breathing hard, figuring out his next play.

Climbing over a broken wall, he moved into another ruined building. The floors above had come down but the roof was mostly intact. Wind whistled through pitted walls and the structure groaned, threatening to collapse on top of him.

On the street, he saw what remained of the jeep; it was little more than a heap of twisted metal, still ravaged by flames.

A gunman emerged through the smoke, wearing a grilled helmet and body armour over his lightweight clothes.

Stone fired but the Russian nimbly dropped from view. Grappling over rubble, he reached a horizontal split in the wall and spotted the Russian for a second time. He opened fire again but neither bullet found its mark.

There were sudden bursts of gunfire nearby.

Cali? Antonia?

I have to believe they're still out there fighting, he thought. I have to believe they're alive!

It was then the Russian burst from his position, assault rifle aimed. Stone ducked, forced down by the aggressive explosion of bullets. He heard movement to his left, realising he was being pinned down whilst a second gunman closed in for the kill.

Quickly, he shifted his position, firing blind with the gun in his right hand. Sweat trickled down his face. Heart racing, his eyes flicked from the street to the left hand side of the building he was inside. There was _definitely_ someone creeping almost silently through the debris.

The Russian in the street was close to the building, exposed, still firing his assault rifle, staccato shots.

Stone fired back but he couldn't get off the right shot to take him out. Licking his lips, he glanced once more to his left and aimed both pistols across the room. A split-second later a heavily-armoured Russian appeared, a rifle held on the hip.

Throwing himself across the room, Stone fired both pistols, bullets smacking the Russian in the face and neck. The man cried out and slumped to the floor, groaning loudly, an agonised expression across his craggy face.

Rolling onto his back, Stone twisted and took aim as the Russian on the street appeared at a shattered window, his weapon aimed at the spot Stone had been pinned down in seconds earlier.

Stone squeezed his triggers, no mercy in his grim eyes, and drilled several bullets through the grilled helmet of the Russian. The man recoiled, body folding, and went down hard, slamming against the broken sidewalk.

Fleeing the building, Stone sprinted toward the jeep. There were spots of blood on the ground but no sign of Cali or Pavla.

He moved slowly, pistols ready.

A Russian burst into view and hurled a grenade at him. Stone dived for cover as the projectile exploded. He fired twice, burying slugs in the man's legs, putting him down.

Another Russian mercenary appeared, weapon raised, finger on the trigger, staring down the barrel, lining up the killing shot...

Desperately, Stone tried to evade and aim his pistols at the same time, but a shot rang out and the Russian pitched forward. Antonia emerged from the ruins, covered in dirt and filth. She ran toward him as he got to his feet.

He nodded at her.

"Get the RPG," he said. "I'll find Cali."

Her boots echoed as she ran back down the street. Stone continued to move through the ruined town.

There was a long row of narrow buildings ahead; pitted walls, blown-out windows, front yards filled with debris and garbage.

She could be anywhere...

The gunfire had stopped. It _had_ been Antonia he'd heard. So where was Cali?

Clattering footsteps caused him to spin round but it was only Antonia running back toward him, the RPG on her shoulder, the satchel of rockets across her back.

"Anything?" she asked.

He shook his head.

They fanned out and continued searching until a distant throbbing filled the air.

Stone shielded his eyes from the sun as he looked up into the sky. The helicopter was in the air.

"Get that thing loaded," he said.

He holstered one pistol and tucked the second into his waistband.

"Why didn't they refuel and fly the flag out of here?" said Antonia.

The deep throbbing grew louder and louder until it was an angry clatter as the metal machine swooped toward the ruined town.

"Pavla isn't taking that flag anywhere until we're all dead," said Stone.

"That's if she's alive."

"She's still breathing," he said. He took the RPG from Antonia. "Who do you think put that thing on our ass?"

The two of them ran down the street as the helicopter droned overhead. A machine gun opened up and bullets tore at the asphalt.

They took cover, drenched in sweat, breathing hard.

"Vehicles," shouted Antonia. She pointed toward the outskirts of town.

There were two cars driving at full speed, a smear of dust and fumes trailing behind them.

"The League of Restoration," he said. His voice was almost a growl. "Pavla's _definitely_ still alive."

The helicopter circled, taking itself high and then coming in low. The heavy gun rattled loudly and bullets pinged all around them.

"Through here," shouted Stone.

They burst into a large building, floors and walls mostly intact. The air stank. Flies crawled over a day-old body.

The helicopter hung low in a swirling cloud of dust and dirt, letting out sporadic bursts of gunfire.

"They've lost us," whispered Antonia.

"Seems to," said Stone.

There were muffled shots in the distance. "Listen," he said.

Antonia nodded. "Pistol shots. Has to be Cali."

Half-crouched, Stone crept toward the nearest opening. The cars from the League had stopped on the edge of the town, engines running, doors open. Six men stood in the street; white and black, dusty hats and goggles, chests bare. They carried slingshot carbines, a custom made weapon particular to the League. Poor at distance, it packed a deadly punch at close quarters, firing off steel balls. Stone had an old wound from one of those.

"Why are they just standing there?" said Antonia.

"Pavla's escape route," said Stone. "It has to be."

A giant shadow fell across the street as the helicopter swept toward their hiding place. The heavy machine gun opened fire.

"They've found us," shouted Antonia.

She threw herself down. There was a sickening crack as bits of ceiling splintered and tumbled down, filling the room with dust clouds. Stone held his position, face glistening with sweat, and gritted his teeth. He balanced the RPG on his right shoulder, cocked the hammer and took hold of the twin grips.

Bullets punched holes in the walls.

More debris flew through the air.

Stone put his finger against the trigger and held his breath as the helicopter filled the sights of the RPG.

"Pavla," shouted Antonia, pointing wildly.

He fired and the rocket soared from the RPG, narrowly missing the helicopter. The pilot, no doubt shocked, instantly broke off its attack.

Stone yelled in anger as the metal machine clattered noisily into the sky.

He swivelled his head and saw where Antonia was gesturing. Pavla was on the street, limping toward the vehicles, blood trailing from a wound in her leg.

She turned as the rocket missed and raised a radio to her mouth.

The helicopter wheeled toward them, machine gun blazing.

"This way," said Antonia. She forced open a door that flooded the dust-filled room with daylight.

The two of them scrambled outside into a yard with broken chain-link fences and piles of dirt-covered garbage.

The helicopter followed, machine gun rattling.

Stone reloaded the RPG and propped the weapon onto his shoulder, waiting for the helicopter to make another pass but the metal machine hovered at a distance. There was the muted sound of car engines, barely audible beneath the beating of the helicopter's blades.

"Pavla's gone," said Stone.

"Why didn't she get out on the helicopter?"

"She isn't stupid," he replied. "She won't risk putting herself inside that thing whilst we have this."

"We're down to two rockets."

"I won't miss a second time," he said.

They jogged along the street. The buildings here were desolate shells, lifetimes of hard work and friendships extinguished, gone in the blink of an eye, victims of a metal spear that must have struck the area centuries before.

At the end of the avenue was a heavily-customised armoured truck, seemingly abandoned, and nothing like the rusted junk heaps scattered about.

"Let's check that out," said Stone.

The helicopter chased them. Clouds of dust and dirt swirled. Stone dropped to one knee, angled the RPG and fired.

The pilot, now alert to the danger of a surface to air weapon, jerked his stick and swept away. The rocket soared past the helicopter, harmless.

Wincing from the pain in his left arm, his lungs burning, his breath ragged, Stone loaded the last rocket.

"Let me," said Antonia.

He chewed his lip, said nothing.

"I've trained with it," she said. "And we can't keep running."

He grunted and handed her the RPG. She wiped her palms on her trousers and put the weapon on her shoulder.

"I'll give it a target," said Stone.

She retreated into the shadow of a store and watched him run.

The helicopter followed, sweeping across the hot morning sky, as dominant now as when it had first attacked her home.

"You bastards," she whispered.

The machine gun was a deathly rattle and she prayed for Stone as he weaved and dodged, no doubt riddled with terrible pain as bullets tore all around him,

The helicopter hunted ...

Antonia sighted the metal beast, held her breath and fired...

Stone threw himself flat as the rocket whistled through the sky and the helicopter exploded in a huge fireball. It plummeted from the sky, crashing onto the avenue in a blaze of fire.

Discarding the RPG, Antonia ran toward him and threw her arms round him as he got to his feet.

He clamped a hand on her shoulder, squeezed, nodded, and said nothing.

She leaned into him, kissed him.

... _and then Stone heard movement from a nearby building..._

... _boots scraping..._

... _a grunt.... definitely someone in there... a Russian left behind..._

... _Nuria flashed into his head..._

Hairs tingling, gut swirling, Stone rolled Antonia behind him and drew his pistol in one lightning fast movement.

"It's me," said Cali. She cowered, flinging her grimy arms over her straggly black hair. "Stone, it's me."

He lowered his pistol, let out a deep breath.

"Man," she said.

She pointed her gun at the burning helicopter. "Please tell me that bitch is cooking in there."

Stone shook his head.

"Shit," said Cali. "You took a big gamble hitting the jeep with that rocket."

"It worked," he said.

"How are you still alive?" asked Antonia.

Cali snorted. "Yeah, sorry on disappointing you, an' all."

"Why would you say that?" said Antonia.

"What happened?" said Stone.

"I stuck Pavla for the second time," she said. "Then it all got mad. What's our next move?"

Stone nodded at the armoured carrier. "This must have belonged to the Russians. First, we make sure there are no traps."

He glanced over his shoulder at the flaming wreckage of the helicopter.

"And then we get back that flag."

THIRTY

"You need to fix that shoulder," said Cali.

Stone grunted. "It's fine."

"Man, you're about to go to war and those Russians ain't no fools. We need you at your best."

"I can drive," said Antonia. "This is a little different from the jeep I trained in but the principle is probably the same."

Stone looked at them both and climbed into the armoured carrier, saying nothing. He set about rooting through the supplies the Russians had abandoned.

"Guess that's a yes, right?" said Cali.

Antonia gunned the engine, cranked the gears and hit the gas. The beast lumbered forward, belching fumes. It frustrated her at once. It was sluggish and lacked mobility but, as it powered from the ruined town and hit the highway, she began to realise she had underestimated the vehicle as it gathered speed and adeptly handled the cratered road surface.

"Here," said Cali.

She'd found a backpack of medical kits and handed Stone one. He ripped open a packet. It contained a sterilised cloth and he set about cleaning his shoulder. An ugly bruise covered the skin and it continued to weep blood but he'd been lucky – he had an exit wound, the slug had gone right through. He tore open a second packet, this one with a needle and thread. Gritting his teeth, he began to stitch the wound shut.

"The Russians are out of sight," said Antonia.

Stone grimaced. "We know where they're headed," he said.

Antonia continued along the highway, eyes alert, hands curled tight against the giant steering wheel. The asphalt was a ragged line, snaking through a sun-bleached landscape. She had never been this far from Atlanta. She hoped she never would again. The area was lifeless, so bleak and lonely and without hope. She was used to bustling streets. She couldn't understand why Stone preferred life beyond city limits. It made no sense.

He shouted directions at her, the tattered map balanced on his knees as he stitched his shoulder. The carrier rumbled over another pothole and lurched violently and he swore as the needle plunged in deep.

"You're a big man," said Antonia. She smiled at him. "Take the pain."

Cali frowned at her comment but noticed that Stone had a faint smile. She didn't like Antonia sharing a joke with him. She didn't like her sharing anything with him. Her feelings were a mess in her head. She'd encouraged him to grow close to the woman but was now angry that he had.

He's my Stone, she thought, he doesn't belong to you. You don't get to crack jokes with him, bitch.

Sunlight blazed down and it grew intensely hot inside the armoured carrier. Cali slammed open the roof hatch.

Cool air rushed inside the vehicle. She stuck her head through the opening and was blasted by the hot wind. She shook her head, furious. This wasn't the time to be thinking and feeling emotions that could weaken her. This was the time to be on her game or those Russians would waste the three of them. Those fuckers would show no mercy and nor would she. She gripped the rim of the open hatch and took deep breaths, fighting an overwhelming urge to cry. Once again her emotions were rocking her and she didn't know why. She glanced back down the highway. Atlanta was gone and so was Ricardo and she suddenly understood the pain and knew she had to run long and hard from it.

She dropped back down into the carrier. Stone was flexing his arm.

"Better?" she asked.

He nodded. "Yeah." He paused. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"Tell me."

Antonia glanced over her shoulder. "Is everything OK?"

Cali turned her back on her and leaned toward Stone. "Thank you," she whispered. "It came from a good place."

Stone said nothing.

"You were looking out for me. You wanted me safe, have a chance at a different life."

He nodded but still said nothing.

"I told you once I'd be proud if you were my old man. I'll stick by that."

She eased back and looked at Antonia. "You drive this thing good," she said. "We wouldn't be here without you."

Stone wiped a hand over his beard. "Let's see what else the Russians left."

Antonia continued to drive, with a smile, whilst they prised open crates and packs, working quickly and in silence.

Stone reloaded his pistols and tucked one into the waistband of his bloodstained trousers. He slotted the second one into his shoulder holster, worn beneath his right arm, ready for a left hand draw. Emptying a satchel of mess tins and mugs he filled it with grenades and spare magazines and strapped it across his chest, over his grimy and bloodstained vest.

Antonia continued to push the carrier hard, eyes fixed on the broken road ahead.

"What's the plan?" she said.

"We take those fuckers out," said Cali.

"That's the objective," said Antonia, correcting her. "But what's the plan? _How_ do we achieve that?"

It was Stone who answered.

"Vehicle by vehicle," he said. "Pavla knows we're on her. She would've seen the helicopter burn. So we take them out one at a time. She'll be in the lead vehicle with the flag, putting as much distance from us as possible. So you drive hard and you keep us on the road."

He turned to Cali.

"You put down a barrage from in here. Watch for them dropping back to take your rear. I'll take it to them on the road."

She nodded, knowing what he had in mind.

"You ready for it?" she said.

Stone didn't answer because he didn't have to. There was dark determination in his eyes and his face was cold. She knew how deadly he could be and, if the Russians had any doubts, they sure wouldn't in the next hour...

Still rummaging through the supplies, Stone retrieved a sniper rifle and set about removing the scope.

"Let's see what we're up against," he said.

Thrusting his head through the open hatch, hot wind rushing though his long hair, he tossed his fedora back into the vehicle for fear of losing it.

Bringing the scope to his eye, Stone witnessed a familiar land scarred with fissures and craters. It was a stark wilderness, his world, and one he knew only too well, and the realisation brought a grim and lingering smile to his lips.

I'll soak the dirt with the blood of every Russian, he thought, and then I'll execute Pavla in a hail of bullets...

The wind, perpetual and unrelenting, a constant in the second world, continued to blast his rugged face and mocked him with the truth of his mission. It dawned blunt and visceral and with it his smile slackened, faded. Nuria was there, blonde hair and pale skin, the lopsided smile and piercing blue eyes. He looked on as the automatic gunfire slammed into her, knowing she was finished, knowing it was over, knowing she would soon be gone, knowing there was nothing he could do to prevent it... and the agonising pain spiked his heart, overwhelmed it, deeper than any pain he had ever felt before and no amount of bloodshed would take it away...

But he couldn't think of her. He couldn't allow himself to feel her. Not now and not here, not when he intended to unleash unspeakable levels of violence.

I never told you, he thought, I never told you what you really meant. So I promise you the deaths I'll bring will tell you all you need to know...

Resolved, he brought the scope to his eye once more. On the horizon, at the base of a range of mountains, was a large urban sprawl.

Stone scratched his beard. Babkin, the Russian he'd killed at Junkers, had described Chattanooga as a town but this was a city, and clearly one of considerable size, which meant hunting Pavla was about to become much tougher.

Gnarled exhausts barked. Hurriedly, he swept the land and spotted three vehicles pushing hard in a westerly direction.

"The League of Restoration," he said.

"We need to stop them," said Cali, calling up to him. "Pavla would've told them about us."

The vehicles sped further away.

"Can't let those fuckers rat us out, man," said Cali.

"What are we doing?" asked Antonia.

She began to slow the carrier.

"Keep going," said Stone. "Floor it. It's Pavla and the flag we're after."

"But what about the League?" said Cali.

"We can't hit them both."

"Fuck," she said. She shook her head. Antonia took her eyes from the road for a moment and saw deep concern in the girl's eyes.

"Do we go after them?" she asked.

"Nah," said Cali. "We stick with chasing down that Russian bitch."

Antonia glanced briefly at Cali's scarred cheek.

"Yeah," said Cali. "I owe her for this."

"I understand."

She floored the pedal and the vehicle raced along the highway, bouncing from side to side.

Stone watched the vehicles of the League disappear on the horizon. It was a battle he would have to fight another day...

He turned his attention back to the city of Chattanooga.

Its lifeless buildings stood with vast banks of dirt packed against them.

No movement, a dead place.

A solitary bridge spanned what must have been a great river but the water had died centuries ago and only mud remained, hardened beneath the sun, moulded around rusted remains of the Ancients.

Antonia pushed the carrier, its great wheels spinning, throwing up dirt and grit as it grew closer to the city.

Pavla is always one step ahead, thought Stone...

The carrier lumbered along the highway, heading for the lone bridge into the city.

Always outthinking me...

Closer and closer.

Always getting the drop on me...

The bridge took shape in the windshield.

She would've seen the helicopter go down...

Seconds from it now...

She would've known I'd find the carrier and come after her...

Stone narrowed his eyes.

"Get off the highway," he shouted.

He dropped through the hatch, discarding the scope. Antonia glanced at him, her brow knotted

"What?"

"Take us off the highway," he said. "Now."

He pointed to the surrounding scrubland.

"What are you talking about?"

She was still driving forward.

"Move over," he shouted.

She slid from behind the wheel, furious with him.

Stone swung the carrier off the highway. Loose dirt sprayed the windshield as he powered the vehicle through the brush. It lurched from side to side, wheels lifting off the hardened ground.

Teeth gritted, jaw clenched, he quickly regained control of the vehicle and drove at an angle.

"Why did you do that?" said Antonia, clearly humiliated that he'd thought she couldn't handle the driving.

Cali scrambled from the back of the vehicle, puzzled. She looked at Stone and then glanced to her left, toward the bridge. She was certain something had moved up there.

She wet her lips, kept watching... _there..._

Two men were sprinting away from the top end of the bridge, heading into the city, away from...

The bridge exploded with a deafening crack, erupting into a giant fireball. Spears of metal flew threw the air and Stone swerved the carrier to avoid the worst of the debris.

Black smoke filled the air.

"Motherfucker," whispered Cali.

"She always has a plan," said Stone, breathing hard.

Antonia looked at him.

He nodded firmly at her. "Always," he said.

Gunshots rang out, pinging off the carrier. There were snipers in the area. Stone powered the vehicle along the dry river bed, tyres spewing clumps of sun-baked mud. He swerved as metal obstacles jutted before him, discoloured and shapeless. Bullets continued to be loosed at them but their accuracy slackened as he swept around the base of the city. Antonia and Cali held on tight as he cranked through the gears and began to swerve toward the verges of the river bed.

There were mangled barriers and twisted fences ahead, buildings and roads beyond.

"Stone," warned Cali. "Ain't no way through, man."

"This isn't a good idea," said Antonia. Her brow was drenched with sweat.

Stone said nothing.

"The barriers," whispered Antonia.

A bullet smacked into the windshield, gouging the glass.

"Oh, fuck," said Cali, almost unable to look.

Hands tight on the wheel, Stone remained stoic and levered his boot against the gas pedal.

The carrier soared up the dry verge, hurtling toward the rise of twisted barriers.

Russian snipers continued to pepper the air with rounds. Stone guessed the vehicle was armoured-plated – apart from the windshield they had not suffered any damage - but he had no idea how much the vehicle could withstand and he wasn't sticking around any longer to find out.

He swerved from side to side as bullets tore up the ground.

"Oh, shit," yelled Cali, shutting her eyes.

They smashed through the barriers with a thunderous crash. Metal screeched and whined.

"Fuck," she shouted.

The carrier slammed back onto asphalt but the danger was far from over. The vehicle began to skate and skid and Stone frantically attempted to wrestle control as they bounced around the highway.

Suddenly, it began to spiral toward one of the shattered buildings and the three of them were locked in a moment that stretched seconds into minutes.

The carrier rocked and lifted once more until finally hitting down hard and staying put.

Stone glanced at his sweat-drenched companions and offered a grim half-smile.

"Man, you take some chances," said Cali.

He drove into the deserted city. Ruined buildings flashed by. He eased from the seat, one hand steady on the wheel, and motioned for Antonia to take over. She didn't hesitate or resist. This was no place for a bruised ego.

Dropping into the seat, she took instant control.

"Find them," she said.

He nodded and stuck his head through the roof hatch. Wind whipped at him. The snipers were far behind them now. He spotted the Russian convoy, several miles out, a string of three vehicles, impossible to miss, a single column of metal barrelling along a deserted avenue lined with broken buildings.

Stone leaned into the vehicle and barked directions. His shoulder still throbbed but he smothered the pain and prepared to go to war...

THIRTY-ONE

Cali strapped herself in and slid open the side door.

Leaning forward, she raised her automatic rifle, wedged the stock into her shoulder and curled her finger inside the trigger guard. She steadied her breathing and stared along the barrel, eyes narrowed, black hair wild in the fierce wind as Antonia chased down the fleeing convoy. This was it, the payback she'd craved since Pavla and Timo had caught her off her game. They'd beat her. They'd burned her. They'd slashed her; but worse than that they'd reduced her to nothing and made her sob and beg in that dank tenement building in the city of Batesville. They'd made her want to die. It was no longer about the flag or the mission. It was only about the killing...

Stone thrust himself through the hatch and perched on the roof. Wind rocked him from side to side as the carrier bore down on the Russians.

The rear vehicles were armoured jeeps, four soldiers inside each one, armed with automatic weapons. Cali began to shake off rounds at them. Bullets pinged through the air.

The Russians hit back. Rapid gunfire erupted from the rear jeep, smacking deep wounds in the windshield of the carrier.

Lying prone, Stone dug out a grenade with his right hand. He shouted down at Cali and she blanketed the jeep with full auto fire, forcing the Russians to duck down and lower their weapons.

Biting out the pin, Stone lifted himself and hurled the grenade. It whirled through the air, missed the jeep and bounced onto the asphalt, exploding instantly. Antonia swerved the carrier and burst through a cloud of black smoke.

The jeep was still active, the Russian soldiers up and firing back. Cali swapped out her magazine and sprayed them with slugs.

Stone threw a second grenade and once more the driver of the jeep swerved hard to avoid the deadly projectile.

"Get us closer," shouted Stone.

He threw himself prone as bullets zipped overhead. The sun blazed against his back. Sweat trickled over his battered and blood-caked skin. His body ached. His wounds ached. But he was close now, close to taking her out, and there was no moment to be concerned with pain.

"Closer," he yelled.

Antonia lowered the gas pedal further. The jeep swung from side to side as the armoured carrier hunted it. The Russians inside slammed home magazines and opened fire. Antonia threw herself down and cried out, still holding onto the wheel and now driving blind. Cali yelled out as she lost her footing and lurched through the open door, almost losing her weapon.

Stone erupted from the roof and hurled another grenade. It landed square in the middle of the jeep.

"Get us clear," he shouted.

Antonia swerved as the grenade exploded. The jeep buckled and drifted from the road, slamming into a deserted building.

"Yeah," shouted Cali.

Stone glanced back at the vehicle, smoke coiling from its blackened and twisted metal. There was ragged movement amongst the charred bodies. Incredibly, a Russian had survived.

The man emerged through the corpses of his comrades, spluttering as his lungs filled with smoke and his nostrils reeked with burnt flesh. He still held his weapon, a semi-automatic assault rifle. Choking hard, he brought the stock into his shoulder and swung toward the passing carrier only to be staring into the muzzle of a well-aimed pistol.

Stone fired, rapidly, ending the man's fleeting resistance.

Looking ahead at the remaining two vehicles he saw the lead one, a carrier identical to the one in which they travelled, was beginning to accelerate away, creating a large gap and leaving the second jeep trailing behind.

Stone dropped back into the vehicle. "Pavla's one down and is going to sacrifice the other jeep so she can escape."

He climbed into the front.

"Grab that left," he said.

"Are you sure you don't want to take over again?" asked Antonia.

"I think you can manage."

Smiling, she swung the wheel and the Russian jeep disappeared from sight in a shower of dirt and dust.

"What's the plan?" said Cali.

"We're getting ahead of them," said Antonia, before Stone could answer. "Why waste time in risking ourselves?"

He nodded, pistol in hand, and stared ahead, the windshield riddled with bullet holes.

"Go right," he said.

Antonia complied and drove hard, pushing the carrier to its limits. She watched the road ahead, hardly breathing or blinking. Her face was greasy with perspiration as she listened to Stone's sudden and sharp directions, knowing he'd carefully memorised the layout of the city.

Cali, curiously silent, wet her lips and leaned from the vehicle, still strapped in, hot wind blasting her, the automatic rifle wedged in her shoulder.

I can taste it, she thought, revenge...

Stone narrowed his eyes and issued his last direction. He sprang from his seat and boosted himself back onto the roof, gun ready. Antonia swung the carrier left and then took a second right, wheels spinning over the ancient asphalt.

The vehicle lurched around the corner, buildings towering toward a cloudless sky.

"There she fucking is," shouted Cali.

The Russian carrier was yards away, powering forward, alone in a deserted city, alone with Stone and his companions hunting them down.

"Hit it," he shouted.

Antonia rammed the vehicle. It spun out of control and flipped, skating on its roof with an ear-piercing screech and crashing into a building.

She hit the brakes hard and skidded. Stone leapt from the roof, drawing his second pistol.

"Watch for the jeep," he shouted. "Cali, with me."

Antonia sprang from the vehicle and took cover in the nearby buildings, sweeping the deserted avenue with her weapon raised.

Stone saw movement inside the flipped vehicle and fired without hesitation. A man jerked rapidly as bullets slammed into him.

Licking his lips, eyes dead and without mercy, Stone dropped to a half-crouch and slowly began to circle the vehicle.

A wild shot rang out. Cali screamed and Stone watched her twist and go down, clutching her hip. She wailed in agony, rolling on the ground.

Stone blasted into the carrier, firing blind, slugs ricocheting. There were agonising screams and then silence but he kept firing until his magazines were empty.

"Antonia," he barked. "Check on Cali."

But he had no need to issue the order. Antonia was already helping Cali to her feet and bundling her toward the carrier. Stone saw the young girl had blood streaming from her hip and was limping.

Reloading both pistols, holstering one of them, Stone crawled on his belly into the vehicle. There were four corpses, three men and a woman slumped over the steering wheel with a satchel beside her.

A grim smile formed on his lips...

Stone scrambled toward her but at once his gut spiked. The woman, caked in blood, was the wrong build and he knew – _he so knew_ – that it wasn't Pavla he'd killed and she hadn't been inside the lead vehicle and she'd played him once more...

He grabbed the satchel and hurried from the carrier. Picking himself up from the dirt, he unfastened it and saw the flag was inside.

One victory, he thought, but not the one I wanted...

Cali, grimacing with pain, hand clamped to her hip, stumbled from the carrier. "Did you get her?"

Stone was about to answer when the jeep swung into the avenue. He dropped the satchel and drew his pistols. The Russians began firing, bullets whipping all around them. He dived for cover as the jeep accelerated past. He kept firing, knowing his rounds were biting the dirt. The vehicle skidded and stopped, a distance ahead, out of range, and Stone glimpsed Pavla at the wheel.

He got to his feet, pistols hanging loose.

She stared back at him, nothing but coldness in her eyes.

He glanced back at the carrier and saw the tyres had been shot out.

When he twisted his head, hooded eyes filled with anger, he saw her offer a faint smile before she stamped down on the gas and drove away.

Stone dropped to his knees and laid his pistols in the dirt as the jeep disappeared on the horizon.

TWO WEEKS LATER

THIRTY-TWO

Edward James Coulter savoured the silence, revelling in the depth and gravity of the words he had delivered.

That's time enough, he thought, tempering his own ego, this moment belongs to mankind...

He stood in a vast hall, behind a podium, with an empty flag pole to his left. A tall man, he was white and broad-shouldered and long-armed, brown eyes sternly facing a sea of tables and chairs. Only there wasn't a sound. For twenty minutes he'd spoken with passion and verve and still there wasn't a sound.

Blades of sunlight streamed through barred windows and touched the curls of dark hair on the backs of his hands.

His voice boomed once more.

"Together, we are stronger. Together, we are safer."

The hall continued to remain silent.

Coulter softened his tone and offered a warm smile. "And together, well, together we are _united_."

He hit the word with tremendous emphasis and opened his arms wide.

"Welcome to the birth of the United Republic and _your_ place in history."

A solitary woman applauded.

"Excellent, Mr President," she said. "Excellent. Your timing and use of tone is the best it has been all week."

Coulter wiped his face with a handkerchief. "Are you certain, Leanne?"

"Yes, Mr President, I'm certain. We've worked on this for six days and you have honed the speech and delivery to perfection."

Leanne Haynes walked toward him, passing the empty chairs and bare tables. She was a tall woman, mid-twenties, pale white skin, a narrow face, long blonde hair in a ponytail.

"I'm glad we shortened the final line," she said. There was a sparkle in her green eyes, a blend of pride and relief. "It has more impact."

"What about opening my arms at the end?"

"Again, Mr President, perfect. You were right to move it to that point in the speech."

She nodded.

"You're ready, Mr President. _We're ready._ "

"Leanne, I wanted you here instead of Phil. Phil is a good man, a superb aide, but he does have the tendency to tell me only what I want to hear." He offered a friendly smile. "You're starting to sound a lot like him right now."

"I'm blunt when required, Mr President." She returned his smile. "That's why you hired me. But make no mistake. This was, as they used to say back in the day, on the money."

The two of them faced the empty hall.

"To think," said Coulter. "In three days this place will be filled with factions who have spent years butchering and feeding on one another."

"And that will continue," said Leanne. "But the Republic will be our first steps at eradicating those horrors. You have worked so hard, Mr President."

"We have," he said. He shook loose the cramp in his arms and placed his hands on his hips. "But without the flag..."

He let the sentence trail, a distant look in his eyes.

"We have these," said Leanne. She marched toward a row of open cartons stacked on a broad table in one corner of the hall. "The design is accurate from our wealth of historical documents and they have been beautifully made."

She reached into one of the cartons and withdrew a folded flag.

The stars and stripes...

"Every community, Mr President, from cities to towns, right down to the smallest and most ramshackle settlement, will have one of these and it will tell others that they are part of something unique and progressive and, surely, _that_ is all that matters."

"It is," said Coulter. "They will see the flag and know the people are under the protection of the Republic and that law will prevail. But Jeremiah Cartwright had a dream, Leanne." He glanced over his shoulder at the empty flag pole. "It was a brave and noble dream and for a time I believed in it."

He turned away.

"We lost a good man in Cartwright. And fifteen experienced rangers who sacrificed their lives on a fool's errand."

"And Captain Palmer," said Leanne.

"Yes, of course." He nodded. "Captain Palmer was the bravest of Republicans; a man who marched south on his own to find the flag, knowing the original mission had been betrayed and that Russian mercenaries were operating in the Black Region. He was a true hero."

"He might still be alive."

"I think we should begin to accept that none of them will be returning."

Leanne put the folded flag back into the carton. "What difference would it have really made, Mr President?"

He thought before answering. "First-world history has taught us the value and power of those who wield great symbols. The loyalty and respect they command."

"But how would that have changed the lives of poor families living in desperate conditions, always fearful of violence?"

Coulter looked at her. "That's why you're here, not Phil."

"Think of the words you have just spoken, Mr President. _That_ is what people really care about and what they will take from this conference. Their people want to be safe from the murderers and kidnappers and rapists and see an end to injustice and cruelty. We both know it won't change overnight but with laws that all communities have to abide by it is a bold step in the right direction."

"I think you should deliver the speech," said Coulter. "You'll convince them more than me."

"They're already convinced. This conference is the final act of repairing our once great nation; it's the first step in putting the pieces of this world back together."

Coulter smiled. "You're beginning to sound like _him_."

Leanne held up her hands. "Oh, anything but that. That man gives me the creeps."

"He is an odd fellow," said Coulter. "But his knowledge is vast and he sees things we do not. Without him, Jeremiah would've never known where to begin searching for the flag."

A loud knock echoed from the far end of the hall and double doors were thrust open, without waiting for a response. Coulter and Leanne frowned as armed men entered the hall, led by a small man in a grey suit; Philip Newman.

"Phil?" said Coulter.

"I'm sorry for the interruption, Mr President," said Newman.

Coulter spotted two ragged individuals circled by the armed guards. One was a tall, scarred man with a fedora wedged on his head. The second was a young woman with long dark hair and an angry scar down her cheek.

Newman marched confidently through the hall, followed by the armed men and the two strangers.

"What is this, Phil?"

"Mr President," said Newman. "You will not believe this." He glanced at Leanne and afforded her a simple nod. She nodded back, politely.

"I am busy, Phil," said Coulter. "I told you I did not want to be disturbed."

"This business is far more important than rehearsals," said Newman. His eyes strayed to Leanne for a second time.

"Who are these people?" asked Leanne.

Newman swept him arm toward Stone and Cali. "This is... I'm sorry what were your names?"

Stone said nothing. He was surrounded and without his weapons. The guards of New Washington had even found his knife concealed in his right boot and a revolver he now carried in his left. Cali looked at him, visibly nervous. Stone nodded, letting her know it was her time and he was here no matter what.

Taking a deep breath, Cali took a few paces forward and slowly lifted the satchel from her shoulder.

The armed men bristled.

"They are unarmed," said Newman. He gestured with his arms for the men to lower their assault rifles. "Let the girl come forward."

Coulter glanced at Leanne and gestured with his head. She stepped forward.

"What do you have there?" she asked.

Cali fumbled at the straps of the satchel. Her hands were shaking. Once more the armed guards grew tense.

"I have already checked the bag," said Newman. "There is _nothing_ to fear."

Reaching into the satchel, Cali pulled out the flag. It rested in her hands, musty and crumpled, dotted with bullet holes.

No one spoke.

No one moved.

"Ain't none of you want this?" she said. "We went through a lot of shit to get it."

Taking his time, Coulter approached her. "May I?" he asked.

Cali nodded.

He slowly levered it from her grasp.

"I don't believe it," he said.

He turned the flag over in his hands, allowing it to unroll.

"I don't... I just can't... where did you find it? Was it in Silver Road?"

Cali shrugged. "Yeah, but you're lucky, the Russians wanted to burn that fucker to dust, you feel me?"

There was a ripple of amusement from the armed men. Stone continued to observe them, working out who he was grabbing first if things went south.

"Do you know Jeremiah Cartwright?" asked Leanne.

"You ain't gotta be looking down your nose at me. Yeah, I knew him. We were partners. Jeremiah said I was a patriot, whatever the fuck that is."

"I wasn't judging you."

"Feels like it," said Cali.

"Where is he now?" asked Coulter.

"Dead."

"And his rangers?"

"Russians got to them. All of them. They did this to me."

She pointed at her cheek.

"Did you come across a man named Captain Palmer?" asked Leanne.

Cali swallowed hard. "Yeah, Russians got him as well." Stone could hear the lie in her voice. "That dude got wasted."

"Young lady," said Coulter. "What's your name?"

"Cali. Cali Lopez."

"And you?" said Leanne, looking at Stone.

Stone said nothing. His brooding eyes glared from beneath the rim of his fedora.

"You ain't gotta mind him. He don't like to chat much, you feel me?"

Coulter rolled the flag. "I cannot begin to thank you enough for what..."

"A lot of people died for that," said Stone, speaking for the first time. "People who should still be alive. Make it count."

The president looked at him, evenly. "Nations are born from sacrifice," he said, adopting a soft tone. "If you would like to give me the names of those who were lost I will personally make sure that the United Republic never forgets them."

Without answering, Stone turned from the president and began to walk away. Cali followed.

"Wait," said Coulter. "Please, wait. I want to know everything. I want you to tell me how you found this and which Russians were involved. We have a truce with them. This cannot be allowed to..."

Cali spun on her heel. "Man, that don't matter shit, you feel me? You just gotta do this thing right." She ran her eyes over Leanne, noting her clean clothes and clean hair and clean skin. "You people don't realise how fucked up it all is."

"Now, miss," said Newman.

"Let her speak, Phil," said Coulter. "Her voice is as important as any."

"Yeah, Phil," said Cali. She sneered at Newman. "Let me speak. I'm from Kiven. I was born in a slum. I probably stink of slum to you lot. There are a lot of folk like me out there in the world living shit lives and doing shit things to get by. Maybe you can change that and maybe you can't but you gotta try, man. Just..." She broke off, eyes straying across the hall. She nodded at Stone. "Stone, look at the cartons, man."

Stone pushed through the armed men and approached the table crowded with open cartons.

Dozens of red, white and blue flags stared back at him.

Rage filled his eyes.

"What are these?" he growled.

It was Leanne who faced him.

"The flag of the United Republic. They will be distributed..."

"Where did you get them?"

"They were manufactured here in the city. We obtained..."

"You mean you had these all the time," said Cali. "We went through all that shit and you were sitting on these all that time. That's fucked up, seriously fucked up."

"I don't think you understand," said Coulter. He was cradling the flag like an infant. "This is the last flag of the first world. It is a sacred relic. It will..."

Stone and Cali walked away. The armed men blocked them.

"Like I told you back in Atlanta," said Stone.

Coulter pushed his way into the circle.

"I would like to know your name," he said. "And your role in this."

Stone said nothing.

"I want to honour what you have achieved for the Republic."

Taking off his fedora, revealing his scarred forehead and scarred scalp, Stone ran a hand through his greying hair.

"You don't need my name," he said. "And you already know my role in this."

He carefully put the hat back on and turned his back on the president. A young man in a light green uniform barred his way with an assault rifle.

"Move, boy," said Stone.

"Let them through," said Coulter. "They are not enemies of the Republic."

THIRTY-THREE

Outside, in the dwindling sunshine, Stone and Cali watched hundreds of citizens walk the streets of New Washington, all of them blissfully unaware of the ancient relic that had come home across the centuries.

"I don't feel nothing," said Cali.

Stone kept quiet.

"I really thought I would've felt something when we handed over that flag. I mean, fuck, man, we got it all the way from Silver Road. I got cut and burned and shot in the fucking hip but I don't feel shit."

She dug out a joint and lit it.

"You knew it was gonna go down this way," she said. "Didn't you?"

"I had a feeling."

"So why'd we do it? You lost your friend, Nuria, man, and... shit..."

"If they can save a handful of lives with that flag," said Stone. "Then maybe it was worth it. I don't know. I'm not a politician."

He paused.

"This is just what I do... _what we do."_

Stone waited. Cali dragged on her joint. "We?"

"We work well together," he said.

She grinned and smoked.

"Yeah, ain't that the truth."

They were silent for a moment.

"New Washington," said Cali. "Ain't shit new about it. This is just old Washington, right?"

"I guess so."

"You know, Jeremiah was right about one thing. This place _looks_ different, safer, you feel me? It ain't like other cities we've seen. I'm guessing this side of the city didn't get fucked up too bad during the atomic war."

"I wasn't around."

"Are you sure?" She laughed. "I bet you were. All those years back. Still doing the same dark shit."

"I'm sure of one thing," said Stone "That wall wasn't around then."

Cali ran her eyes along it. It had to be fifty feet tall, topped with coils of razor wire and lined with gun towers. It ringed the east side of the city where the buildings were mostly intact. The west side was left exposed, ruined and cratered.

"Yeah, that's a serious motherfucker," she said. "Think how long it must have took to build. Guess it keeps out the lowlifes."

"Keeps them in as well."

They started walking.

"You know we're being followed, right?" said Cali.

"I know."

"You think that president dude sent them?"

"I don't know."

"Or are they _Division 29_? We did waste their golden boy, Palmer."

"It doesn't matter who's following us," said Stone. "We have our guns back."

They kept going.

"Why didn't we tell the president about _Division 29_?" asked Cali.

"Who can we trust?"

"Yeah, I feel you, man. I didn't like that dude Newman or Leanne. Both of them could be traitors. Or neither."

They stopped. Cali stared at him. "What's wrong?" she asked.

"Do you remember what Mayor Jefferson said to me back in Silver Road?"

"That bitch..."

"She said the world doesn't need drifters like me. She said people are settlers now. I feel like we're getting squeezed, Cali. The places we go will all fall under Republic control now. It feels like time is running out."

She studied him for a moment. "You think we got it wrong by giving them that flag?"

"Only time will tell." He scratched his beard. "I just feel something is very wrong here."

Cali shrugged. "We're being followed. You know that, man."

"No, that's not what I mean," said Stone. He scanned the passing crowds, twisted his jaw. "Look at them, Cali. Really look at them. What do you see?"

She shrugged and shook her head. She didn't know what he wanted her to say.

"Fear," said Stone. "They have that big wall and gun towers and soldiers but still they're scared. There's something here... _someone here..._ I don't know... a piece of the past... I can't put my finger on it... but whatever it is these people look as if they are just waiting to die. We've stepped into the middle of something, Cali, and I have a nasty feeling it's only beginning."

Cali swallowed hard. "War?"

"Maybe."

"Between the Republic and the Russians?"

He nodded

"But Jeremiah said the flag would stop any war."

"They have boxes of flags," said Stone. He shook his head. "We risked our lives for an ornament. Nothing more."

"Man, you're scaring the shit out me," said Cali. "What the fuck do we do now?"

"We shrug it off and keep hunting Pavla."

"She could be anywhere."

"Then we start now," he growled.

They started walking again.

"You miss Atlanta?" she asked.

"No."

"What about Antonia?"

"No."

"Man, that's cold."

"Do you miss Ricardo?" he asked.

"What? Nah, I'm over him already." She laughed. "Dude was a player. You can never tame a guy like that. Guy is better off without me."

Stone saw the tears in her eyes and squeezed her shoulder.

"Let's have some fun with these assholes following us," he said.

* * *

The three of them stared at the hanging flag.

"It doesn't look as good as the ones we've produced," said Leanne.

"What did you expect?" said Newman. "It's more than three hundred years old."

"Don't get snotty, Phil," said Leanne.

"Will you two stop for at least a minute?" said Coulter.

His aides fell silent.

"We'll have to talk to them again," he said. "I want a detailed account of how they became involved in this mission. Do we have agents following them?"

"Yes, Mr President," said Newman. "I've also notified the gates that they are not to leave the city."

"They appear quite resourceful," said Leanne. "We could use them, Mr President. There is one thing in particular that might be suitable for them."

Newman snorted. "No one ever returns from a mission you send them on, Leanne."

She glared.

"That isn't fair," said Coulter.

Newman shrugged.

"However," continued the president. "We will use them. All eyes will be on us now. We can no longer carry out our own dirty work. The Republic must be untainted."

"I'd like to know how Captain Palmer _really_ died," said Newman. "Did you notice the look on the girl's face, Mr President?"

"She said the Russians killed him," he answered. He shrugged. "Do you doubt her word?"

"I do."

"Does it really matter how Palmer died?" asked Leanne.

"Yes, it does," said Newman. "If Palmer was a member of _Division 29,_ as has long been suspected, then he might have revealed information to those two."

"We don't listen to gossip," said Coulter. "Captain Palmer is... _was_... a loyal and dedicated Republican officer and will remain so until evidence states otherwise."

"The girl is from Kiven," said Leanne. "We don't know where the man is from. We don't even know his name. I doubt either has knowledge of..."

"His name is Stone," said a man's voice.

The three of them turned.

"What do you want?" said Newman.

"You've no business here," said Leanne.

The president raised his hands to his companions.

"How do you know his name?" he asked.

"He read his mind," said Newman, with undisguised contempt. "Isn't that one of your magic tricks, mind reader? It's a shame your power can't reveal the names of the members of _Division 29._ "

"It doesn't quite work like that," said the man.

"That's enough, Phil," said Coulter. "Who is this man Stone?"

"He's a drifter," said the man. "A very dangerous one. He's from Gallen. A place the Ancients called South America. You'd be wise not to underestimate him. He has taken down cities and governments before."

"Cities and governments?" said Leanne. "A slight exaggeration?"

The man shook his head. "Not where Stone is concerned. You don't know what he is capable of." He paused. "I never thought I would see him this far north. It is fate he is here in the final days of chaos. I told him we would repair this fractured world. But I don't think he ever believed me."

There was a heavy silence.

"Will Stone be a problem?" asked Coulter.

"Only if you betray him."

"Did you betray him?"

The man smiled. "Our paths have crossed a few times. I think the score is even at the moment."

Coulter looked at his aides. Neither of them spoke.

"Stone is a tremendous asset," said the man. "Lightning fast with his weapons. You should send him into the Borough. He would be ideal to retrieve the Professor."

"Not this again," said Newman. He threw his hands in the air. "The Professor is a myth. The Testament is a myth."

"Then use a legend to find a myth," said the man. "Because Stone is a legend. You have no idea what he has done."

"I think taking Stone and Cali onboard is an excellent idea," said Leanne. "I don't have any issue with this. A good mercenary is..."

"No," said the man. "Stone is no mercenary. You cannot buy him. He fights for a cause, for justice, in his own brutal way. He'll slaughter a hundred men to save one and will justify it. You will need to encourage him to go after the Professor."

"In what way?" asked Coulter.

"He has that look," said the man. "I have seen it in him before. He is hunting. He plans to kill... possibly a Russian. That is what you offer him."

There was a short silence in the hall.

"Then we will find out who he intends to kill," said Leanne.

Newman rounded on her. "We have a truce with the Russians. We can not simply hand one over. We need answers before we can begin to trust these people."

"They brought us the flag," said Coulter. "And they gave it to us for nothing, Phil. Reflect on that."

Newman was silent for a moment. "But I still don't trust them and I have never trusted you, mind reader."

"Please don't call me that," said the man. "My name is the Map Maker and you will do well to remember that."

THE END

Thank you for reading The Atlanta Mission.

The story will continue in...

The Washington Directive

