Three vehicles, big for a convoy. Most shipments consisted of one single, desperate trucker looking to trade hurricane lamps for something his town needed more. The wanderers were the bread and butter of their respective settlements. If the bravos didn’t patrol the wilderness and keep the trade routes free of pirates, there would be no chance of legitimate commerce at all. Alliances, along with leaders who kept their word, made all the difference in the world. Rosa had a rep for doing exactly as she said she would, which served everyone well.
As Falco pulled alongside the back truck, Rosa checked her gear. Lem and Rio would have to take her role on the other two rolling semis. They were light and fast, so they should get the job done. Brick had ridden on ahead to provide cover when they brought the trucks to a stop.
Timing was crucial. Mentally, she warned them to be careful.
Check for guards inside before you commit to the drop.
But the time for saying it aloud had passed. She could only hope they’d trained enough.
“Ready?” Falco asked.
“Claro.”
In response, he maneuvered the bike into position as Manuel did the same for Rio and Ex did for Lem. As they had practiced, she counted backward from ten, hoping that her fliers were doing the same. On one, she pulled up using Falco’s shoulders. Her bravos came up as well. Relief surged through her, permitting her to let go. Deftly Rosa made the leap and pulled herself up to the top of the truck. Setting up her gear was second nature by this point. It took no time at all to strap into the harness and secure her boots.
She crept toward the front, a task complicated by the speed at which they moved and the ruts in the road. There was no highway department, no more road crews to fill in potholes. Eventually the asphalt would become impassable, further dividing the land. Rosa balanced with her hands, creeping toward her goal. She came to the final downward slide, where the trailer met the rusty red cab. The magnets in her boots helped with the landing, but she still needed a few seconds to make sure she was set. She signaled the drivers to fall back.
Daring a peek, she saw only one man, so she prepared to drop and make her play. As she drew her pistol and flipped, a noise slammed from the back of the truck.
Mierda
. The trailer doors. Shots sprayed out, pitting the pavement, right at Falco, Manuel, and Ex.
Chris was right. It’s a trap.
She couldn’t tell how bad it was, but her bravos returned fire. Over the thump of the tires on the road and the roar of the engines, she heard the shots. Thuds and cries.
“Call your men off,” she ordered. “Or you die.”
“You first.” The driver brought his gun up. Rosa twisted, taking the bullet as a flesh wound in the side instead of a gut shot.
This is gonna suck.
Before the driver could get a bead on her, she swung back into position and plugged him above the ear. Kill shot. Now she only had a few seconds. Using her stomach muscles, she pulled herself up, slid out of the foot straps, and flipped down into the cab. She kicked the dead man out of the way, grabbing the wheel just as the truck started to tip toward the steep drainage ditch. The trailer rocked like a terrifying pendulum; it took all her strength to wrestle the great beast back into the center of the road. She slowed it, her breath coming in great gulps, steadying as she parked.
Pain blazed in her side, but she couldn’t let anyone see her weakened. She forced herself to bound out of the truck and drop firmly onto the pavement. Rosa rounded the semi to take stock. Up ahead, both Rio and Lem had captured their trucks—not without a beating, though. Lem had split his face open somehow, and Rio sported a slice down his thigh.
None of the vehicles contained cargo. They had been full of armed men, who opened fire when her team fell back. That implied they understood her tactics and her strategies. She guessed the O’Malley knew about Valle after all.
“Status?” she asked, taking inventory with a quick glance.
And came up one man short.
Hand pressed to her side, she jogged back a hundred meters and found Manuel beside his bike. Four rounds in the chest. At Rosa’s approach, his eyes opened and his fingers flexed as if seeking comfort. Throat thick, she knelt beside him, conscious of the bravos coming up behind her. They had never seen her on her knees before. But she had never led one of them into a trap before, either.
“Make it . . . mean something,” Manuel whispered.
“I will. The bastards will pay, I promise you.”
Blood trickled from his parted lips, his fathomless eyes wide with anguish. A strong man with a heart like his—he could live for longer than he deserved to, suffering all the while. They didn’t have the means to repair damage from four bullets in his chest and belly. By Manuel’s expression, he knew this.
“Pray . . . with me . . .
patrona
.”
The hurt swelled to unbearable proportions. Rosa did not deserve that title. A
patrona
was a combination of great lady and munificent benefactor, one who protected her people, making sure they were safe and prosperous. That he should speak the word in his final moments cut her to the bone. Tears pricked behind her lids, but she did not let them fall. Overhead, the sun beat down, picking out crystals in the pavement. High up, the vultures circled. Rosa bowed her head and took Manuel’s hand in hers, a blood-slicked tangle that made her skin coppery dark. The sweet stink of it mingled with their sweat.
No priest. No holy oils to anoint his brow. He only had Rosa Cortez—and she had never felt more inadequate. For a terrible moment, she feared she had forgotten all her prayers. But then one came to her. The bravos stood ominously silent.
“Receive him with gladness and grace, and give him a hero’s welcome, for he is the bravest of men. Holy Mary, Mother of grace, Mother of mercy, defend him from the Enemy and receive him at the hour of his death. Make a place for him among the halls of the blessed. Into your hands, Father, I commit his spirit. Amen.”
As if he’d been waiting for that moment, Manuel heaved a last, labored breath. His fingers slid from hers. She had seen people die before and had always thought it should be more dramatic. She had learned from television that, after death, the body immediately weighed twenty-one grams less. Her
abuela
had said that was the departing soul, its absence leaving the physical shell lighter.
“Is he going to be okay?” Rio asked.
Mierda.
Sometimes she forgot how young he was. She didn’t want to tell him the truth. Didn’t want to deal with the terrible fucking mess, but it was her job.
Rosa pushed to standing and turned, willing herself to speak the right words.
“No,” she said quietly. “He’s gone. Put his bike in back. I’ll drive him to town, so we can have a proper service.”
“You got him killed.” Had Rio been loud or disrespectful, she could have chastened him. Instead his voice only held raw grief. “He was like a brother to me, and you got him killed.”
Twice the wound there, because Rio had always idolized her—thought she could do no wrong. But now he saw too clearly that she had feet of clay. She couldn’t show weakness, though. That would only give Falco the opening he needed.
“I’m sad too. But it’s a risk we take each time we mount up. Manuel was a good man, and he will not be forgotten, but if we don’t take these chances, then Valle dies.”
“That new guy told you it was a trap.” This from Lem.
Rosa became conscious of her isolation. She couldn’t fight them all off if they had a coup in mind. Even with four rounds in her gun, she didn’t know if she could kill a bravo. The shock of betrayal would make her hesitate.
Despite hating that weakness, she kept her face impassive. “I said we should be careful. But if we don’t find more ammo, we’ll be fighting dust pirates with rocks and sticks. Or General O’Malley will keep sweeping westward until small settlements like Valle are his to control.”
“It’s true,” Falco said. “Fears of his influence in the east grow every day. We’ve heard it from traders. And another attack like we survived on Burning Night will exhaust our ammunition.”
Odd. She would’ve expected him to pounce on this opportunity to undermine her leadership. But Falco wasn’t a complete bastard, nor was he underhanded. If he took the town from her, he would do so through honest means. And he’d make sure she saw it coming a mile away. She need not fear a knife in the back, only a loss of power that meant crawling into his bed.
“I wish we’d found some,” Rio said, shoulders hunched.
“Me too.” But wishing didn’t make it so. “We got whatever’s left in their guns at least.”
“It wasn’t your fault.” Ex didn’t talk a lot, but when he did, people listened. “And I say that with a bullet in my shoulder.”
“Can you drive?”
Ex nodded. “I’ll be fine until that doc can take a look.”
Before they left, Brick zoomed up. “Trouble, I take it?”
“Yeah. Escort us back?”
Brick nodded.
Everyone was injured in some form or another, except for the big man. Falco’s blood was seeping from under his shirt, and Rosa’s soaked her top. Time to get the fuck out before the O’Malley sent more men. Falco swung Manuel into his arms. Unable to watch, she rounded the truck and got into the cab. It was fitting that her fallen bravo would ride beside her on the way home. All the way there, she would look at him and see her own failure. Falco belted him in on the passenger side and shut the door without speaking.
Mustering her strength, she called to Lem and Rio. “You each take one of the other trucks.”
Once home, they would strip the vehicles of gasoline and metal, which could be used for crafting. The salvage wasn’t worth a man’s life, but out here, they needed to use every resource they found. Ex and Falco escorted them back to Valle on the bikes, keeping an eye out for trouble. Rosa didn’t expect any, didn’t want any. Surely the day had already offered up its worst.
SIXTEEN
Chris paced for all of three minutes after the sound of motorcycle engines faded along the northern horizon. He knew that violating Rosa’s order would be a blatant disregard of her leadership and an insult to her personally. After what they’d shared that morning—whatever the hell that was—he was less inclined to insult her and much more inclined to get close to her.
But the glimpses of another dream were coming clearer now. Rosa was riding into trouble. He knew it like he knew how she tasted, although both were equally impossible.
He gave up on being rational. Years of living after the Change made that way too easy.
While there were no more assault bikes to be had, he had a vehicle in mind. Brick had refurbished a sleek Japanese motorcycle for Singer. The girl could no longer take it on joyrides in the desert, not with gasoline rationed. She kept the bike now like a pony she could never ride, washing it, admiring it.
He didn’t have to look hard to find her. She stood on the porch of the building she shared with Brick. A white peasant top edged with a fringe of light blue lace looked almost too pretty for their world.
“I’d like to borrow your bike,” he said bluntly.
Singer shook her head with a laugh. “I don’t think so.”
“It’s important.”
“Why?”
“Because I think
la jefa
and her boys are riding into a trap.”
She’d been twirling a strand of hair in that way she had of flirting without flirting. She suddenly stopped. “Brick too?”
“He’s with them, isn’t he?”
“What kind of trap?”
“Look, I don’t know, okay? Just let me borrow the bike. You know I won’t be able to get far before they return. If I’m full of shit and just stealing your property, Rosa will sic someone on me right quick when she gets back.”
“You bet she will.”
Chris was ready to scratch out his eyeballs. The memory of his dream was more powerful now—a firefight, a small truck fleeing. The strength of it itched like being walked over by needle-footed bugs. “I did good by warning the town, right? This isn’t bullshit, Singer. Please.”
Maybe it was the “please” that convinced her. Maybe she was just an easier sell than most of Valle de Bravo’s residents—although he doubted that one. She nodded once and took him around back. Within minutes she had the gas tank filled, ready to ride—all efficient, practiced movements.
Singer stroked a bit of chrome, her face surprisingly emotional. “If you hurt it . . .”
“I’ll bring it back safe,” Chris said, swinging his leg over the seat. “And Singer?”
“Yeah?”
“Gracias.”
The young woman brushed at her eyes. She had her brother, her sewing, and her prized possession. That was it. The weight of her trust was a heavy thing.
“
De nada
, Doc. Get going, then.”
Chris wasted no more time. He sped off to the north, loosely following the clean scars left by motorcycle tires in the dry, dry ground. In the distance he caught the sound of gunfire.
Shit.