Kevin drove them through good farmland, well-watered and rich. He watched the farmers stop their late-afternoon chores and peer worriedly at the passing truck. They crossed the Saluda River south of Lake Greenwood, then turned west, taking a road that had been reduced to little more than a rutted memory. As the sun touched the western treetops, they entered the Atlanta version of Overpass, an immigrant haven called Farmers Market.
They did not stop, however. Not yet. Instead they followed a well-used trail that headed toward the Savannah River. They halted near dusk by a well-tended house and garden, with songbirds greeting the rising moon and a lamp in every window. When the farmer and his wife emerged onto their front porch, Kevin saw how neither carried a weapon. He took that as a sign they were now close enough to Atlanta for folk to feel safe.
For payment in advance, the team was permitted to camp by the barn, use the well and bathhouse, and cook on the outdoor stove. Kevin then paid more silver to borrow three of the farmer’s horses and a mule. The farmer did not ask why Kevin preferred not to take the truck into the market town. Instead, he walked around the truck once, took in the Charlotte militia shield that had been scratched out, touched the points where shotgun pellets had taken bites from the hood and windshield and one headlight, then walked back to the house without another word.
Kevin was as tired as he had ever been. Tired in the manner that left him feeling old. But he had known any number of such hours, when a day’s duty as Overpass deputy had been followed by a night of transporting refugees, then another day on patrol. He did not fight the fatigue. He simply shouldered it as yet another burden.
Pablo wanted to come with him into town, of course, but Kevin insisted he remain with the team. He selected a young woman named Irene, whose ability was communicating with certain others over long distances. Irene was in her early twenties, with an abundance of unruly blonde hair and lips the color of a ripe peach. She carried herself like a dancer, long limbed and incredibly erect. She was quiet in the manner of one who did not need either a voice or words to communicate. Kevin thought her the loveliest of the crew, and the most feminine.
Pablo wanted him to also take Dale, the young man who had saved them on the road. But Kevin was adamant. The last thing they needed was to reveal their presence. When Pablo demanded to know what Kevin would do if trouble erupted, he did not respond. In truth he intended to send word through Irene and sacrifice himself for the team. But there was no benefit to be gained from arguing. So he simply saddled two of the rented horses and set off.
When Kevin and Irene reached the market’s main road, they joined a parade of families. Kevin had often seen this when working with refugees, how the hour was less important than the need. Many actually preferred the night for such activities. Daylight in public places risked exposure.
As they approached Farmers Market, the moon shone upon a boisterous village. Guards patrolling the periphery directed Kevin to a corral, where he rented space in a stable. When he asked about stowing their purchased items with the horses, the trader pointed to his own armed guards, then showed Kevin other stalls where slumbering children and piles of goods lined the interior walls.
The night was utterly clear, and the town held a carnival air. Patrons crammed the tables of taverns rimming the market, while jugglers and musicians plied their trade for tossed pennies. The air was redolent with the fragrance of roasting meat. Kevin bought two flatbreads crammed with lamb and chopped greens and asked directions to the stalls selling fresh produce.
He and Irene ate as they walked. The prices were outrageous, and none of the merchants appeared willing to bargain. When their canvas sacks grew heavy, they retraced their steps to the stall. Twice more they returned and stowed their goods. Entire families had joined the children in surrounding stalls, slumbering with their mounts. The barn’s guards were vigilant and wary. Kevin decided to make one more trip, then bed down in the straw for the night.
As they returned to the market a third time, Irene surprised him by asking, “Does it bother you, my silence?”
Kevin liked having a reason to stare at her. She was easy on the eyes. “Not at all.”
“Most men I’ve known, they find it unsettling.”
“You’ve known a lot of men, have you?”
She smiled with her entire face. “I’ve known enough.”
“You should smile more often,” Kevin said, and turned back to the road.
Five minutes later, as they reentered the food lanes, the night erupted.
The screams and shouts were so faint at first, they could easily have passed as merely a discordant note in the night’s clamor. But Kevin had heard such alarm before. He knew at gut level that the market was under attack.
He and Irene had been buying a load of cabbages, inspecting each for worms or rot. He ordered her to stay where she was and headed swiftly down the road, hunting the source. That was what he had been trained for, and the biggest difference between his kind and most others. Lawmen ran toward trouble instead of away from it.
The closer he came, the stronger the human tide surged against him. He expected to find either Atlanta’s militia or the market’s guards hunting a thief. Then he rounded a corner, and up ahead he saw the green and black uniforms of Charlotte’s troops.
The sight was enough to shift Kevin into high gear. He slipped into a tight alcove between two stalls. His thoughts kept pace with his frantic search for a weapon. Hollis and the Charlotte mayor would use the Washington hunters as their excuse. They were here under orders from Washington. It was a feeble claim. But Hollis and his men being this far south, in such numbers, meant their goal was more important than all the underlying risks.
They were hunting Kevin’s team.
The stalls to either side of Kevin had cloth walls held in place by ropes tied to steel rods pounded into the earth. He used his belt knife to cut the line, then hauled first one and then a second rod from the earth. They were slightly longer than his forearm and weighed about five pounds each.
He did not hide so much as allow the shadows to swallow him. The crowd grew denser and more frantic, being shifted against their will, protesting and fearful. Then the enemy came into view.
The first line of Charlotte militia was composed of three men. Kevin was mildly surprised to see Hollis had paraded them in full dress uniform. He had to assume Hollis and Silas Fleming were using this excuse to do what they had wanted all along. Pick a fight with Atlanta that its mayor could not ignore.
The three guards were equipped with electric lanterns strapped tightly to their chests, leaving their hands and arms free. The lights illuminated a wide swath of the avenue and shops to either side. They carried two clubs each and waved them back and forth, like shepherds shifting reluctant beasts.
Kevin watched as one of the stallholders, a barrel-shaped man with a jutting black beard, stepped forward and waved his arms in protest. He shouted something about Atlanta and tribute and legality. The trooper on the left side reached out and touched him with one of the clubs. Just a touch, little more than a soft jab. There was a hiss, and the man screamed shrilly and jerked. Kevin had heard of these prods and their electric jolts. The man stumbled and would have gone down, had not another man plucked him up and pulled him along, joining the frantic, jostling crowd.
Behind the trio walked another trooper, this one armed with a rifle. A more tightly focused light was attached to the barrel’s scope-mount. The soldier swept his weapon back and forth in practiced arcs.
Kevin found himself resuming the same tight focus that had seen him through so many dangerous moments. Gradually the clamor faded away until he no longer heard the shouts and protests and wailing children and bleating animals. He took note of the tendrils of smoke that drifted overhead and knew at some vague level that a cooking stall had caught fire. But all his attention was now fastened upon the four approaching troopers. Rage built inside him, and for once he welcomed it.
Kevin timed his approach so he was moving the instant the rifle strobe swept by. He followed the light, hoping the frontline troops’ vision would be momentarily impaired. He felt as though he glided over the earth rather than taking the four steps required to bring him up to the left-hand guard. His adrenaline-stoked brain was able to parse each breath, such that he had time to wonder if this was how a great hunting cat felt, being granted momentary wings as it flew in for the kill.
His sudden appearance caused the trooper to jerk back. He was a bullish man in his late thirties, five inches shorter and probably fifty pounds heavier than Kevin, and was slow to respond. Having a civilian suddenly appear in combat mode was clearly the absolute last thing he expected. Kevin brought his left arm across his body. The steel rod struck the man’s head with a solid and satisfying thunk.
Long before the man ended his spasm and started his fall, Kevin had shifted to the middle guard. He moved his right hand, swinging in a spiral, almost a dance. He continued shifting to his right while impacting the trooper’s temple. He had no time to check his work or make sure the guard was down. He had to trust the impact that had resonated up to his shoulder. Everything depended on speed.
Luckily the right-hand guard was a green recruit, freckle faced and so young Kevin doubted he shaved regularly. And scared. The guard’s eyes were two saucers at the realization of what was coming his way. Kevin hammered the guy square in the middle of his forehead. His eyelids fluttered and his arms tried to bring up his weapons, but his brain had already shut down.
Then the spotlight found Kevin.
He moved by reflex born from a hundred hard hours on the Overpass live-fire training course. He dropped and rolled.
The space where he had been was illuminated first by the strobe and then by the cracking rifle.
The crowd’s panic reached an entirely new level. What before had been a disorderly rush became a stampede.
Kevin dropped the rod in his left hand, gripped the earth, and leapt forward. The soldier probably expected him to rise, for his aim remained slightly high. But Kevin had no intention of straightening. Instead, he slammed the rod with all his force into the trooper’s left shin.
There was a sharp crack, then the trooper screamed and dropped to the earth. Before he could aim his weapon, Kevin brought the rod down on his head.
Kevin wanted to stop and take a single frantic breath. He wanted to fit his heart back inside his chest. He wanted to give his trembling limbs a chance to recover. But the shouts rising from lanes to either side told him there was no time.
He ripped the rifle from the trooper’s limp grip, unholstered the sidearm, then scrambled back to the three prone and groaning militia. He gathered up their clubs and lights and revolvers. Then he rose in swift stages. In front of him, the crowd sensed a change. First a few and then a dozen and then more and more realized the lane behind them had become free of the enemy.
They surged back down the lane, away from whatever it was the militia had been pointing them toward.
Kevin shoved his way through the throng, his arms filled with weapons and lights. To his vast relief, Irene remained where he had left her. He motioned her forward and shouted, “Run!”