CHAPTER 3

Hera: Mossberg Salvage

Just about figgers, don’t it, the way this day has gone? Took me years of roamin’, scratchin’ just to get by, before I finally gave in and came home. Got me a real job, steady work, a few friends, and not one blessed soul wantin’ my head on a platter. Shoulda known it was too good to last. My training took over and I didn’t even stick around to see Marcus high-tail it out of there. Time to un-ass the AO, as we used to say.

Pull up the trapdoor hidden under my cooler and start gathering up my bug-out kit. Some coin, but not enough to get off-planet. They’ll be watching for that anyways. The rest of the money can stay. I’ll gather it up later if I live.

A week’s worth of dehydrated rations, two canteens of water, spare bladder is already on the mule. Chameleon cloth tarp, my lever action rifle and the Glock, along with reloads for each. My old cammies, I’ll change into those later, and my knife. Cain’t forget the knife. Maybe I’ll get the chance to finish old Smelly off with it. Shoulda done it right the first time, but that’s what happens when you git in a hurry.

Shrug into my webbing, buckle it all down, then into the mule. Fire her up, purring, since I just worked on her yesterday. Thumb the little red button. BANG, BANG, BANG, BANG, hinges on the double doors go bye-byes. Goose the plasma flow and we burst into sunshine.

And almost right over top of Smelly. Hard to tell who was more surprised by my hasty exit, but I wasn’t goin’ to hang around and figger it out. I cut a hard right and opened the throttle wide, graviton wake making the world all blurry behind me. Didn’t take Smelly long to get his act together. I’d only made 50 yards afore that big honkin’ gun of his started barkin’

Smelly’s choice in hand artillery was a Smith & Wesson 50 caliber. Most men’d pack it around on a sling, it’s that big, but in those ham-sized paws of his it looked like a toy. It fired a lead slug about like the end of my little finger, and whatever got hit, stayed hit.

It was