The Devil's Pay (Dogs of War) - By Dave Gross Page 0,4
got their hands on Cygnar schematics and made some modifications.”
“And now they’re ready to test this new ’jack on its own creators. Is that it?” Smooth ran his fingers over his head, frowning when he touched stubble from his unfinished shave.
“That could be, but it doesn’t matter. Our job is to go out there, find this thing, and bring it back. The Old Man can decide for himself what it is.”
“Outstanding,” said Burns. “We don’t know what it does or who’s controlling it, but we’ve got to take it down and deliver it. And us with most of our stuff in hock! I don’t mind if this is a gobber hunt. I just hope it’s not a dragon hunt.”
“What are you afraid of, Burns?” asked Smooth. “You’re still bulletproof, aren’t you?”
Burns put a finger through a hole in his helmet. “Not as much as I was. How’re we supposed to do our job with holes in our helmets?”
“We pull off this job, Burns,” said Sam, “you’ll have enough to buy ten new suits of armor, all in different colors.”
Burns brightened. “Yes’m” he replied smartly. In any other company, it would have just been a slightly informal acknowledgement of her rank. But in Dog Company, her company, it was also a contraction of “Yes, Sam.” It meant more to her, and the men who used it, than “Yes ma’am” ever could.
“What’s the contract structure?” asked Lister.
“Base rate for our time, with a bonus for delivery,” said Sam.
The Dogs muttered.
“A very hefty bonus. Now listen, we’re not going out there to stretch our legs and collect scale. I aim to find this new ’jack and deliver it. We collect this bonus, we’ll have all our big lugs out of hock, plus new gear. And shares will be more than enough to buy Burns his new wardrobe and to get Smooth out of trouble with Madame Jinty.”
Smooth cast a baleful eye around the room. The others avoided his gaze or shrugged at his unspoken accusation.
“Where are we supposed to take it? We can’t cart a ’jack all the way to Caspia, even on these rigs.” Lister pounded the side of one of the three iron-shod wagons parked in the warehouse. The wagon bed shuddered on its spring suspension.
“I know where to send a messenger when we’ve spied our target,” said Sam. She jumped down from the platform, turning to reveal a cute, puppy version of the Devil Dogs’ symbol painted on the back of her leather jacket. “Like I said, the Old Man’s not far away. We’ll arrange the hand-off depending on where we find our target. Is that it for questions?”
When nobody spoke for half a second, Lister said, “Yes’m.”
The boys saluted with varying degrees of enthusiasm. Harrow did so without opening his eyes.
“Then we’re good to go.” Sam nodded at Foyle and jerked a thumb over her shoulder to indicate Gulliver. “Crawley, I want these big lugs loaded along with two weeks’ fuel and supplies. Brief the men and put them to work before they have time to get drunk. We’ll celebrate after we collect our bonus. We set out first thing tomorrow.”
“Yes’m!” Crawley dispatched the corporals to gather the troops, mechaniks, and drivers.
Lister said, “How about the engineers?”
“We can afford two,” said Sam. “And I’ll need you to handle logistics on your own.”
Lister nodded. His eternally unlit cigar dipped as he considered the work ahead of him.
“It’ll be easier next time,” Sam promised. “After we turn the ledger black.”
“I know, Captain. It isn’t your fault. We’ve just had a bad run of luck.”
“Maybe it’s not my fault,” she said. “But it’s my responsibility. This is the one that’ll put us back on top. I just know it.”
Smooth, Burns, and Harrow stepped out into the rain. The warehouse door roared as Burns rolled it shut.
“I’ll fetch the mechaniks,” said Burns. “I saw them in the Rust Market.”
“No,” said Smooth. “Better no one sees your face near the market for a while. I’ll get them. You roust the drivers. Harrow? You’ll tell the men?”
Harrow nodded. Smooth went back toward the center of Tarna, while the others walked the other way.
As he rounded the warehouse corner, Harrow paused beside a stack of empty crates. He cleared his throat. Sheepish, Dawson emerged from hiding.
“I was just—” Whatever Dawson was about to say, one look from Harrow stuck the words in his throat.
Harrow stepped close to examine a knothole in the warehouse wall. The peep-hole provided a clear view of the warjacks, wagons, and Captain