The Devil's Pay (Dogs of War) - By Dave Gross Page 0,1

horned hound, Dog Company’s emblem.

The young woman wiped the razor carefully on a towel before handing it with a flourish to Smooth. He gave her a kiss and slipped the razor into a pocket inside his jacket. “Thanks, doll-face.”

Dawson turned to leave through the suite door.

“Not that way,” said Smooth. “Here comes the reckoning.”

An accelerating clack of footsteps came down the corridor. Dawson winced as he recognized the sound of the madam’s hard shoes. He peered out the door to see her approaching, shoulders squared, chin tucked, ready for battle.

“It’s all right,” said Dawson. “I paid your tab.”

“Did you bring a handcart?”

“What? No, of course not.”

“Then I assure you, you didn’t pay my tab.” Smooth slammed shut the suite doors. After a moment’s consideration, he pushed a vanity in front of them.

“Smooth!” bellowed the madam. She banged on the suite door with the strength of an ogrun berserker, rattling the vanity mirror. “I know you’re in there.”

Smooth and Dawson went over the windowsill, slid across the eave, and dropped down to the street.

“Where are the others?” asked Smooth.

“I was hoping you could tell me, Corporal,” said Dawson. “I mean, Smooth.”

Smooth stared and shook his head. “Why did the captain send you, then?” he asked. “All right, follow me.”

They ran down Lantern Street, heedless of the muffled shouts of the brothel madam.

Smooth led the way to the Rust Market a few streets away. Cool shadows began to pool at the base of the buildings. Clouds veiled the descending sun.

“Creepy!” shouted Smooth.

Sergeant Crawley glanced up from a table full of pistons. His goggles hung loose around his scrawny neck. The tip of his long cap fell limp upon his shoulder. He returned his attention to a warjack piston, one among many salvaged parts arrayed on scarred tables beneath the dealer’s tent. “Whaddaya want, Smooth?”

“Captain MacHorne wants the boys back double-quick,” said Dawson.

Crawley looked up, as if noticing Dawson for the first time. “Got any money?”

“Not much left,” said Dawson, shaking his purse. “But the captain has a new contract.”

“Well, why didn’t you say so in the first place?” Crawley pushed the piston back across the table.

“That’s what I told him,” said Smooth.

“Better fetch the lieutenant,” said Crawley. “He’s around here somewhere, giving the junk boss an earful.”

The three men turned two more corners among the market’s confusing array of junk stalls before they heard the evidence of Crawley’s report.

Up on a wooden platform, two big men stood nose-to-nose, each trying to knock the other unconscious with harsh language thrown at high volume. Behind them stood two ranks of decommissioned warjacks covered in tarpaulins. Each steel giant was chained to huge stone anchors sunk into the ground. A rusty iron sign nearby read: “Buy & Sell.”

Smooth and Crawley winced at the argument and looked at each other before turning to Dawson.

“Deliver your message, Dawson,” said Smooth.

Dawson gulped before he approached the two combatants. “Lieutenant Lister, Sir!”

The bald and black-bearded man continued swearing into the face of the red-bearded ’jack dealer. A fat, unlit cigar bobbed with every syllable, threatening to tickle the vendor’s nose. “I never agreed to a thirty-five percent markup on the buy-back!”

“You take long enough, prices go up!” bellowed the dealer. “It’s no fault of mine you Dogs can’t pay your bills.”

“You don’t know a damned thing about the vicissitudes of contract employment, you grubby little junk picker.”

“Lieutenant, Sir!”

“Pipe down, Private. Can’t you see I’m in the middle of a delicate negotiation?”

“Captain’s orders, Sir! Double-fast assembly, Sir. JOB, Sir!”

Lister wheeled, turning his back to the vendor, who made a vulgar gesture beneath his chin.

“Well, why didn’t you say so in the first place?” He jumped down from the platform, splashing mud on himself and the other Dogs. “Who’s missing?”

“Harrow and Burns, Sir!”

Lister waved a vague hand beyond the Rust Market to a row of shops. “Harrow’s over there, somewhere.”

They split up to peer into storefronts until Sergeant Crawley blew his signal whistle. Thus summoned, they piled into a shop beneath the sign of a brace of pistols.

Inside, a hard-faced man stood across the counter from the proprietor and peered into the fat barrel of a new slug gun. Both his eyes and his short-cropped hair were the color of fresh steel. Between him and the gunsmith sat a game board with most of the pieces set aside, captured.

Dawson stepped forward. Harrow turned and paralyzed him with a glance. Dawson retreated to stand beside Crawley. “If you don’t mind, Sergeant, perhaps you could be the one to tell the Corporal—”

“Harrow, job!”