daylight. And he didn’t want to lose an hour by waiting.
Did he really have any choice? He stood by the building next to the wall. There were no guards. The League of States didn’t waste much resources on guards. They didn’t have guards allocated to watch the walls. Each of the six gates that led to the city had guard posts that were manned, but that didn’t matter since a traveler needed to have an electronic pass to go in and out of the gates, unless they had authorization papers—a rarity.
The heavy work of guarding the wall was done by the privateers. And their bonuses were whatever they could take off of people who tried to go in or out of Houston. Many didn’t make it in or out alive.
Just outside the wall, these privateers drove by on patrol. Since Houston’s citizens didn’t have vehicles, they didn’t stand a chance of outrunning a privateer truck or van.
Torrent had passed several on his trip into the city. Some outside the walls, cruising, reminding him of wheeled hyenas, looking to scavenge a free meal. He’s run across several during his time in the city. Privateer vehicles with dark tinted windows that raised no Leaguer eyebrows and were unstopped and unhindered by anyone.
The city gates, forty foot high with electronic sensors opened automatically for privateer vehicles that entered and left the city.
Could the same electronic opener on one vehicle work on other Texas cities? Could a privateer vehicle in Houston open the gates in Dallas and San Antonio?
Torrent leaned against a building, not far from his scaling supplies, still hidden in the cubby he’d created in the wall. He was right next to the building he and Vector had visited last. His option to wait until dark didn’t appeal to him. Omar’s wound should be seen to before infection could set in. Now what? Risk being seen and scale the wall so that he could use the radio?
The sound of an engine made him press tight against the wall, blending with the building’s shadows.
One hour.
He’d wait. It seemed better that way than to risk being caught and have to fight a vehicle full of privateers. Who knew if they might overpower him if he tried to go over the wall before the cover of darkness?
The engine noise came even closer. He pressed against the wall more tightly. A large black Whistlemax vehicle approached. Built with thicker and heavier metal than average passenger cars, it was the size of a van, and could carry as many as fifteen comfortably. The windows were tinted black, several shades darker than passenger cars were allowed to in the League of States. Evidently, laws didn’t apply to privateer vehicles in the new Texas.
The vehicle passed him and he released a breath, his shoulders slumping with relief. Brakes in need of repair squealed a protest as the Whistlemax pulled to a stop just after passing him.
Damn.
Now what?
The door opened.
The driver’s door.
Torrent’s muscles tensed, his heartrate sped up as he readied himself, mentally preparing for whatever he had to do. Reaching into his side bag he pulled out one of the dead privateer’s pistol, the one with a silencer on it. He took a knife out and slipped it into his belt, then another pistol went into the waistband at his back.
A set of boots hit the ground. Denim pants just above them.
Torrent raised the pistol, aimed at right about where the man’s chest would be when he stepped out fully.
A red shirt came into his line of vision.
Should he wait for the rest of the team to come out or hit this one quickly?
Before he could finish his thought process fully, and before he raised his eyes to the man’s face, a voice spoke. A voice Torrent knew only too well.
“Why are you trying to kill me every time I see you?” Vector’s tone held amusement.
“You’re dressed like a privateer. You’re in one of their vehicles.” He shook his head. “And you’re wondering why I’d want to kill you?”
Vector eyes ran over Torrent. They stopped their
Did he really have any choice? He stood by the building next to the wall. There were no guards. The League of States didn’t waste much resources on guards. They didn’t have guards allocated to watch the walls. Each of the six gates that led to the city had guard posts that were manned, but that didn’t matter since a traveler needed to have an electronic pass to go in and out of the gates, unless they had authorization papers—a rarity.
The heavy work of guarding the wall was done by the privateers. And their bonuses were whatever they could take off of people who tried to go in or out of Houston. Many didn’t make it in or out alive.
Just outside the wall, these privateers drove by on patrol. Since Houston’s citizens didn’t have vehicles, they didn’t stand a chance of outrunning a privateer truck or van.
Torrent had passed several on his trip into the city. Some outside the walls, cruising, reminding him of wheeled hyenas, looking to scavenge a free meal. He’s run across several during his time in the city. Privateer vehicles with dark tinted windows that raised no Leaguer eyebrows and were unstopped and unhindered by anyone.
The city gates, forty foot high with electronic sensors opened automatically for privateer vehicles that entered and left the city.
Could the same electronic opener on one vehicle work on other Texas cities? Could a privateer vehicle in Houston open the gates in Dallas and San Antonio?
Torrent leaned against a building, not far from his scaling supplies, still hidden in the cubby he’d created in the wall. He was right next to the building he and Vector had visited last. His option to wait until dark didn’t appeal to him. Omar’s wound should be seen to before infection could set in. Now what? Risk being seen and scale the wall so that he could use the radio?
The sound of an engine made him press tight against the wall, blending with the building’s shadows.
One hour.
He’d wait. It seemed better that way than to risk being caught and have to fight a vehicle full of privateers. Who knew if they might overpower him if he tried to go over the wall before the cover of darkness?
The engine noise came even closer. He pressed against the wall more tightly. A large black Whistlemax vehicle approached. Built with thicker and heavier metal than average passenger cars, it was the size of a van, and could carry as many as fifteen comfortably. The windows were tinted black, several shades darker than passenger cars were allowed to in the League of States. Evidently, laws didn’t apply to privateer vehicles in the new Texas.
The vehicle passed him and he released a breath, his shoulders slumping with relief. Brakes in need of repair squealed a protest as the Whistlemax pulled to a stop just after passing him.
Damn.
Now what?
The door opened.
The driver’s door.
Torrent’s muscles tensed, his heartrate sped up as he readied himself, mentally preparing for whatever he had to do. Reaching into his side bag he pulled out one of the dead privateer’s pistol, the one with a silencer on it. He took a knife out and slipped it into his belt, then another pistol went into the waistband at his back.
A set of boots hit the ground. Denim pants just above them.
Torrent raised the pistol, aimed at right about where the man’s chest would be when he stepped out fully.
A red shirt came into his line of vision.
Should he wait for the rest of the team to come out or hit this one quickly?
Before he could finish his thought process fully, and before he raised his eyes to the man’s face, a voice spoke. A voice Torrent knew only too well.
“Why are you trying to kill me every time I see you?” Vector’s tone held amusement.
“You’re dressed like a privateer. You’re in one of their vehicles.” He shook his head. “And you’re wondering why I’d want to kill you?”
Vector eyes ran over Torrent. They stopped their
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