Tin Swift(114)

“I require silence from all my subordinates, Mr. Shunt,” the general warned.

Mr. Shunt folded his fingers together. They made an eerie clacking sound, as if he was more metal and bone than flesh and blood.

“I require the witch,” Shunt said, quiet as a beast stalking prey.

“If,” the general replied, his voice rising, “you will not fall in line, then you will be escorted out. This is my land, my rule. Do you understand?”

There was a pause. Hink had tried his bindings while the men postured, but there was no slack in them. Alabaster’s men knew how to keep prisoners kept.

“I understand every piece of you,” Mr. Shunt said.

It was a threat. Hink held his breath, waiting for weapons to be drawn. Hoping they would be.

“Then you understand my need to destroy this filth,” the general said.

To Hink’s surprise, Mr. Shunt gave a sort of hissing laugh. “Yes.”

Whatever hope Hink had of finding a way out of this hell was crushed with that one small word.

Alabaster paced away. Hink could just make out the table forge in the corner of the room. It smelled hot.

“You took my men, Mr. Cage,” the general said. “You took my rank. You took my career, and my eye.” There was a pause while he scraped coals, and then there was the pop of his lips sucking flame into the pipe tobacco.

“I never forget those who die for me,” he said, “and I never forgive those who don’t.”

The scrape of metal tongs stirring coals filled the tent.

“So now you have a choice, Mr. Cage.”

Hink strained to hear anything beyond the tent, anything that would tell him where he was. But all he heard was the scratching of something metal stirred in the hot coals, the puff of Alabaster’s pipe, the tick and click of Mr. Shunt, and the rush of the wind outside.

“Do you want me to dig your eye out of your skull?” General Saint asked.

He turned and paced over to Hink, standing above him. “Or do you want to do it yourself, Marshal Cage?”

Sweat rolled down Hink’s neck and he swallowed hard. The general gripped a pair of tongs in his hand. Clamped in those tongs was Hink’s tin badge. It was red-hot, the wicked points of the star dusty white and smoking.

Hink had no weapon, no plan. He’d told his crew to run and they damn well better have run. He was tied down in his enemy’s parlor.

There was no bargaining with the Saint. No forgiveness and no negotiation. Hink knew the general wasn’t offering him a choice so much as just wanting to watch him squirm.

“How about your man, Mr. Shunt?” Hink asked. “Aren’t you going to offer him a go at me?”

“This is between you and me,” the general said.

“Then hand me that poker,” Hink said. “And you’ll have my answer.”

The general puffed on his pipe and smoke curled up around his head, like some kind of devil come elbowing up out of hell.

“I disapprove of your tone, Marshal.” The Saint leaned over him. The heat from the poker lashed a hot shadow over his face. “Struggle. It will make this all the more memorable for me.”

Hink was breathing hard. He clenched his teeth, steeling himself for the pain.

“I’m going to push this through your eye. Then I’m going to stir it in the coals and push it through your other eye. After that, we’ll see how long you can stay alive while I cut off every other part of you, bit by bit.

“But first, let me make it clear to the world just whose man you are.” The general pressed the hot star into the center of Hink’s forehead.

Hink screamed as his skin crisped and burned, pain flaying his nerves.

The Saint removed the star and turned to place it back in the coals.

Blood dripped down into Hink’s ears and eyes, and the rancid smell of burned hair and meat choked his throat.

“Marshal Cage,” the general said, puffing on his pipe. “Now no one will forget exactly who and what you are.”

Just past the rattle of his own heartbeat, the Saint’s words, and the sizzling metal dropping wet into the coals, Hink heard a sound. It was the hum of an engine in the sky.

He knew that engine. He could feel that ship in his blood.

The Swift. She was coming for him.

The general turned with the star in tongs again. “Now, I will have your eyes.”

Hink smiled up at the Saint. “Go to hell.”

“After you, Marshal Cage.” General Alabaster Saint clamped his teeth on the stem of his pipe and then stabbed the poker down.

Hink screamed as agony burst through him and swallowed him whole.





CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT


Cedar knew it wasn’t much of a plan. But they’d drifted over the base, seeing what they could make out in the darkness, then fired engines low, just long enough to put them in a position to strike.