Chapter Eleven

at him with very large guns. One explosive munition had hit nine yards ahead of his position, and the other had impacted close enough to pepper Roland's torso and face with shrapnel, so regretfully he charged the enemy. The martyr shot back. They hit him a few times, but Roland paid their bullets as much mind as he would a mild rein. He drew close enough for visual contact. These martyrs were a motley sight. Several of them fought shirtless,

with white crosses daubed across their chests. Most of them wore body armor, very little of it. Modern. Roland saw a lot of old pre war plate carriers and surplus police vests that crap wouldn't stop military grade rifle rounds, although since the only weapon in Roland's hand was a big gas wrench, how these men were armored hardly mattered. They were mostly armed with old enforce and a smattering of newer assault rifles, probably pilfered from the Republic of Texas.

Fifty men, six technicals, two drone carriers. Roland hit their skirmishing line before the teams on the recoilist rifles. His first target could reload. Roland's wrench broke jaws and orbital bones. It cracked pelvises and shattered thighs. He dispatched the rifle teams and then danced through the on rushing mob of militia like some sort of compound fracture dispensing ballerina. And as he fought, Roland felt the familiar sunlight warmth of

serotonin flowed his synapses. He remembered a little of how the army had explained the battle. Drugs now flowing through his brain a guarantee of sustained aggression. The longer he fought, the harder would be for him to stop fighting and to avoid killing. Rowland felt his self control will begin to fade. As he knocked out his dozenth martyr, he started swinging harder, his blows increasingly connected with clavicles instead of coxyxes, and jaws instead of elbows. His hindbrain warned him.

As the kill likelihoods jumped from ford to six percent up to twenty thirty, he felt his conscience fade beneath the uphoric red haze of narcotic splendor. Before he knew it, the whole platoon of martyrs was either on the ground or fleeing for the relative safety of their technicals. Roland laughed a madman's laughed. Tickled that they thought a bunch of old Toyota trucks with machine guns in the beds might slow him down. He put a fist through the engine block of one and made a burst of fifty

caliber fire from the other. As he pivoted and launched his wrench through the driver's side window. The improvised missile connected with the face of the driver, who spun his wheel hard to the left. The truck flipped forward onto its cabin. Something about the wet crunch had maid sounded so familiar. Oh God, oh dear sweet Jesus, Please, sir, The National guardsman was nineteen years old. Randall Pallas was

his name. Roland knew that because his hindbrain had sucked in every piece of publicly available data on the boy once it had scanned his face. It had done that with all the occupants of the humvey and the four seconds before Rowland had blown it on its side. Wallace was just the only member of the crew unlucky enough to survive. Please, Sir, Roland stepped towards the broken, bloody boy. He came back to himself, a bit disoriented, but none

the worse for wear. His hindbrain and a lifetime of combat memories had kept his body fighting in his mind's absence. Now wrinchless, Roland used his bare hands to tear open doors and break faces. The gunners on the remaining technicals tried to fire back, but their maneuverability was limited by the rubble choked streets and their own fleeing infantry. One minute after first contact, the martyr contingent had been reduced to a dozen shell shocked soldiers, piled hastily on to

the tops of the retreating drone carriers. Roland hopped onto the last of the technicals. He disabled it by pulling the driver out through the front windshield and using the man's body to beat the gunner into unconsciousness. Roland tore the vehicle's twenty millimeter cannon free from its swivel mount and sided in on the fleeing troops. His synapses promised him more chemical rewards if only he'd pulled the trigger, but something in Roland's forebrains stopped him. Under the joyous

miasma of the battle drugs, his conscience reasserted itself. He lowered his weapon and watched as his enemies beat hell for leather in the opposite direction. His hands shook, and he felt the first symptoms of withdrawal. As his heart rate dropped and the adrenaline drips stopped its flow, Roland closed his eyes. He breathed in and out, and centered himself. The crash came. Now that the fighting was done, Roland had time to process the since data he'd pulled from

his enemies. He knew what the driver he'd ripped out of the windshield had eaten for breakfast. He knew which of the militia he'd crippled were fathers. He knew which had wives or at least girl friends. He could smell traces of football leather on some of their hands. One man he'd wrenched had smelled of rosin a violinist. Roland couldn't fight a man without learning much more about him than any killer should know about their victims. That knowledge crashed down on him in a hail storm of guilt.

Roland dropped the cannon into the truck's bed. He hopped down, pulled Sardar's wrench free from the wreck of the Second Technical, and headed back towards Biggsby and his squad with a heavy heart. Madine and Asimee both looked pretty seriously wounded. Biggsby was helping to carry them both back to the APC while Will handled over watch with his grenade launcher. Roland caught up with them and fell into step. Biggsby looked over at him and grunted, Are you gonna try

to take my nipple now? Roland shrugged. He wasn't in the mood. His brain was in the dark, ugly place it always went after a bloody fight, when the raw data about all the men he'd killed or battered lingered in his brain like a fart in the back of a hum v They reached the APC. Sardar gasped when he saw them, Pedro vomited. Roland was confused until he realized Biggsby and Will had also started to stare. Roland looked down at himself and saw that he looked like

a literal dead man walking. He'd been shot forty seven times by his hindbrain's best count, and peppered with shrapnel. Top of that, he had ribbs showing through holes blasted in his biceps, in his belly, and the bone on his left thigh was completely exposed. It looks worse than it is, Roland said, it looks like you should be dead about five times over, Sardar replied. Roland looked Sardar up and down. His hind brain did the math eleven times. If I were you, Jesus, he handed Sarda the wrench,

now dented and bloodstained. A large clump of hair and scalp was still stuck to the heel jaw. The mechanic took his tool with one hesitant hand. He stared at the gore on it until Biggsby started to yell again, Oi fucos. In case you've forgotten, there's an army breathing up our asses. Sar, you get to drive man, Sardar NodD at his head. Then let's get the wounded in the cab and power the funk out of here. Will stay on watch. Will grunted and jerked his head at Roland.

This funk erota cover us. He just took out half a company on his lonesome. You trust him to watch your six Biggsby, asked Roland. Only half heard them. He stared off into the distance. We're his jaw and clenched his left fist so hard his finger nails drew blood. He was lost in his head, scanning scent memories and analyzing the men he'd just beaten. He was drawn again and again to the memory of one man in particular.

He'd worn a tattered U. S Army issue vest and an M sixteen that posed as much of a threat to Rowland as a drunken hornet. He'd had the scent of a woman on him. He wasn't alone in that, but the rich wave of oxytocin that had poured off him was intense and real. In his memory. The man's face kept twisting and morphing into the face of Randall Wallace, Roland started to cry. Bigsby and Sardar loaded Ryan, Nadine,

and Asime into the transport. Will just stared at him, his gaze locked on Roland's tears, as if each one were the lockneest monster. Roland didn't care. His hind brain kept up its glitchy feet of data, a mix of information on the men he'd just killed and the men he'd killed years ago. Once the wounded were loaded up, everyone filed into the Maddis APC. Will popped the top hatch and sat Gunner with his grenade launcher. Inside the APC, Bigsby and Pedro did their best version of first aid

on their wounded companions. There wasn't much for them to do, though everyone in the squad had fairly advanced healing suites. Roland trudged into the a PC and took his seat. No one made eye contact with him. Sardark kicked it into gear, and off they went. Waco had always been one of the worst cities in Texas. In the late eighteen hundreds, that had been a refuge for former Confederate loyalists. In the nineteen hundreds, that had developed a reputation as

a haven for coups and religious extremists. Caught between the economic powerhouse of Dallas and the relative cultural mecca of Austin. Waco was a second rate college town at best, and at worst, a meth filled rest stop between Texas's good cities. The revolution had changed that. After the lake would blast,

Dallas had bled sixty percent of its population. Most of those people had fled to Austin since constant flooding had rendered much of Houston uninhabitable, but half a million of them ish had swelled Waco into something resembling a worthwhile place to exist. The city had thrived in the post revolutionary years. It was nominally controlled by the Austin regional government, and so it had been spared the worst of the

Republic of Texas's corruption. But now it looked like Waco would be the next city eaten by the expanding Heavenly Kingdom. Roland could smell the stink of fear in the air when they were still a half dozen miles out from the city limits. Once they hit the city proper, their

convoy halted at a military checkpoint. Power armored Austin Republican guardsmen opened the side hatch of the Maddis a PC and inspected the squad bigsby spoke for them, beamed over some credentials from the SDF, and they were waved in. They stopped at a fueling depot with the rest of the SDF column, and Roland hopped out of the a PC to stretch his legs and roll another blunt. He picked a cherry apple rap he dipped in a vat

of extra strength hydrocodone syrup earlier that morning. As he rolled it tight and sealed the scene with his saliva, he watched the stf unload hundreds of wounded warriors from half tracks and a PC's in the beds of flatbed trucks. Many of the walking men and women looked wounded too. Most of the vehicles were damaged. Roland lit the blunt and stared off towards Dallas. It was still early in the morning, and the sky was streaked with red and orange.

On the horizon, black smoke rose to meet the sunrise. Rowland was struck with a powerful sense of dejah vou. This wasn't the first time he'd watched a great city burn in the light of the rising sun. According to his hind brain, it was around the thirtieth time. He recalled a few of those cities Denver, Baltimore, d C. Richmond, but the particulars of each calamity were lost to his memory. He wondered, not for the first time, if his broken

brain might be a blessing boy it was, Sardar. He approached from the rear and stepped up to Roland's right side. Rowland offered the mechanic his blunt, now half smoked, and Sardar accepted it. He drew in a deep lungful of medicated smoke, held it in his lungs for three long seconds, and then exhaled with only a small fit of coughing. It tastes like fucking cough, Sarah man. Yep. Roland agreed, there's enough opiates on that to kill a small cat.

That's a weird thing to say. Yep, Roland agreed. Sardar took a second hit and then passed the blunt back to Roland. They stood in companionable silence for a minute and watched the distant smoke mingle with the morning light. Sardar spoke first, Jim's on his way out here. He's flying in with three more squads. Austin's approved emergency funding to stabilize the front. Apparently a chunk of that's coming our way. Grats, said Roland. Then he asked, what's the

money mean, do you? Sardar shrugged, Cascadia. Probably been saving for a couple of years. Now, fifty grand buy residency. Another hundred grand or so to set me up for the first year while I find work. Roland finished another deep poll on the blunt and offered it to Sardar. The other man declined with a polite wave of his hand. Now thanks. Roland puffed again and asked, so, what's the Pacific Northwest got that you want the future? Sardar said,

I mean, that's what it always meant my head. I grew up in al Passo, got trained up by that army blooded in their first little civil war, the a Albuquerque Secession. Right, Sardar nodded. Didn't see much action then, but I got Jim's attention. He made me an offer when my term of service expired. The idea was I'd be with him for five years and retire with enough money to make a new start out west. I always dreamed of a life in Portland. It seems nice there,

it is. Roland agreed, or at least I got nice memories. I met a girl out there when I was younger. I remember watching the fog rolland with her he ran a hand over the stubble on his head. It was weird to him that he'd been given so much control over his bodily functions, and yet he still found himself making nervous gestures. For some reason, talking about her made him want to cover his face. The impulse was wired into him deeper than the carbon fiber that laced his bones.

That er sounds tough, Sardar said. He managed to look concerned without showing pity. I can't imagine having all these memories floating around with no through line to connect them together. It must hurt, Roland shrugged. What hurts most is knowing that it should hurt more. I don't remember enough to give the pain its proper due. They were quiet for

a bit. Roland finished the blunt and put it out on his right and next finger, Sardar pulled a bronze flask out from his jacket pocket, took a belt, and then offered it to Roland. It was Lafroy whiskey. Even if he hadn't been chromeed to the gills, Rowland would have recognized that smell from three feet away. He took a gulp from the flask and passed it back. Sardar broke the silence again. Look, maybe I'm reading things wrong, but we've got some tents set up near the a PC.

You up for a fuck? Roland looked the man up and down again. Sardar was a good looking guy, short, broad and muscular, with a neat trimmed beard and curly black hair. Yeah, all right, it was pretty good sex. Nothing to blow Roland's mind, but the release provided a quantum of chill to calm the pangs of memory. Afterwards,

Sardar fell asleep, nuzzled into his shoulder. Roland didn't particularly feel like cuddling, but he since the other man needed the human contact, so he laid there with him for a couple of hours, rolled and smoked two more blunts, and tried not to think about the lives he'd ended that morning. A little afternoon, Biggsby came by and knocked on the tent flap Czar, Roland, elife's here, clean up, ye,

fuck stenk and meet us by the a PC. They did five minutes later, the whole squad had assembled around the maddis. Ryan looked more or less recovered from his injuries, Asimee also seemed good as new. Nadine was still pretty bandaged and her eyes were litted and unfocussed from blood loss and opiates. Will had brewed up a large French press of coffee. He busied himself pouring measures of it out into himp foam cups. Roland took one and drained it in a single mighty gulp. It was proper post

human strength coffee. The caffeine rush mingled with the opiates and THHC already flooding his synapses, and brought him to a lovely, half lucid state of quasi awareness. Did you guys fuck? Pedro finally asked, after about a minute of staring at Roland and Tardar and asking the same question with his eyes. Yes. Biggsby and Nadine both replied. Sardar laughed at that, so did Rowland. For one beautiful moment he felt nice, a kind of nice he was pretty sure he hadn't felt in a long time. And then

came a familiar pattern of bootsteps, tickling, Roland's ears. Jim Roland turned just as Jim walked into view. His legs were covered by a pair of armored red leather chaps. His groin was wrapped up in a thick kevlar thong, but his penis and ass were otherwise unguarded. He wore a double shoulder holster with a pair of bone handled wheelguns under his arms. The snake tattoos on Jim's chest and shoulders danced to a melody Rowland eventually recognized as Lakucaracha.

Your ink looks good today, boss, said, Bigsby asked liquor, said, Sardar takes one to no one. I don't lick ass, Sarda replied haughtily. I eat it like a starving hyena. More laughter and another fleeting moment of community that was broken when Jim addressed the squad. All right, so several bunks have been hummed here. This heavenly Kingdom's got at least ten thousand effectives in theater with Almah artillery drones

the works. A new employer, Austin has about three thousand fighters here in Waco, plus now the fifteen au Lot I flew in with AJAX and flooring. They're prepping their squads now. Bigsby spat Ajax fights about as well as a drunk dog in a burlap sack. Will replied, you just saying that because he choked you out in the blood Dume last year. Biggsby responded with a middle finger. Ahem. Jim hemmed, plenty of time for Dick, measuring later, time enough for the rest of you. At least this city

doesn't have a ruler long enough for my dick. He paused for a laugh. No one obliged. Jim rolled his eyes, ass holes. So look, we're in a bad position with funk All for reinforcements coming in. Austin might be able to scrape up a couple of Italians if they suddenly clear out the Houston front, but that don't look likely. Enemy has another ten thousand men there. Fuck. Startar was the only one to actually say it, but everyone else in the group mouth the word or some equivalent curse.

How is that even possible? As Amee's voice was still a little slurred from the painkillers, but her eyes were focused now. Jim shrugged hard to say exactly masked affections from the Republic at Texas Intel suspects the u c S probably sent in some spec ops guys. I don't know, some sort of skulduggerous bullshit went down. The how of it ain't really our problem today, but now we've got to deal with the reality. The snakes on Jim's torso

stopped writhing. He locked eyes with Roland, and Rowland felt compelled to meet his old friend's gaze. Can we count on your help? Jim asked, fuck no. Roland said, I've killed enough naive young men today. I don't aim to kill anymore. To his rise, Jim nodded an acceptance, understandable. This kind of fighting was a violation of our contract. I regret that, Rowland. If I'd known this was going to be a meat grinder, I wouldn't have interrupted your retirement.

Roland wasn't sure he believed that, but he kept his mouth shut as Jim continued, I'd like to propose a renegotiation of our contract in a lot of the changing situation on the ground. I'm not blowing anything else up for you. That's fine. Jim put his hands out in the sort of placating gesture one would use on an angry dog. I don't need you killing us. I need you sneakiness. You can still take faces right. Roland's memories of his time in the army were as patchy as

his memories of everything else. He didn't remember much about how they'd used him, but he knew that some of the wet where they'd installed in him allowed him to modify his skin and bone structure to full facial recognition scanners, thumb print readers, and of course human beings. Yes, he said, but Jim cut him off. You don't need to kill anyone. The face you'll need is already dead. And what do you want me to do with this man's face that isn't more murder? Jim's lips curled up into a grin.

The expression sent shivers arching down Roland's spine. He felt like he'd seen that grin before. Never proceeding good things. Rolling Fuck is near by and in the city of Wheels a six hundred or so real scary bastards. I have it on good authority that they'd be happy to throw down on our side. But it turns out some of the negotiators were captured back at the start all this ship. No one in the city will risk fighting

until they pulled out safely. Roland raised an eyebrow. So a rescue mission, then that's right, Jim grinned in a way Roland didn't quite trust you'll be saving lives. Roland's gut twisted into knots. The shades of a thousand Memories spoke up and warned him not to trust Jim at his word. But those shades also drove him to take Jim up on the offer. He wanted his memories back. Jim smiled that hackle, Ray and smile again. You don't have to agree and come to rolland Funk with me.

We'll talk things over with the Eldas. You can do some of the fancy space drugs, and then you can make your decision. All right, rolland Side, but only because you said fancy space drugs. They flew to Rolling Funk in Jim's hellicraft. It had been military issue originally, but the interior had been redone to Jim's tastes. That mostly meant a lot of the lure and a full wet bar. There were four beers on tap just to the right of a double barreled thirty five millimeter grenade launcher mounted

beside the door. Roland drank for the duration of the ten minute flight. You know, Jim said, Topez lives there now, been with the city a while Topaz, Roland asked. Something shuddered in his gut. He felt his hippocampus flicker with the dim light of recognition. He saw that face again, the woman from so many of his dreams and a few of his shattered memories. That was her name, It

felt right now that he knew it again. Do you remember her at all, Roland, Jim asked, his voice uncharacteristically tender. Roland nodded and swirled the beer in his hands to buy some time. I remember snatches of her, he said, I remember loving her. I remember enough that it hurts sometimes. Mostly it hurts that I don't remember enough to be as sad as I ought to be. There was a

spark of real sorrow in Jim's eyes. The other man's hand twitched in a way that made Roland think he might have been about to reach out to him, but Jim kept his hand to himself. I'm not sure how much I should say, he said, I'm sorry. There was something in Jim's face when he said that it resembled regret. Or guilt, but it passed quickly and nothing else was said during the flight. They landed on one of the top spires of Rolling Fuck, on a landing pad that

doubled as a nude bar. He and Jim grabbed another round of drinks before they proceeded down through the infinite party that was the City of Wheels and on to the top of the mad Roller. They grabbed another round of drinks there and sat at the bar table while Jim waited for the word to go down. It was late afternoon by this point, and the evening had started to close in. The normal boiling Texas heat was cut by a cool breeze. White clouds rolled in around them.

Roland's hindbrain told him there was at best a twelve percent chance of rain, but the clouds were still welcome. He and Jim drank in silence for a few minutes until the other man tapped his shoulder and said, they are ready for us. They stood a bit unsteadily and headed towards the ladder down into the main roller. They reached the ladder just as two other people came up it,

a man and a woman. The man's face triggered a flurry of memory fragments, fighting back to back in the choking streets of Baltimore, drinking heavily on the edge of a canyon in the Arizona Desert, charging a riot line with pipes and hammers in their hands. A name bubbled up from inside the memories. Mike, he shouted, before he really thought about it. Hey, brother, schofucker, Mike Froze. Roland was already half way to a hug when he realized

Mike wasn't feeling it. And then he caught his first good look at the woman coming up the ladder behind him. She had short, cropped teal hair, damascene fangs, and eyes so loud he could almost hear her thoughts, Topaz. She started to say his name, and then her voice caught He heard the ghost of tears beneath it, and then she finished, Roland, Yes, he said, not sure of what else to say. Do you remember me? No, he admitted.

Part of him wanted to lie, but he couldn't. The broken scraps that remained of his love for her made it impossible. So we gave the honest answer, and he watched her die a little inside. Topaz nodded, she closed her eyes for a second, bit down on her bottom lip, and then she put a quick hand on Mike's shoulder before she walked away up one of the gantries and into the chaos night of rolling fuck. Roland looked to Mike, I'm sorry, skullfucker. Mike smiled sadly back, I know, buddy,

and then he left two. Roland felt confusion and a distant hurt. He had a feeling that he should have been crying, but for some reason he couldn't, and so he didn't. Instead, he took a fistful of OxyContin and stumbled down the ladder following Jim rolling Fox. Conference room was sumptuous, elegant, and surprisingly professional. Two old people sat

at the far end of the conference table. Roland had a vague memory tingle of having met the man before, long ago, but neither of their faces brought a name to his mind. Jim introduced them, but their names fled his head a few seconds later. In fact, the first minute or so of conversation flowed around him in an indistinct haze that may have had something to do with a soft ball sized mass of oxycontent he'd eaten as he'd climbed down the ladder with Jim. Roland had assumed

the drugs would help him focus through the boredom. Apparently he'd miscalculated. Okay, so the old lady said, with a hint of finality, that's the situation we're in. Are you willing to help us in response? Role and blacked out just for a few seconds. He was reawokened by the thud of his head hitting the conference room table. Fuck, that's good oxy. He wished he could remember where he'd gotten it. Oh, dear, said the lady. He's fun, Jim sighed,

but we've probably gone a need to start over. The lady brought him some coffee and reintroduced herself as Nana Yazzi. Thanks to the coffee and Roland's clearing head, her name stuck. This time. It was hard not to marvel at her age, and harder still to stop his hindbrain from calculating how

much longer till her human heart gave out. Roland smelled cancer on the old man, not serious cancer, nothing basic medicine couldn't handle, but all the same, the odor that wafted off him brought Roland a sort of primal discomfort. Or maybe it was the old man's eyes that made his guts warble. It was hard to say. There was something disconcerting in the way he looked at Roland Rowland, Jim shouted. Roland shook himself out of the haze and

refocused on Nana Yazzi. Sorry, he grunted. It's fine, she said, and set into her spiel again. She showed him pictures of her captured friends, explained the dire situation in North Texas and the doom that marched towards Waco and Austin. It was a sad story, but not one that compelled Roland to action. Other than Topaz and Skullfucker Mike, the citizens of Rolling Funk were total strangers to him. Austin was just another little ailing republic in a continent full

of them. I'm sorry for your people, he told her. And I'm sorry for Austin, but I really don't see how any of this is MI damn business. Jim took those words as his cue. Toullian Topaz are close, said Jim. His voice was low, his tone smooth. The silk like sisters from what I hear, Marigold vouched for Topaz and Skullfunk A Mike when they joined the city. She's all funked up over this, from what I hear, he added, so let her do something about it. Then Roland muttered,

she's got enough chrome to choke a river ship. The city's got enough monster people to burn the eastern seaboard. What do you need me? Because the Mata's aren't stupid, Jim sa. They are scanning for chrome, for bile mods for everything but the ship you've got, because no one left alive as packing the ship you've got, Roland grunted again. His nostrils flared. There was something strange about the words Jim had chosen. No one left alive? Had there been others?

He knew his mods had come courtesy of the old U S Defense Department, but he didn't remember which unit he'd been a part of, or what he'd done. There was a bit of memory, hazy and fragmented, that popped into his dreams from time to time. He was stuck inside a long, cool metal pod. The cold black of space unfolded around him. Roland felt warm bodies to his left and right, smelled the comforting sense of men he trusted. Red lights blinked above his field of vision. Something tugged

at his belly. There was a powerful feeling of inertia. Roland closed his eyes, leaned forward, pinched the bridge of his nose, and groaned just a little bit. When he came back up, Nana Yazi stared at him in confusion. Jim looked, perhaps worried. It was hard to tell with that guy. What's gonna happen if I don't do it? He Nana Yazzi to you nothing, Roland shook his head. Not to me. What are you guys gonna do if

I don't help? Oh, she frowned. I suppose we'll have to mount an assault, send in a small team, four or six commandos and try to pull them out. It'll be bloody, Jim said. The old man frowned at that. He opened his mouth like he wanted to say something, but the lady put her hand on his and gave him a significant look. That's true, she said, it will be bloody. Roland felt a twinge of anger, but he couldn't blame Nana Yazzi for trying to manipulate him. The

lives of her friends were on the line. Roland knew himself, though, and he knew that missions like this always went wrong. If he took this job, Roland knew he'd take more lives. You'll save lives by being there, Jim insisted, smiling that fucking smile. Roland was sure that smile had tricked him into dumb, violent things in the past. You're the only one who can handle this with a minimum of death. Roland didn't believe that, and at the same time he

had to admit it was technically true. He just didn't trust himself, or reality or Jim. And yet I'll do it, he said. I'm sure I'll regret agreeing to do it, but whatever, I'll do it. Jim looked satisfied with himself. Nanayazi looked relieved. The old man looked somehow angry. Most of Rowland's reason for agreeing to help came down to Topaz. He hated to admit that, even to himself, but it was true. The thought of her in pain twisted something in the center of his heart. He wasn't used to

pain there, and his tolerance was pretty low. This is so dumb, he told himself. You couldn't even remember her name this morning. He and Jim and the old woman shook hands on the deal. Then they let him loosen their city, to imbibe and fornicate and test the limits of his wet wear. We have things to plan, she said. Hey, everybody, Robert Evans here. I hope you just enjoyed the chapter you listen to. I hope you enjoyed the chapters to come.

If you would like to read the text version of this book either on the web or on your e reader as an e pub, you can find those on the website a t r book dot com. So again, the free ad free e pub and the text of every chapter will be on a t r book dot com. Thanks