Page 102 of Dustwalker
“So, I’m expected to know your will in all things without being told?” Though the question was already a risk, he nearly let himself say more. They couldn’t do much to him—on oroff, as he’d told Lara—but there was a lot they could do to her.
Warlord motioned to a pair of gearheads. “Boulder. Northside.”
The synth with the exposed lower jaw, Northside, had been guarding the gate to the bot district the night Ronin brought Lara inside, and Ronin had seen the boxy bot called Boulder around town.
Each of the bots grabbed one of Ronin’s arms and pushed. He locked himself in place, exerting force against them. Warlord didn’t look away, his expression unchanging as he gestured the two remaining gearheads forward.
More hands clamped down on Ronin, and they quickly swept his legs out from beneath him. He hit the pavement hard. The gearheads knelt on his limbs before he could rise.
Warlord approached slowly, as though he had nothing better to do, nowhere else to be, and stopped over Ronin’s head.
Ronin poured excess power into his actuators and struggled to sit up. The gearheads swayed, adjusting their weight to press him down.
Warlord eased into a crouch. “You’re expected,Ronin, to get rid of that worthless meatbag. You’ve done well for us, brought in valuableresources, so I’m willing to extend my generosity to you one last time. There’s fight in you, and I can admire that…but it doesn’t mean shit if you try to fight me. Get rid of the meat, or Iwill. And then we’ll tear you apart, one piece at a time.”
Ronin stared up at Warlord’s face, fury roaring inside him. Reason said to agree politely and be done with it. Deception and charm were the safest ways to extricate himself from this situation. But with whatever Lara had awoken inside him, this fire, this emotion, this…love, he couldn’t accept the threat with a nod and a forced smile. He railed at the thought of letting this happen without protest.
But he had to swallow his rage. He had to get back to her.
“You can prosper with us, or you can become the scrap that fuels us. Don’t ever say I didn’t give you the choice.” Warlord rose and walked away, boots thumping on the pavement.
The gearheads delayed for fifteen seconds before releasing Ronin and following their leader.
Ronin sat up and watched the group leave, their shadows stretching across the road in the setting sun. They turned east when they reached the main street; they weren’t going to Ronin’s residence, at least not directly.
What if they’d already been there? What if they’d already harmed Lara?
No.
They wouldn’t have done anything. Forcing Ronin to harm her himself was part of Warlord’s cruelty, part of the way he exerted control. They couldn’t have hurt Lara.
Not yet.
He pushed himself to his feet and ran. He should’ve listened to her, should’ve taken her away from Cheyenne sooner. He shouldn’t have gone on that last run. What had that delay cost them?
The front door of his residence was locked. He forced it open, splintering the wood, and it slammed hard into the wall.
“Lara!”
Striding into the main room, he swept his optics over it. There was precious little time to gather their supplies, and he’d have to prioritize based on her needs. Food, water, clothing. The Dust would not be forgiving to her.
Footsteps sounded on the stairs. He snapped his head to the side asLara raced down, turning toward him as soon as her feet were on the floor of the entryway.
“Ronin?” She flicked her worried gaze between him and the open door. “What’s wrong?”
For once, he was glad to see her clothed. Her ring hung around her neck on a thick piece of twine. Ronin wished she could wear it on her finger, but it was too obvious a target for thieves and reavers.
“We need to go,” he said, striding to her.
“Wasn’t that the plan already?”
“Now.” Taking her hand, he led her upstairs, climbing the steps swiftly.
“Ronin, wait!” Lara hurried behind him. “What do you mean, now? It’s still light outside, and we haven’t traded anything.”
He entered his bedroom. She’d already packed his rucksack and laid out their folded clothing on the bed. His tools were arranged in his belt pouches, the handgun in its holster nearby. Releasing her, he went to the closet, pulling down the spare bags from the upper shelf and tearing two coats off their hangers.
“What the hell’s going on, Ronin?”
