StarCraft II: Devils' Due (3 page)

out of the final guard’s hands, gave him two quick

punches, one with each hand, and then picked up the

large form and chucked him out. He turned back,

grinning and exaggeratedly dusting off his hands. Jim

shot him an answering grin, then looked about,

making sure that—

It had survived unscathed. Raynor let out a breath of

relief and then realized something. Something he was

going to have to tel Tychus, and that his friend would

definitely not like. But that was later.

Now they surged forward, stepping over bodies to

jump into the next car. There it was: a huge safe, big

as life, a gleaming metal ic box that fil ed up half the

car.

And in front of the car, his eyes wide, his arms

spread out as if he could actual y protect the thing with

his skinny body, stood not a Confederate guard but a

mousy man in a uniform that marked him as a

government employee.

Tychus blinked, his weapon trained on the man as

Raynor’s was, but didn’t fire. “Son,” he said,

transferring the rifle to one hand and reaching into his

pocket, “would you mind tel ing me just what the hel

you think you’re doing standing there?”

The man was trembling so hard, Raynor marveled

that he could even stand erect. “Sir,” he said, his

voice shaking, “I am a duly retained employee of the

CBPMVI and I very,
very
much regret to inform you

that I cannot permit you to take the contents of this

safe.”

Tychus paused, an unlit stogie halfway to his mouth.

“That’s a mouthful of letters. Son? You don’t want to

be fooling around with old Tychus Findlay.”

The man went milk-pale. “Oh, dear,” he managed.

Clearly he knew the name. His watery blue eyes

darted over to Raynor, then back to Tychus. He

swal owed hard as Tychus put the stogie between his

lips, lit it, and took a few puffs.

“Mr. Findlay, Mr. Raynor, sir—if this were
my
stack

of Confederate credits, I can’t tel you how honored I

would feel if you were the ones to steal it from me. But

this doesn’t belong to me. It belongs to the

government of the Confederacy of Man, and I am

charged as an employee of the Confederate Bureau

of Protection of Monies and Valuable Items with

making sure it arrives safely at its destination.”

Tychus stared, puffing. Raynor shifted, fol owing

Tychus’s lead and also lowering his weapon. For a

long moment, the only sound was the rumble of the

train and Tychus’s sucking on the stogie. Final y,

Tychus laughed, a deep chuckle that started in his

chest and final y exploded in a loud guffaw.

“Son, you got bal s, I’l give you that. I ain’t never

seen anyone stand up to me like that, let alone

someone so puny who don’t even have a weapon.

What’s your name?”

“G-George Woodley,” the man stammered, starting

to look cautiously optimistic that he might actual y

survive the encounter.

“You married, George Woodley of the Confederate

Bureau of Protection of Monies and Valuable Items?

Got kids?”

“Y-yes, sir, to both. I got me a wonderful wife and

two beautiful children.”

“Wel , George Woodley,” Tychus said, “you just put

me in a good mood. And I tend not to kil people who

do that. So if you’l just step aside, we’l blow this safe,

and the Confederate Bureau of Protection of Monies

and Valuable Items won’t have to send a sad letter to

your wife and kids.”

The man’s thin, ferrety face fel . “Oh, dear,” he said

again. “I’m so sorry, but I just can’t do that.”

While Raynor admired the man for taking his job so

seriously, this had gone far enough. He lifted his

pistol. “Mr. Woodley, we’ve gone to an awful lot of

trouble today to get these credits. I’m pretty sure that

the CBP … whatever the hel the rest of the letters

are, doesn’t pay you enough to stand there and get

shot defending credits that belong to rich people.”

“Wel , sir, that might be true, but you probably ought

to know that Marshal Wilkes Butler has been notified

of the attack on this train and should be here shortly to

attempt to take the both of you into custody.”

Tychus let out another guffaw. “We ain’t scared of

ol’ Butler,” he said. “You’re gonna have to come up

with a better boogieman than him if you want to

frighten us away.”

Butler had been like a dog nipping at their heels for

the last couple of years. Once or twice, Raynor had to

admit, the marshal had almost gotten them. But with

every “encounter,” he and Tychus had been given the

opportunity to study the man and observe his

methods. While Wilkes Butler was no one’s fool, he

hadn’t managed to nab them, and that last bit was al

that Jim and Tychus cared about. As Tychus had once

put it while smoking a cigar and fondling a buxom

beauty perched on his lap, “Only thing that matters is

where you end up. ‘Almost,’ ‘coulda been’s,’ ‘shoulda

had’s,’ they don’t mean jack shit.”

Raynor put on a worried expression for Woodley’s

benefit. “I don’t know, Tychus,” he said. “If Marshal

Butler and his men are on their way, maybe we should

just leave while the gettin’s good.”

Tychus turned, brows drawing together in a scowl

that had frightened braver men than Woodley, who

emitted a whimper and then clapped his hands over

his mouth.

“You’re talking like a yel ow coward there, Jimmy,”

Tychus said. “But you got one thing right. We
should

leave—but we’re taking that money with us. Just gotta

get this little rodent out of our way, and then we can

go.”

He lifted his rifle and pointed it at Woodley. Raynor

felt a twinge of pity for the brave but ultimately foolish

government man as he closed his eyes and awaited

the attack.

It came.

Jim launched himself at Woodley and brought the

pearl-handled butt of the Colt down on the man’s

temple. He crumpled quietly to the floor. He would

have one hel of a headache when he awoke, but he’d

be alive to tel the tale.

“Funny little man,” Tychus said, then turned his

attention to the safe. “Grab something to truss him up

with, and I’l blow this thing.”

Raynor went back to the previous car to find some

rope. The jukebox was there in al its cathedral-like

glory, and again he paused, enraptured. He gently

unbound the ropes from the piano they had hidden

behind. Tychus entered at that moment, George

Woodley slung over his shoulder like a sack of

potatoes. Findlay stepped over the fal en guards, then

dumped his burden unceremoniously and ducked,

with Jim, behind another pile of what were probably

priceless antiques.

Another boom echoed as the safe blew. Jim turned

Woodley over onto his front and began to tie his

wrists and ankles. As Tychus rose to get their newly

liberated credits, Raynor said, “I want to take the

jukebox.”

Tychus turned on him, frowning. “
That
thing? It must

weigh a metric ton. You out of your fekking mind?”

Jim shook his head, inspected the knots, patted

poor George gently, and rose. “Nope. I want it. It’s

beautiful, it’s rare, and I just know that one day we’re

gonna be glad we have her.”

“‘Her’? Damn, boy, you need a good poke if you’re

cal ing pieces of furniture ‘her.’”

“That might also be true, but it doesn’t change the

fact that I want it.”

“We got Butler barreling down here to throw our

asses into jail. Or have you already forgotten what

Woodcock told us?”

“Woodley.”

“Whatever the hel his name was.”

Tychus was probably right. And yet, Raynor glanced

again at the jukebox, that exquisite house of so much

old music that probably hadn’t been heard in

centuries. He just couldn’t leave her behind.

“We can handle Butler. How many times have you

told me that?”

“Damn it,” Tychus snapped. “Just once I wish you’d

throw my words back at me when I agree with them.

Al right, we’l take your damned Lady Jukebox. But if

it’s a choice between it and me, I’m dropping it.

Understood?”

“Deal,” Jim said. He was surprised that Tychus had

agreed at al , even with conditions. They moved back

into the car, and the lovely sight of the safe with its

door hanging from the single remaining hinge

cheered him further. Each of them set to work stuffing

credits into the col apsible packs they had brought

with them. Not that long ago Tychus would have

insisted on taking the extra time to divvy up the money

equal y. During one of their first jobs together, Jim

was pretty sure that Tychus had taken a bit off the top.

Another time, Tychus had al but accused Jim of the

same thing. Now they just shoved the creds in until

their packs were bulging. Over the years, the trust they

had built up in each other had survived a lot of testing,

regardless of what might or might not have happened

in the earlier days, and things like this were nothing

new. They didn’t even know how much they were

“liberating”; they knew only that it was quite a lot, and

would buy alcohol and the prettiest girls at Wicked

Wayne’s for a good long time.

“Okay,” Jim said as he closed his pack securely

and fastened it around his waist. “Let’s get the

jukebox.”

Tychus shook his head but fol owed. “So, how do

you propose we get that thing outta here?” he asked

as they stood again before the ancient machine.

Tychus was strong. Very, very strong. But even he

wasn’t as strong as a man in a combat suit. And, of

course, they had come without their suits this time, on

the theory that agility was more important in this

particular heist than brute strength.

“There’s got to be a way to move this thing,” Jim

said aloud, working the problem through as he spoke.

“Some kind of dol y.”

“Figure it out and hurry the hel up. I ain’t getting any

younger, and Butler ain’t getting farther away.” He

stood back, folding his arms and watching Raynor

poke around until Jim found what he was looking for.

A hoverdol y, switched off and tucked back in a corner

behind a ceramic elephant that somehow had

managed to avoid al the gunfire. He eased it out and

activated it. It hummed to life, lifting itself about a third

of a meter off the ground. Raynor poked a button, and

the dol y rose another third of a meter. He grinned in

triumph.

It was going to be tricky, but it could work. “Okay.

We get the thing on the dol y and lift it up onto the roof.

From there we slide it onto the back of my vulture, and

off we go.”

“Mmm-hmm,” Tychus said. “There are
people
I

wouldn’t do this for.”

“People,” Raynor said earnestly, “aren’t jukeboxes.”

“Got that right. Come on, crazy man. Let’s get that

thing on your vulture before Wilkes Butler surprises us

and dies laughing.”

“It’s not gonna stay level,” Tychus said about

seven minutes later.

“Yeah, it wil ,” Raynor said with more confidence

than he actual y felt. They had attached the hoverdol y

to his vulture. While at ordinary speeds the hoverdol y

might work as intended, Jim was having his own

doubts about whether or not it would tip over at the

speeds they would have to reach to escape from—

“Everyone’s at the party. It’s Butler,” Tychus said.

Raynor craned his neck to see where his friend was

looking and groaned inwardly. There were several

smal puffs of dust in the distance blurring into one

large cloud, and the merciless sun glinted on metal.

“Damn it,” Raynor said, and made a decision. With

pursuit this close, there was no way he could go

slowly enough to prevent the hoverdol y from

jackknifing and destroying the beautiful jukebox. “Let’s

get it on my vulture.”

“No. Leave the damn thing, Jim.”

“Come on, we can slide it right off and tie it down.”

Tychus sighed and expressed his displeasure by

blowing a puff of cigar smoke in Jim’s face.

Nonetheless, he went to the dol y, steadied himself,

and heaved.

Not for the first time, Jim was impressed by the

sheer physical power of the man. The jukebox

weighed three hundred pounds if it weighed an