More had changed in Tire Town than just the bandits at the pass. She’d been coming to Tire Town once or twice a year for a good five years, and on every visit it had noticeably grown.

  Not this time. She saw no new buildings, no bigger crowds. In fact, there were fewer people on the streets and a fair number of boarded-up windows.

  The hotel was still there, though.

  It was by the main square, a three-story building standing out among the mostly one-story shacks. The only building of similar size stood right across the square, a concrete hulk from the Old Times reinforced with metal plates and sandbags. The mayor’s office.

  The hotel had a sign outside saying “Hotel”. Nothing more. She had heard that in the Old Times, hotels had names just like people. That was because towns were so much bigger that they needed two, three, even ten hotels. Hard to believe.

  She crossed the square, noting the trio of k-slingers on guard outside the mayor’s office and the sniper on the roof, the raggedy shops and saloons lining the square, and the loungers on the hotel porch. Everyone stared at her. Everyone always stared at newcomers, especially newcomers with one of the fine old Russian-made AK-47s. A rare classic. Mint condition, too.

  She sauntered past the loungers on the porch and went into the hotel’s dim front hall. Zeb, the owner, still parked his impressive bulk behind the front counter. “Never trust a fat man in a thin country.” Someone somewhere said that once. Well, there were no countries anymore, and almost everyone was thin. She did not trust Zeb.

  Zeb had his hands folded over his paunch and was pretending to snooze as an electric fan blew the sweat off his broad slab of a face and stank up the room. His eyes opened from wary slits and fixed on her.

  “Oh. You.”

  “Yep. Back again.” She studied the unbroken line of keys hanging from the board behind him. “How’s business?”

  Zeb snorted. “The bulletproof room is available. Five trade tokens a night. Breakfast included.”

  Those breakfasts could kill you quicker than the sawed-off Zeb kept hidden under the counter.

  “I’ll take it.”

  He held out a key. She paid for two nights with the tokens she’d taken from the dead men.

  “Not staying long?”

  “We’ll see. There’s been some changes.”

  Zeb jerked his head in the direction of the mayor’s office across the street. “Mr. Gregory got iced a few months back by a new outfit. Mr. Behan is in charge now. Well, sort of. Real power is with his second-in-command, Crazy Joe. Pity, Mr. Gregory was running things pretty good for a while. Kept things peaceful. I wouldn’t walk alone after dark if I were you.”

  “You’re not me.”

  The bulletproof room on the top floor cost extra because the walls, ceiling, and floor were reinforced with metal plating beneath the boards. It also had a metal door with an extra heavy lock and bolt. Bigger than the usual rooms in the hotel, merchants often rented it not just to sleep in, but as a safe place to stow their trade.

  The stairs creaked the same as she remembered them, and the hallways were as dark as usual. Their lights only came on at night. Zeb liked to save money.

  The room was decent enough, with a good bed, a dresser, and a mirror. A fan turned on as she switched on the light, circulating the stagnant air. Tucked to one side was a small bathroom with a sink, toilet, and shower. She spent a lot of time in there. Running water was a luxury you didn’t find outside Tire Town and a few prosperous farms. With all the gunk in the air, she’d be using that shower two, three times a day.

  Once she was clean for the moment, she opened the window, keeping to the side in case someone took a potshot at her.

  No one did, but they were watching. The sniper across the street turned to look at her as she opened the window. He had a Browning X-Bolt Hunter. A .30-06 from the looks of it. Nice telescopic sight too. One of the k-slingers in front of the mayor’s office had moved a bit away from the front of the building so he could stand opposite her room.

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  She stood at the window without fear. From the way they acted, they wouldn’t make a move. Not yet.

  It was now noon, and Tire Town baked under the hot sun. The streets had cleared some, although she could see the smoke from cooking fires and hear the hubbub from the food market on the street beyond the mayor’s office. Awnings of old canvas or more recent homespun kept the sun off people eating at the food stalls or drinking at the open-air saloons. The street beyond had the scavenge market. She’d go there later.

  An older man with only a pistol at his belt walked out of the mayor’s office and over to the guard who stood watch on her. They conferred for a moment, and then the older man walked back into the building. The guard looked up at her, caught her eye, and nodded.

  “Might as well get this over with,” she muttered.

  When she came out onto the porch a minute later, the guard hadn’t moved. He also had his AK-47 sloped rather than at the Ready position. A nice courtesy. She returned it.

  “Got something on your mind?” she asked from the porch.

  “Mayor wants to see you.”

  “Mr. Behan?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Mayors change a lot around here,” she said, stepping off the porch.

  The guard scowled. “Not anymore they don’t.”

  The mayor’s office was a large, dimly lit room on the upper story, overlooking the town square like hers. A broad oak desk from the Old Times faced three recently made chairs. A shelf with bottles of homebrew stood to one side. The harsh sunlight filtered through the slats in the windows to leave golden knife cuts across the floor. She didn’t like this room. She had to leave her guns at the door.

  Her first impression of Mr. Behan was that he looked tired. A middle-aged man with bloodshot eyes, he bore the scar of a bullet graze across one tanned cheek, and a burn mark across one hand and forearm. Despite this, he moved with the restrained strength and coiled energy of a fighter as he moved to the bar.

  “Beer or whiskey?”

  “Whiskey.”

  He began to pour. She remained standing.

  “What’s your name?” he asked.

  “Does it matter?”

  He chuckled. “No, I suppose not. Would be nice to know who killed the two men at the pass.”

  She ducked to the side and grabbed one of the bottles to smash over his head.

  Then froze as she stared down the muzzle of his revolver.

  He had drawn fast. Not as fast as her. She could have beaten him if she had had anything to draw.

  “Easy,” he said, without a trace of tension.

  She put the bottle back in its place and took the glass of whiskey he offered him.

  Behan gestured to a seat. She took it.

  After he settled down behind his desk, he laid the gun on the table and toasted her.

  “Cheers.”

  “Cheers.”

  They drank.

  “You’re not as clever as you think you are,” Behan said.

  “Is that a fact?”

  “Even if I didn’t have a lookout at the top of the ridge, I could have figured out that one of the better k-slingers in town had died by your gun. You walk like a pro.”

  “Why do you have a lookout on the ridge if it’s already guarded?”

  “To watch the people guarding it.”

  She thought for a moment. “Those were Crazy Joe’s men?”

  Behan nodded.

  “And you and him had a falling out.”

  Behan didn’t answer immediately. Instead he studied his glass. “A year ago we were bandits. Crazy Joe was … is … my second-in-command. Good man in a fight. Good man in the badlands. Suited to it. But I had bigger ambitions. I saw Art Gregory was weak. Got soft being on top of the heap for too long here in Tire Town. His security was lax. Could keep the peace in town and scare off the smaller bandit groups, nothing more. I filtered in some men posing as scavengers a few at a time. I came too. We hit the key areas while the bulk of my force swept in led by Crazy Joe. The town fell in a single morning. We only had to kill Gregory and about a dozen of his fighters. The rest surrendered. We gave them the choice of banishment or joining the new order. No slaughter, no looting, no rape. I was proud of that. The people of Tire Town sure were surprised. Grateful too. They learned to accept my rule soon enough.”

  “So why are the streets half empty?”

  Behan grunted. “Another whiskey?”

  “Sure.”

  Behan got up. “I distill it myself. Hobby of mine.”

  “You got talent.”

  He refilled both their glasses and sat back down.

  Raising his glass he said, “To new friends.”

  She drank in silence.

  Behan smacked his lips and put the glass down. “I’d like to hire you.”

  “I’m not for hire.”

  “I’ll pay you well. Your own house with electricity and running water. Plenty of trade tokens. Command, if you earn it.”

  “So why are the streets half empty?” she asked again.

  “Crazy Joe still thinks he’s in the badlands. So do many of the men who followed me here. They steal, make their way with the women, rough up anyone who crosses them. I’m creating a civilization and they’re still acting like bandits. Not enough of my people see the bigger picture like I do. We have a good thing here, and he’s screwing it up.”

  “And you don’t have the strength for a showdown.”

  “Not one I’m sure to win. You might tip the scales.”

  “I’m not for hire.”

  “Crazy Joe is going to relieve his men at the pass at sunset. Then he’ll know they’re dead, if some traveler doesn’t tell him before. Won’t be long before he figures out it’s you.”

  The lights cut off.

  “Aw, shit,” Behan muttered.

  “Crazy Joe?” the k-slinger asked.

  “No,” he said, standing up. “My other problem.”

  He headed out the door. Curious, the k-slinger followed.