Bounty Hunter

Chapter 13

Joe left for Clearwater after a late breakfast. He'd spent an hour cleaning his exoshield and another two hours repairing and restocking Monster, though he needed replacement parts and another forty hours before the cutter would be back in optimal condition.

The sun was bright and hot—it always was after dust storms passed through, though it always was before dust storms, too. It was cool in the vehicle and even cooler in Joe's exoshield. He let himself settle into the comfort of the seat. He put Monster in auto-drive so he could review the details on his target.

Val Vane, Sheriff of Clearwater. Veteran of the Revolution. Considered armed and dangerous. Do not approach.

Sheriffs were an interesting concept. Some towns had them, some didn't. That Clearwater had one meant that the townsfolk liked to take care of their own business, which also meant they wouldn't exactly be welcoming to a bounty hunter on their streets. Joe would have to be doubly careful in a town like that.

No data on the client or on Vane's crime left Joe with only a guess as to why she'd ended up as a target. The sheriff was either causing problems for someone or had broken some unwritten code. Either way, it didn't matter. Joe needed the credits, which meant the sheriff was going down.

Joe had given up his ideals long ago. He no longer worked for justice; he worked simply for a paycheck. At least, that's what he told himself on jobs like this one. Maybe one day things would change, but for now, he needed to survive until tomorrow.

He arrived at Clearwater to find a rough town sitting on the edge of a lake of sludge that was the opposite of anything remotely clear, let alone water. Rows upon rows of green leafy crops lined the lakebed, but Joe didn't recognize the food—not that he was an expert. Most of his meals consisted of ration bars. He savored the dinners he had at the Swintons, and considered that to be damn near the best food in the world, though according to Nick, his mother was a mediocre cook at best.

Joe drove down the main road and casually noted that Clearwater was a one-bar-sized town. The jail was across the street, which was good planning on someone's part, given that just about all folks who ended up in jail were drunk at the time of their crime. Joe continued for another block, passing decrepit stone buildings with busted windows, before turning left and bringing Monster behind the jail. Three cutters sat there already, though two were dusty enough to look like they'd been parked there for some time, assuming the dust storm Joe had driven through earlier hadn't passed through this area too. The third cutter had a sheriff's star painted on the doors. It could belong to a deputy, but Joe guessed that the town was small enough to have none.

He eyed the jail's back door, weighing his options as he drove by. He could wait out the sheriff, shooting her as soon as she stepped outside. But the longer he waited, especially in the daylight, the likelier he'd be noticed, hurting his element of surprise. He could go in after her, but he didn't know the layout of the jail and could find himself at a disadvantage, even with an exoshield. His third option was to track the sheriff to her home, wherever that was, then take her out while she slept, but that option had the same risk as the second one. The smartest option would be to reconnoiter in plain clothes before setting a plan since his exoshield would stand out like a cow in a buffet line. Still, Joe hadn't gone out in public without an exoshield since before the Shiprock War, and he wasn't about to start now.

He decided to go with the first option. Since there was no decent camouflage for Monster near the Jail, Joe parked his cutter in an alley a couple of blocks down. He grabbed his rifle and climbed out after making sure no one was around. He moved slowly and quietly behind the buildings that led to the jail.

When he reached his destination, he hazarded a glance into the sheriff's cutter. A rifle sat on the passenger seat, and the systems looked to be in standby mode. He then weaved between the two dirty vehicles to find a spot that offered concealment and a direct shot at the back door. He went down on a knee behind the back fender of a green cutter. He set his blaster rifle on the fender and lined up his shot.

Then he waited.

It was late afternoon, so he expected the sheriff to leave soon. He wanted to get the job over with and be on his way back to the Cavil. Knockout jobs never sat well with him—made him feel too much like an assassin. Ironic, since that's what he'd been in the Revolution and in the Shiprock Riots, and in the Wilds Rising after that. He'd killed enough to know he would still be able to sleep at night, which was more than could be said for many of the townsfolk after they learned of their sheriff's death.

Through the years, Joe had noticed that regular folks—good folks—tended to overestimate the effect of death in the short-run and underestimate its effect in the long-run. Once the initial shock wore off, those folks would discover that they'd lost innocence, only to have it replaced with a jaded realism. Joe called that surviving, and folks needed that mindset to make it in a world dead-set against them.

He heard a crunch behind him, and he tensed.

"Gun down, hands up," commanded a woman's voice, and what he suspected was a blaster barrel banged against his back, then tapped the back of his helmet. At that proximity, he couldn't move more than a few inches before she fired. She had him dead to rights, and she knew it.

He gritted his teeth, set his rifle on the ground, and raised his hands.