blade into the chest of the third killer. He opened his mouth to scream, but he died before the sound could escape. As he collapsed, Samantha wrenched her spear free and whirled toward the fallen woman, who was bleeding and dazed. The woman had lost her ax when she fell, but she scrabbled at her belt to draw a draw a long-bladed skinning knife. Samantha kicked it out of her hand and put the edge of her spear blade under the woman’s throat.
“One word and you’re dead,” she hissed.
11
South Fork Wildlife Area
Southern California
“My name is Brother Martin,” said the small man who stood next to Saint John. “But everyone calls me Brother Marty. I was never comfortable with Martin. I’m more of a Marty kind of guy.”
Iron Mike Sweeney said nothing. The big red-haired trade guard stood with his arms wide, wrists lashed to tree trunks, feet tied to roots, shirt stripped away, pale skin running with bright red blood. The woods around them were filled with silent reapers.
“What’s your name?” asked Brother Marty.
Iron Mike didn’t answer directly. Instead he made a suggestion that was rude, obscene, and physically impossible. Saint John’s mouth compressed into a tight line. The closest reapers cut looks at him and then glared at the prisoner, ready to kill him for the insult.
Brother Marty merely sighed. “While that would make for an interesting little film back in the day when making interesting little films was how I earned a buck, I don’t think your suggestion gets us very far. It doesn’t open a dialogue.”
Iron Mike said nothing.
One of the reapers, a big man marked with the tattoo of a red hand on his face, stepped close and whispered into Brother Marty’s ear. The smaller man nodded and waved him away.
“Ah,” said Brother Marty. “If I’m hearing this right, you’re known as Iron Mike Sweeney. Also known as Big Mike Sweeney and Bloody Mike Sweeney.”
Iron Mike said nothing.
“‘Iron’ Mike,” said Brother Marty, putting the name out there to taste it. “Talk about truth in advertising.” He glanced at Saint John. “He’s as tough as iron, that’s no joke.”
The saint pursed his lips but did not comment.
To Iron Mike, Marty said, “On behalf of the Night Church and our Honored One, Saint John of the Knife, I got to say that you are one bad mamba-jamba, and we admire that. You got the stuff, man, you got that X factor that sets you apart from other men. You know how rare that is? Especially in these times? You could’ve been a star back in the day. The Rock, Bruce Willis, Clint Eastwood, Schwarzenegger—they had it, but I don’t know how many of them could spend the kind of afternoon you’re having without so much as a peep. I’m really impressed. You know how many reapers you killed? Between arrows, guns, and that horse? Thirty-four. Thirty-four. I couldn’t sell a body count like that even in a summer blockbuster.”
Iron Mike smiled at him. It was not a nice smile, and it erased the grin from Brother Marty’s face.
Marty cleared his throat. “Okay, don’t do that again, because it creeps me the heck out. And what’s with the eyes? Red eyes? Really? And those aren’t contact lenses?”
“I have my father’s eyes,” said Mike.
There was something in the way he said it that made Brother Marty want to run and hide. It did not make him want to ask who Mike’s father had been. Or indeed what Mike’s father had been. The world was too big and too scary already without exploring any new territory.
“Enough,” said Saint John, and as he stepped forward Marty was more than happy to retreat. He faded to the edge of the clearing and watched the saint.
“You’re boring me,” said Iron Mike. There was no hint of pain or discomfort in his voice. That scared Marty too. “Say your piece. If you want to kill me, then go for it. If you have a deal, pitch it.”
“Let’s start with a deal, Mr. Sweeney,” said Saint John. “And it’s a simple
“One word and you’re dead,” she hissed.
11
South Fork Wildlife Area
Southern California
“My name is Brother Martin,” said the small man who stood next to Saint John. “But everyone calls me Brother Marty. I was never comfortable with Martin. I’m more of a Marty kind of guy.”
Iron Mike Sweeney said nothing. The big red-haired trade guard stood with his arms wide, wrists lashed to tree trunks, feet tied to roots, shirt stripped away, pale skin running with bright red blood. The woods around them were filled with silent reapers.
“What’s your name?” asked Brother Marty.
Iron Mike didn’t answer directly. Instead he made a suggestion that was rude, obscene, and physically impossible. Saint John’s mouth compressed into a tight line. The closest reapers cut looks at him and then glared at the prisoner, ready to kill him for the insult.
Brother Marty merely sighed. “While that would make for an interesting little film back in the day when making interesting little films was how I earned a buck, I don’t think your suggestion gets us very far. It doesn’t open a dialogue.”
Iron Mike said nothing.
One of the reapers, a big man marked with the tattoo of a red hand on his face, stepped close and whispered into Brother Marty’s ear. The smaller man nodded and waved him away.
“Ah,” said Brother Marty. “If I’m hearing this right, you’re known as Iron Mike Sweeney. Also known as Big Mike Sweeney and Bloody Mike Sweeney.”
Iron Mike said nothing.
“‘Iron’ Mike,” said Brother Marty, putting the name out there to taste it. “Talk about truth in advertising.” He glanced at Saint John. “He’s as tough as iron, that’s no joke.”
The saint pursed his lips but did not comment.
To Iron Mike, Marty said, “On behalf of the Night Church and our Honored One, Saint John of the Knife, I got to say that you are one bad mamba-jamba, and we admire that. You got the stuff, man, you got that X factor that sets you apart from other men. You know how rare that is? Especially in these times? You could’ve been a star back in the day. The Rock, Bruce Willis, Clint Eastwood, Schwarzenegger—they had it, but I don’t know how many of them could spend the kind of afternoon you’re having without so much as a peep. I’m really impressed. You know how many reapers you killed? Between arrows, guns, and that horse? Thirty-four. Thirty-four. I couldn’t sell a body count like that even in a summer blockbuster.”
Iron Mike smiled at him. It was not a nice smile, and it erased the grin from Brother Marty’s face.
Marty cleared his throat. “Okay, don’t do that again, because it creeps me the heck out. And what’s with the eyes? Red eyes? Really? And those aren’t contact lenses?”
“I have my father’s eyes,” said Mike.
There was something in the way he said it that made Brother Marty want to run and hide. It did not make him want to ask who Mike’s father had been. Or indeed what Mike’s father had been. The world was too big and too scary already without exploring any new territory.
“Enough,” said Saint John, and as he stepped forward Marty was more than happy to retreat. He faded to the edge of the clearing and watched the saint.
“You’re boring me,” said Iron Mike. There was no hint of pain or discomfort in his voice. That scared Marty too. “Say your piece. If you want to kill me, then go for it. If you have a deal, pitch it.”
“Let’s start with a deal, Mr. Sweeney,” said Saint John. “And it’s a simple
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