The Builders by Daniel Polansky Read Free Book Online Page B

Zapata, though he realized swiftly that the armadillo no longer presented a threat.
    The Captain came slowly to his feet. He picked up his hat from where it had fallen and set it onto his head, his ears flattening to hold it upright. He returned his pistol to his sleeve holster.
    From outside there were a series of gunshots, coming so swiftly it was impossible to make out the number.
    The spray of lead had ripped through Zapata’s underbelly. His intestines were leaking into a little puddle on the floor, blood and bile with them. He smiled all the same. “That’ll be my girls.”
    The Captain pulled a stool in front of Zapata and sat down atop it. The air erupted with a cavalcade of gunfire, rendering conversation inaudible.
    After thirty seconds or so the artillery ended. The Captain slipped a cigar from his pocket, lit it, and took a few shallow draws. “You sure?”

Chapter 21: A Killer’s Pride
    “I will be honest with you, my old friend—this whole thing is wounding my ego.”
    Bonsoir was pacing back and forth on a dune a long ways off from the hacienda, the jet-black of his fur standing out against the pink sand.
    “I hear ya,” Boudica grunted. She lay motionless just beneath the crest of the hill, gray fur stained to dull khaki by the dust. From twenty paces away she was absolutely indistinguishable from the sediment surrounding her—save for the long, glittering barrel of her rifle. It was an unnecessary obfuscation, in all likelihood. They were too far from the meeting place to be seen unaided, a fact that explained Bonsoir’s distinct lack of stealth. But Boudica was a professional, and professionalism means doing it right even when it doesn’t matter.
    “Bonsoir is the greatest infiltration specialist in history. Bonsoir is as slippery as moonlight, as slick as shade and as swift as sin.”
    “No question.”
    “And what is Bonsoir doing, with all his talent? With his ability that no one, not Bonsoir’s worst enemies—not that Bonsoir leaves so many of those alive to have an opinion one way or the other on the matter, needless to say—but still, if one was up above the ground, and you were to ask him, ‘Bonsoir, is he everything they say he is,’ this theoretical enemy would be heard to answer, ‘Yes, without question.’ What was I saying?”
    “Not sure.”
    Bonsoir paused for a moment. “The point is, this is a misuse of my genius.”
    “Captain’s got his plan.”
    “Indeed he does! And the Captain, he says he does not need Bonsoir today! He says that today is not Bonsoir’s! That you and the lizard will take care of the ones outside, and that Barley and his cannon will take care of the ones in the barn, and so there is nothing left for Bonsoir.” Bonsoir scowled and kicked at the dirt.
    “It’s tough.”
    “The indignity!” Bonsoir said, sticking one finger straight up in the air. “It is an insult to my ability, that’s what it is! A disgrace to my line and lineage, to my people and nation and . . .”
    Bonsoir would almost certainly have continued on in this fashion had not the retort of the rifle cut him off.
    “Did you get her?” Bonsoir asked.
    Boudica looked up from the weapon with a pained expression.
    “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. You can see how out of sorts this whole thing has made me.”
    “You’ll get your turn soon enough.”

Chapter 22: The Price of Certainty
    “I’ve heard about you,” Angie Weasel said. Slyly, as if betraying a secret.
    This news did not seem to excite Cinnabar. His eyes hung dully on the closed door of the hacienda, as if hoping to follow his commander through the rough stone.
    “I guess everyone’s heard about you.”
    The shuttered window on the second floor of the hacienda peeked open, and Celia Weasel, the youngest of the clan, leaned the barrel of her Winchester out of it. It was an ominous sign, one Cinnabar gave no indication of noticing.
    “Is it true you killed High-Hand Lawrence and Hotpants the squirrel during the same