Warlord's Revenge Read Online Free PDF

separating them.
     Stone caught it in the air and looked down at it. The object was preposterous. The end of a soda can that had been flattened,
     a crude chain put through its pop top so it could be worn around the neck.
    “It’s safe passage through these parts,” the filthy leader of the mountain bandits went on, sweeping his eyes over Stone’s
     force as if trying to visually pry out the goodies. The muzzle of the Bradley III tank and the cold stares of a half dozen
     Indians took some of the smile off his face. But still he went on loudly, now staring with little ice picks toward Stone,
     trying to intimidate him. “You wear one of these, you get through. You don’t, you’re dead. It’s that simple. We got men throughout
     these hills—ain’t no one gets through without paying. Our range extends for two hundred miles to the south. After that, you’re
     in somebody else’s territory. That’s their problem—and yours. But it ain’t mine.”
    “This is America, pal,” Stone said almost quietly but with a force that they all heard. “There are no separate countries or
     kingdoms. No safe passages. That’s the thing about this country—you can go where you want.”
    “Used to be friend, used to be,” the bandit leader went on, scratching his balls as he spoke. “But them’s the old days, these
     is the new days—and
we
rule here. So give me some guns and bullets or we cut your balls to chop suey.” He looked around him, sweeping his hand across
     his rows of horse-mounted fighters who had belts of slugs draped around their shoulders like mail armor, pistols, and sawed-off
     mini-autos dangling from saddles everywhere. The ugly bastards looked like they were ready for war. But so was Martin Stone.
    “Don’t you see this tank?” Stone asked, standing up now on the side kicks of his bike, so they could all clearly see and hear
     him. If fatso was going to be dramatic up there on his horse, Stone knew he had to create a similar sort of power scene from
     his end. “Don’t you assholes know what a tank can do?”
    “Seen lots of ve-hi-cles ’round these parts,” the mountain king went on, slapping up at the flies that buzzed around his lips.
     “Seen tanks, too—but not a one of them could fire, or assholes in ’em who knew how to make ’em do it.”
    “Well, that’s not the situation here,” Stone said as coldly as glacial ice. “That tank can fire. And so can I—and these Cheyenne
     here. And we can take out your whole damn crew. Believe me. I’m not bullshitting you. So let’s put it this way,” Stone went
     on, catching Bull’s attention in the tank some ten feet behind out of the corner of his eye, signaling him to get ready. “
You
get out of our way right now and we’ll just say the whole thing was a mistake. Otherwise…”
    “Otherwise? Otherwise?” The bandit king seemed stunned by the implied threat. He wasn’t used to being challenged. Not for
     a long, long time. He raised his hands in the air as if to implore the gracious heavens above not to send him such fools to
     deal with. Then his hands came down fast, and.a pump shotgun appeared from out beneath his mismatched coon-and-bearskin coat.
     Flame was blasting out of it before even Stone could move.
    Then all hell broke loose. Stone dropped back down to the seat of the Harley, flat on his stomach, and pulled the trigger
     of the .50-caliber on the front frame. The weapon exploded into a hail of slugs just as the shotgun blast reached the motorcycle.
     The wall of pellets slammed into the dirt near his right leg, a few of them ricocheting up from the rocks and through Stone’s
     fatigues, making him grunt for a second in pain. There was a roar just behind his right ear as the Bradley’s huge cannon erupted
     out a 120-mm shell. A funnel of air and smoke
whooshed
out behind the sudden pressure release of the two-foot-long shell, and Stone smelled the wave of cordite odor sweep over
     him.
    The tank shell hardly had