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Back Angels of Vengeance Save as PDF
Chapters (68)
  1. Blurb
  2. CONTENTS
  3. Dedication
  4. CHARACTER LIST
  5. 1
  6. 2
  7. 3
  8. 4
  9. 5
  10. 6
  11. 7
  12. 8
  13. 9
  14. 10
  15. 11
  16. 12
  17. 13
  18. 14
  19. 15
  20. 16
  21. 17
  22. 18
  23. 19
  24. 20
  25. 21
  26. 22
  27. 23
  28. 24
  29. 25
  30. 26
  31. 27
  32. 28
  33. 29
  34. 30
  35. 31
  36. 32
  37. 33
  38. 34
  39. 35
  40. 36
  41. 37
  42. 38
  43. 39
  44. 40
  45. 41
  46. 42
  47. 43
  48. 44
  49. 45
  50. 46
  51. 47
  52. 48
  53. 49
  54. 50
  55. 51
  56. 52
  57. 53
  58. 54
  59. TWO MONTHS LATER
  60. ONE YEAR LATER
  61. TWO YEARS LATER
  62. FOUR YEARS LATER
  63. ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
  64. ABOUT THE AUTHOR
  65. Also by John Birmingham
  66. ALSO BY JOHN BIRMINGHAM
  67. Copyright
  68. Cover

But perhaps this might be his chance to escape. He had helped this woman with something that was obviously very important to her and the people who had sent her. And it was such a small thing. So many of the jihadists passed through that Baumer would surely not have been his responsibility for much longer anyway. He had done a small wrong in this instance, no more. The woman had said she was not at all interested in those instances. And she was American, which was good. The Americans were looking to rebuild the empty land. A man of his talents, they would surely . . .

A loud metallic click interrupted his happy thoughts of redemption. He looked up from his reveries. Confused. The woman was pointing something at him. He was looking right at it.

He did not finish the thought.

12

NORTH KANSAS CITY, MISSOURI

‘You can’t do this to us, Mister. We ain’t done nothin’ worth a hangin’.’

In her dream, the three men, the three surviving road agents from the gunfight at Crockett, were already dead. And yet they lived. They sat astride their horses on legs broken so badly that the feet of the youngest one were turned completely around in the stirrups. His accomplices, the old one and the fat one, were no better. Shattered femurs poked through torn jeans, and flies crawled in the old gringo’s gnarled and mangled mess of bloody kneecaps, destroyed by a shotgun blast, from the look of them. The unholy dead paid it no heed.

Instead they complained of the injustice of being hung for raping whores and driving off banditos. The ‘whores’ stood in front of them, a clutch of pale-faced, trembling Mormon women. One of the so-called bandits, her father, slipped a noose over the ruined skull of the morbidly obese road agent sitting on the horse in the centre.

In her dream, even the horses looked as though they had ridden from the gates of hell. Their eyes were burning coals, and when they snorted and threw their heads back in protest at the burdens they were forced to carry, they spat long fiery tendrils of magma that burst into dirty blossoms of oily black and orange flame upon hitting the ground.

Sofia was angry. Not with the road agents. Not these ones anyway. They would soon be on their way to punishment. Her anger was directed at her father, and she was angry in the way that only a teenager could be with an adult. She had saved his life last night, at considerable risk to her own, and for this she was rewarded with a whipping the likes of which she could not recall from her childhood.