SUMMARY

Miller has chased the last of the Ten Most Wanted Mutants on the planet deep into the Slicks. The bounty on Number Six is a record. The mutant hunter’s advantage: a mercenary and his airplane. His disadvantage: everything else.

Enter a wormhole in Hell, come out in the Slicks.

EXCERPT

Miller took a good look at the mutant. The Web was big. It weighed at least eighty kilos and was much more of a mutant than most Miller had come across, which was saying something. Its head was long and streamlined with a sheaf of straw-colored hair, now scorched and smoldering, that swept from its low forehead to the back of its protruding skull. The Web’s skin was smooth, but the bounty hunter could tell it was thick and tough – the reason Webs were often referred to as Leather Skins.

The spiderweb NSG tattoo ran up the left side of the mutant’s face and covered half its scalp. The blue ink’s distorted, weblike image – the Evidence of Destruction – would serve as a substitute for the entire head when they claimed the bounty.

“Fucking Trailhead,” the tracker said. He pulled smokes from his vest pocket, shook one out, and fired it off. Inhaling deeply, Treadlow spoke and the smoke carried his words. “Before I wake him up, let me see if he’s carrying any Number Six nexus.”

“Yeah, go ahead,” the bounty hunter said. “But first make sure it’s still alive so we don’t waste our time.”

“I told you to set that fucking weapon on low.”

“Just check,” Miller said.

“Hold the light.” Treadlow handed it to the bounty hunter.

The tracker knelt and applied two fingers to the side of the mutant’s neck. “There’s a pulse,” he reported before dragging on his smoke. “You can see he’s breathing.”

“You sound disappointed,” Miller said dryly.

“Don’t think I ain’t,” Treadlow answered.

The Web wore a set of old combat fatigues that had faded to rags and Treadlow quickly rummaged the mutant’s clothing, finding a document in its shirt pocket. Miller shined the light as Treadlow unfolded the paper.

“Look at this shit, Millers, it’s a copy of his own fucking wanted sheet,” the tracker’s cigarette bounced in his lips as he laughed. “What a vain son of a bitch.”

“Is that it?” the bounty hunter asked.

“Yeah, that’s it,” Treadlow answered as he rose to his feet. “No fucking commo codes for Six, if that’s what you mean.”

Miller stared at his tracker’s dirt-covered face. It was speckled with Radlep blood and streaked by rivers of sweat flowing down and over his neck, soaking the top of his filthy shirt. He watched Treadlow turn his head and peer down the pitch-black hall.

“It’s too damn quiet,” the tracker said, taking a last lungful of smoke before flipping the butt into the gloom. 

“Then wake him,” Miller said.

“Yeah, right.”

Treadlow knelt next to the mutant. He retrieved a small aluminum vial from a pouch on his web gear. “As you know, Millers, this shit works fast, so ready with your Jaff.”

Miller watched sweat drip from the tracker’s nose onto the Web’s muscled neck. Treadlow pulled his blade from the scabbard on his combat harness and gingerly laid the knife across the mutant’s chest. He unscrewed the cap on the vial and held the vapors under the mutant’s prow-like nose, picked up the knife, then pressed the cutting edge to the mutant’s throat.

The Web awakened.

Skell’s eyes were light sinks, dilated, ink-black and snake-like. Without a warning, the mutant raised its arms and tried to latch its fingers around the tracker’s throat. The Web’s body twisted and heaved against Miller’s legs. The bounty hunter stumbled backward and nearly lost his grip on the Jaff. A flash caught his eye and he saw the knife fly from Treadlow’s hand.

“Shit, Millers, goddammit.”

Treadlow’s voice was a squeal. The tracker gripped Skell’s forearms with both hands as the Web power-rolled, coming up in a straddle over Treadlow’s squirming body.

Miller, shoot the son of a bitch.