“Blade must come first,” Rikki replied.
“I know, but—” Hickok began.
“If we had stayed, we would die with them,” Rikki stated.
Gunfire erupted from their rear, commingled with screams and curses.
“We can’t abandon them,” Hickok objected, and unexpectedly bumped into his companion in the dark. “Why’d you stop?”
“Locklin gave me this,” Rikki said, and a small flame sparked to life, illuminating the drain for a yard or so in both directions.
“What is it?”
“A lighter. We must hurry,” Rikki reiterated, and hastened on.
The sounds of the conflict had reached a crescendo.
“I still say we shouldn’t abandon them,” Hickok groused.
“Would you rather abandon Blade?”
“Of course not,” Hickok replied.
“Then we have no choice,” Rikki stressed. “They were hopelessly outnumbered. Our guns would not have made a difference.”
“It rankles me to walk out on folks I like,” Hickok remarked. “We’d better not make a habit of this.”
“We won’t,” Rikki assured him.
The Warriors lost all track of time and distance as they penetrated farther and farther into the storm drain. The sounds of battle grew fainter, and eventually faded.
“Do you know which way to go?” Hickok asked.
“Locklin gave me directions.”
“Why didn’t he tell me?”
“You were busy relating a bedtime story to Chastity,” Rikki said.
“If anything happens to her…” Hickok stated, leaving the sentence unfinished.
They continued in silence for a long time.
“Wait,” Hickok directed.
Rikki stopped. “What is it?”
“I thought I heard something,” Hickok mentioned, turning to view the drain to their rear.
“What?”
“I’m not sure, pard.”
The pad of rushing feet filled the conduit.
“Could be the Storm Police,” Hickok whispered, leveling the Uzi.
“We should keep going,” Rikki advised.
“You can skedaddle if you want,” Hickok declared. “But I’m not runnin’ twice in one night. It’d give me a complexion.”
“Don’t you mean a complex?”
“Whatever.”
“It could be a mutant,” Rikki mentioned.
“I hope so.”
“You do?”
“I’m in the mood to blow something away, and it might as well be a blasted mutant,” Hickok stated. “Flick off the lighter.”
Rikki complied, and they stood in total darkness and waited as the footsteps became progressively louder.
Unexpectedly, the noise ceased.
An interval of quiet engulfed the drain.
“Psst! Hickok? Rikki? Are you there?”
The gunman recognized the voice and smiled. “Yeah, we’re here, Locklin.”
Rikki ignited the lighter.
“There you are!” Locklin called, and a second later the dim figure of the rebel leader and others hastened toward the Warriors.
“Glad you made it,” Hickok said.
“Not half as glad as I am,” Locklin responded. Fourteen of his band were with him, and five of them sported gunshot wounds. One was limping.
“Where are the rest?” Rikki inquired.
Locklin slowed when he was a few yards off, his expression sad, and slowly shook his head.
“And the Storm Police?” Hickok questioned, spying Big John and the youth named Dale behind Locklin.
“They closed in on us from the forest and the rampart,” the rebel leader said. “We took down twenty or so, but they were getting our range and my people were dropping right and left. I decided to live to fight another day.”
“A wise decision,” Rikki remarked.
“Are the Storm Police on your tail?” Hickok queried.
“No,” Locklin replied. “They didn’t follow us into the storm drain.”
“That’s strange,” Hickok commented.
“We must leave the drain,” Rikki declared.
Locklin stared to the rear. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking? That this must be a trap?”
“Why else wouldn’t the Storm Police enter the drain?” Rikki rejoined.
“How can we get out of here?” Hickok interjected.
“There are manholes in the top every fifty yards,” Locklin said. “We can climb out at the first one we find. I planned to use a manhole near the Civil Directorate, but the Storm Police might be waiting for us there.”
“The troopers could be covering all the manholes,” Rikki noted.
“I just can’t understand how they knew,” Lock!in commented. “How did they know where to ambush us?”
Hickok noticed Dale abruptly stare downward.
“Stay close to me,” Rikki recommended, and jogged along the conduit.
They traveled speedily, their footfalls and breathing unnaturally sonorous in the confines of the drain.
“There’s a manhole!” Locklin exclaimed.
The flickering flame illuminated a brown metal cover overhead.
“Allow me,” Locklin said, and stepped under the manhole. He reached up and pushed, but the manhole cover wouldn’t budge.
“Let me give it a try, boss,” Big John proposed.
“Go for it,” Locklin responded, moving aside.
Big John applied his brawny left shoulder to the cover. For a minute he puffed and strained, to no avail.
“This is odd,” Locklin commented. “It should open.”
“Let’s find another,” Rikki suggested, leading off with the lighter held aloft.
Hickok fell in beside Dale. “How are you holdin’ up, buckaroo?”
The youth looked warily at the Warrior. “Just fine, thanks.”
“Were you nicked in the fracas?”
“No.” He hefted the long bow in his right hand.
“Lucky you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Dale asked.
“Nothin’ much. I was just makin’ conversation.”
Dale studied the gunman, striving to see Hickok’s face in the gloom.
“How long have you been with Locklin?” Hickok inquired.
“Three years.”
“Have you seen a lot of action?”
“Enough.”
“Ever seen anyone die before?” Hickok questioned.
“All the time,” Dale replied. “I’ve done my share of killing, you know. I helped ambush several Storm Police patrols.”
“Seein’ an enemy die is one thing,” Hickok observed. “Seein’ friends die is another. Ever seen your friends die before?”
“Once or twice,” Dale admitted.
“But not like tonight?” Hickok queried.
“No,” Dale said angrily. “Now why don’t we drop the subject?”
“If you want,” Hickok said.
“I want to drop it,” Dale reiterated.
“And well you should,” Hickok stated. “All things considered.”
Dale looked at the man in buckskins, perplexed. “Like what?”
“Like the fact you turned traitor,” Hickok responded, his tone hardening. “Like the fact you were responsible for the ambush.”
Dale halted and raised his left fist. “What the hell are you babbling about?”
Everyone halted.
“You betrayed your pards,” Hickok told the youth.
Dale reached for a knife on his left hip. “I’ll make you eat those words!”
The gunman’s Uzi suddenly pointed at the youth’s stomach. “I don’t cotton to folks callin’ me a liar.”
“What is this?” Locklin demanded, glancing from Hickok to Dale in confusion. “Are you serious?” he asked the Warrior.
Hickok nodded. “Dale set you up.”
“I did not!” Dale protested, flushing with fury.
“Do you have proof?” Loc
klin inquired.
“He’ll tell you himself,” Hickok said.
“You’re crazy!” Dale declared.
“So everybody says,” Hickok agreed. “And this crazy hombre is pointin’ a machine gun at your innards. I’ll count to three. If you haven’t spilled the beans by then, you’re dead.”
The band of Freedom Fighters was watching in fascination, and none displayed the slightest inclination to interfere.
“Did you betray us?” Locklin asked the youth.
“How can you take his word over mine?” Dale snapped.
“One,” Hickok said.
“I resent the accusation,” Dale said. “We’ve lived and fought side by side. And this is the thanks I get?”
“Two.”
Dale scanned the dim features of his companions for support, then looked at Locklin. “You’re not going to let him shoot me in cold blood, are you? I’m one of your men.” A hint of desperation made his voice quaver.
“Thr—” Hickok began.
“Don’t shoot!” Dale cried, releasing his bow and elevating his arms.
“Don’t shoot!”
“Tell them the truth,” Hickok ordered.
Dale’s chin slumped to his chest. “I did it,” he mumbled.
“What?” Locklin asked in disbelief.
“I gave our plans away,” Dale said. “I told the Storm Police which drain we intended to use. I helped them set the trap.”
There was a murmuring among the band.
Locklin stepped up to the youth and grabbed the front of Dale’s shirt.
“You did what?”
“I didn’t have any choice!” Dale wailed, his lips trembling, his voice breaking. “They forced me!”
“Who?” Locklin asked the young rebel.
“The Storm Police,” Dale said.
Locklin placed his hands on the youth’s shoulder. “How could they coerce you into becoming a traitor? What could they possibly do?”
Dale stared into Locklin’s accusing eyes, his own filling with tears.
“They have my mother!” he said, and sobbed.
An awkward silence descended on the drain.
“Your mother?” Locklin repeated after a moment.
Dale hung his head, embarrassed by his tears. “Yes,” he confirmed weakly.
“Tell us,” Locklin urged softly.
The youth took a deep breath. “Do you remember last night, when my younger brother showed up at our camp?”
“Of course,” Locklin said.
“My brother claimed our mother wanted to see me right away,” Dale disclosed. “He told me that she was sick, real sick.” He paused. “I went with him to our house.”
“How did you get into the city?” Locklin interrupted.
“Through the usual route,” Dale answered. “The sewer outlet under the southeast wall. My brother used the same way to leave. I followed your procedure to the letter.”
Locklin gazed at the Warriors. “We’ve utilized certain sewer outlets frequently since the Storm Police barred the drains. Our families use them when they need to contact us,” he explained. “The Storm Police didn’t bar all the sewer outlets, probably because the outlets are so small only one person can slip through at a time and the sewers reek. They must figure only an absolute lunatic would use them.”
“What happened when you got home?” Big John asked Dale.
“The Storm Police were waiting for me,” Dale revealed. “They had discovered I was one of the Freedom Fighters, and they offered me a deal.”
“Let me guess,” Locklin said. “They promised to let your family live if you betrayed us?”
Dale sobbed. “God help me. Yes.”
“You knew we intended to enter Atlanta tonight through this drain,” Locklin mentioned.
“I sold you out,” Dale declared forlornly.
“You had a tough choice to make,” Hickok said, sympathizing.
“We all have one to make right now,” Rikki-Tikki-Tavi mentioned.
“Listen.” He let the lighter go out.
Boot heels were pounding in the storm drain, approaching from the direction of the outer wall.
“The Storm Police!” Locklin exclaimed.
“And look!” Big John said, pointing directly ahead.
Far off, their flashlight beams fingers of lights in the gloomy darkness, advancing at the double, were more troopers.
“We’re cornered!” one of the Freedom Fighters cried.
Hickok looked both ways. “This is gettin’ serious.”
Chapter Nineteen
The room dissolved into bedlam.
Blade crammed the sheaths under his belt as he started to turn. He whipped the big knives out, the blades gleaming in the fluorescent light, and the first to feel his wrath was Eldred Morley. The Peer stood and foolishly lunged at the Warrior. Blade countered with a left elbow to the nose, feeling Morley’s nostrils flatten with a pronounced crunch. The Peer was slammed backwards and toppled over his chair.
“Stop the bastard!” Lilith Friekan barked.
A trio of Storm Police tried. They were the nearest to the giant, their blackjacks out and ready, when he waded into them with his knives flashing.
Blade planted his left Bowie in the throat of a lean trooper. Even as he wrenched the left knife free, he stabbed the right blade into the chest of a second policeman, then spun and imbedded both Bowies in the third, one knife on each side of the hapless man’s neck.
“Get him!” Sol Diekrick thundered, moving toward the giant.
Other than an enraged Lilith, the other Peers were too stunned to intervene.
The Storm Police were surging forward.
Blade jerked his Bowies clear, blood spurting from the third trooper’s severed veins and arteries, and kicked, ramming his right boot into the man’s chest and sending the body sailing into the charging police. As the lead troopers tumbled to the floor in a mass of thrashing arms and legs, he spun, sliding the Bowies into their sheaths, and bounded toward Sol Diekrick.
Sol attempted to land a right cross on the giant’s chin.
With the speed and precision of a seasoned professional, Blade ducked under the wild swing and drove his right fist into Diekrick’s abdomen, doubling the Peer over. He clamped his right hand on Sol’s throat and seized his foe’s groin in his left, then easily hoisted the struggling, gasping Peer overhead.
Stupefied by this display of monumental strength, the Storm Police, involved in untangling themselves from their pileup, momentarily froze, gawking.
“Kill the son of a bitch!” Lilith commanded.
Sol Diekrick’s face was beet red, and he was gurgling and sputtering.
“Do you want your precious Peer?” Blade demanded, glaring defiantly at the troopers. “Then take him!” So saying, he whirled toward the Polyperv pane, took two lengthy strides, and hurled Sol at the window with all the power in his awesome physique.
Diekrick screamed as he impacted the pane. There was a rending crash as the Polyperv fractured and shattered, and both Peer and window plunged from sight.
“No!” Lilith screeched.
Blade took another step and leaped, sailing over the sill, tucking his legs under him as he plummeted, angling for a safe landing on the Polyperv-littered floor 20 feet below. He glimpsed Sol Diekrick lying to his left as he came down, his muscles braced for the shock. The force of the drop caused him to stagger and pitch onto his knees, and the soles of his feet stung horrendously, but otherwise he was unharmed. He lurched erect, pausing to glance at Diekrick.
The Peer must have dropped onto his head. His crown and forehead were crushed, flattened to a fleshy pulp, and oozing blood in a crimson stream.
“After him!” the Storm Police captain shouted from above.
Blade craned his neck to see the troopers gathered at the window. None of them seemed eager to make the jump. He grinned and dashed into the maze, hunching over, knowing they couldn’t spot him unless he stood.
So far, so good.
Now came the hard part.
He had to find Glisson, evade or dispose of the Terminator squad, locate an exit from the maze, and escape from Atlanta.
Was that all?
Blade reached a junction and crouched, wondering which way to go, when he heard the pad of a stealthy tread. He eased back, placed his palms on the floor, and peeked around the corner.
A Teminerator was rounding a corner on the right, his Fryer sweeping from side to side, alert and cautious.
Damn. The executioner must have seen him jump from the window!
Blade withdrew his head and rose, drawing his right Bowie. The silver suits worn by the Terminators were fireproof, but was the fabric impenetrable?
There was only one way to find out.
He clutched the hilt of the Bowie and counted slowly to ten, trying to gauge the Terminator’s position, hoping the range wouldn’t be too great.
As he girded himself to vault into the open, he received aid from an unexpected source.
The Storm Police had spotted him, and they saw the Terminator approaching the giant’s position.
“Look out!” the captain yelled from the window.
“There! In front of you!” another shouted.
Blade sprang into the passage, his right arm sweeping back.
Distracted by the calls from above, the Terminator was gazing at the Storm Police, the Fryer nozzle held near his knees.
Blade never gave the Terminator the opportunity to bring the Fryer into play. He tossed the Bowie from a distance of three yards, a maneuver he had practiced countless times at the Home on a variety of targets.
Whether he threw the knife by the hilt or the blade, he invariably hit his mark. And now, once again, he demonstrated why his reputation had spread far and wide.
The Bowie streaked through the air and sliced into the Terminator between the eyes, lodging in the narrow strip of fabric separating the tinted eyepieces, sinking to the hilt. A muffled, indistinct cry sounded as the Terminator staggered backwards, waving the Fryer wildly, then collapsed.
Blade reached the body in three strides, stooped, and yanked the Bowie out.
One down, three to go.
But where were they?
He bent over at the waist and jogged into the labyrinth. To reach one of the doors, not to mention finding Glisson, could entail hours of winding through the bewildering maze—unless he came up with a brainstorm. He could try slashing signs in the fireproof fabric covering the walls, but doing so would involve using time he couldn’t afford to spare. The Storm Police might not jump from the smashed window, but they would certainly regroup and descend to the maze chamber by whatever stairway connected the floors.
Atlanta Run Page 15
