After his experiences with the Soviets in Washington, D.C., he wasn’t about to put anything past the rascals. So immersed did he become in his speculation, that Hickok failed to perceive the weed-and vine-choked fence until he made an abrupt turn in the trail and nearly collided with it.
The fence was a chain-link affair, betraying evidence of rust where the links were exposed to the elements. A coat of vegetation cloaked the fence from the top to bottom.
What was that?
Hickok crouched, examining an opening in the vegetation at ground level. Someone had cut a large hole in the fence, then aligned the vines and weeds over the hole to hide it. But they’d neglected to cover the middle of the hole, and a shaft of sunlight was shining through the gap. Hickok dropped onto his stomach and slowly crawled to the other side. He carefully surveyed the dense undergrowth, on guard for an ambush, and only after he was satisfied the assassin was not lying in wait for him did he rise and resume his trek.
The vegetation on the inner side of the fence was of a different variety than the plant life outside. Ferns and moss covered the dank earth. There were fewer big trees, but a profuse mushrooming of slim trees packed closely together. One type was quite unusual.
Hickok paused to inspect a stand of the strange trees growing alongside the faint trail he was following. None of the trunks were any wider than his arms; the bark was exceptionally smooth and glossy; and the tree was segmentalized into distinct sections of equal length separated by thin ridges. He ran his fingers over the velvety bark, genuinely amazed. Never in all his travels had he seen such a peculiar tree. Reminding himself to ask Plato about it, he cautiously continued to the northeast.
There was no rush now.
Hickok was certain the assassin believed his escape had gone flawlessly.
And if the hit man didn’t think anyone was on his trail, he’d grow careless, less watchful. Which was exactly what Hickok wanted. If he could catch the assassin unawares, he stood a better chance of taking the bastard alive.
A patch of blue became visible ahead.
Hickok realized the trail was approaching a body of water and he became alarmed. What if the assassin had stashed a boat on the bank? He broke into a run, covering 50 more yards before he emerged from the forest on the shore of a small lake.
There was no sign of the assassin.
Hickok began circling, searching the shore for bootprints or drops of blood. He found a few tiny crimson drops and guessed his quarry was moving to the north around the lake. The Warrior followed suit, staying close to the water where he could make better time, loping along at a dogtrot.
An object appeared in the lake, a few hundred feet ahead and about 20 feet from shore.
The gunman slowed in case the object was a boat. After traversing a hundred feet or so, he discerned the thing in the water was indeed a boat, but a gutted, rusted wreck, an ancient craft that apparently sank decades before, perhaps even during the Big Blast. He jogged 30 more feet.
Somewhere a bird was chirping.
Hickok caught a glimpse of something tremendously huge skulking in the vegetation to his left. He drew and whirled, hoping he could get off a shot before whatever it was pounced. A grayish form was standing in the midst of a stand of the strange trees. He dove to cover behind a clump of weeds.
Nothing happened.
Hickok pursed his lips in perplexity and raised his head for a better view.
The thing was just standing there in the deep shadows.
What the blazes?
Hickok rose to his knees, striving to identify the alien creature, confused by its inactivity. Maybe the critter wasn’t hostile. He stood, the short hairs on the nape of his neck tingling. The animal was gargantuan, and he assumed the thing was a mutant. What else grew so enormous?
The blasted brute was still just standing there.
Hickok edged toward the creature, his Colts cocked, his fingers on the trigger. If the beast charged, he figured he could always jump into the lake. Some animals weren’t too partial to water except for drinking.
The wind stirred the peculiar trees, revealing a pair of whitish protuberances on the head of the critter.
His curiosity aroused, Hickok advanced to within eight feet of the bulky form. Details became clearer. He could see two colossal ears and a snake-like nose. The whitish projections were horns of some sort. No! Not horns! Tusks! Suddenly he perceived the creature’s identity, and astonishment washed over him.
What the dickens was an elephant doing in southern California?
Hickok tentatively walked closer, attempting to remember what little he knew about pachyderms. If he showed he was friendly, maybe the elephant wouldn’t attack. “Howdy, there, big fella,” he greeted the jumbo animal. “Don’t fret none. I ain’t here to harm you.”
The elephant was staring at the gunfighter with glassy brown eyes.
Was the critter sick? “Any more of your kind around here, big guy?”
Hickok asked, hoping his talk would calm the beast. “Where’d you come from, anyway? I know they used to have critter prisons called zoos. Did your great, great grandpappy belong to a zoo hereabouts?”
The elephant wasn’t budging, wasn’t reacting in any way.
Hickok was only four feet from the pachyderm, and his brow furrowed in bewilderment. The elephant was filthy, caked with grime and dust, and its tusks displayed discolored patches of pale yellow. And the animal’s eyes hadn’t blinked once since he first saw it.
Was it dying?
Hickok peered upward at the trunk and head, trying to penetrate the shadows enshrouding its face. He bolstered his left Python and gingerly reached overhead, tapping the trunk.
Hard as a rock.
“What the heck!” the gunfighter blurted. He gripped the trunk, astounded to discover the elephant was a fake. The creature was artificial, constructed of a plastic-like substance.
A bogus pachyderm?
Hickok bolstered his right Colt and ran his fingers over one of the tusks.
Why had someone built this mysterious marvel? Was the elephant part of the amusement park? He’d read about zoos and amusement parks and carnivals and such in the Family Library, the extensive collection of hundreds of thousands of volumes personally selected by the Family’s Founder. During his early schooling years, the Elders had taught several courses dealing with the prewar society, one of which had briefly delved into the fanatical devotion to diversion exhibited by the so-called civilized nations. But who would have thought they’d go so far as to make a phony elephant? Why didn’t they just exhibit the real thing? Maybe they were trying to save money on their feeding bill. Or more likely, they couldn’t find anyone willing to spend all day following the elephant around with a shovel.
Hickok shrugged and headed to the north along the shore. Those prewar types sure were loco. He wondered if he would encounter any more artificial animals, and his question was answered 40 yards further on.
This one was an alligator, a whopper of a reptile at least ten feet in length, lying on the shore with the tip of its tail in the water.
Hickok admired the superb craftsmanship as he neared the fake gator.
The detail work was magnificent. There was a broad, rounded snout, a thick, powerful body, and a wide tail. The body and the tail were capped with ridges of triangular spikes. Its well-armored skin was a light shade of black. The ancient artisans had even managed to duplicate the musculature. How splendid! The gator’s protruding eyes were closed as if the reptile was at rest.
The gunman was ten feet from the alligator when he startled a big bullfrog squatting on the bank. The bullfrog leaped away from the human, inadvertently bounding toward the gator. One of its leaps carried the amphibian to within a foot of the reptile, and the bullfrog abruptly whirled and executed a tremendous vaulting arc into the water.
Hickok chuckled. Stupid frog! Scared of a dumb fake alligator! The gunman was four feet from the reptile when he noticed how clean it was.
Bei
ng exposed, the construct was probably kept free of dirt by periodical rainfall.
Hickok elected to step over the reptile instead of going around, and he was in midstride, his right foot elevated in the air above the gator’s back, when the fake performed a most remarkable feat.
The alligator opened its eyes.
Chapter Six
“So how’s it goin’ to be, bro?” Bear asked.
Blade glanced at the muscular black. They, along with the other Federation delegates, were standing in the hallway outside the conference room. The five faction leaders were in conference behind the closed door.
A pair of Free State soldiers, both armed with M-16’s, stood at attention outside the room. “I’m going to request M-16’s for each of us,” he said. “At least four of us will be in the conference room with our leaders at all times. We’ll work in shifts.”
“They might prefer to conduct their meeting in privacy,” Brother Timothy mentioned.
“Tough. We’re going to protect them with or without their cooperation,” Blade stated. “I don’t see where they’d object. At the Home all meetings of the Elders are open to everyone in the Family.”
“This isn’t the Home,” Wolfe’s flunky commented.
“The same principle applies,” Blade rejoined. “When leaders start holding secret meetings, they breed distrust and a sense of inferiority in those they serve.”
“Tell that to Wolfe,” the Mole boldly ventured.
“Where’s that machine gun of yours?” Bear questioned Blade.
“Back in Minnesota,” Blade replied, thinking of his favorite firearm, a Commando Arms Carbine. He’d also used a similar weapon, an Auto-Ordnance Model 27 A-1, for a while. Both resembled the antique Thompson submachine gun. After experimenting with both, he’d eventually decided to incorporate the Commando into his personal arsenal, merely because he liked the feel of the gun a bit better.
“You didn’t bring it along?” Bear queried in surprise.
Blade shrugged. He didn’t mention Plato had argued against journeying to California armed to the teeth, as it were, as a show of trust in Governor Melnick and the good people of the Free State of California.
Hickok had hotly debated the issue, but Blade had readily assented.
Arriving in California packing enough hardware to waste half the state would have been counterproductive to their mission. Besides, in all his years as a Warrior, he had yet to encounter a foe his Bowies couldn’t dispatch.
“Who’s this?” Bear asked.
Blade looked to the right.
Captain Vinnie Di Nofrio was approaching the conference room, whistling happily.
“It’s okay,” Blade said. “I know him.”
“Blade!” Di Nofrio greeted him. “It’s official!”
“It is?” Blade questioned.
“Yep. I’ve been appointed your liaison for the summit,” Di Nofrio disclosed.
“Perfect,” Blade said. “As your first official act, you can get M-16’s for each of us. And while you’re at it, pick up four spare magazines apiece.”
Di Nofrio promptly lost his cheery disposition. “I don’t know,” he balked.
Blade stepped up to the captain and placed his right hand on the officer’s slim shoulder. “Now don’t disappoint me, Vinnie. I was under the impression you’re a real go-getter. You can get the M-16’s for us. Clear it with Governor Melnick if you have to.”
Di Nofrio’s jaw muscles hardened with resolve. “I can get them,” he vowed.
“Did you see the attack in the lobby?” Blade asked.
“No. I was in the elevator,” Di Nofrio divulged. “But I heard Plato and you were okay. Where’s Hickok?”
“I don’t know,” Blade said, frowning. “He should be back soon.”
Di Nofrio started to turn. “Oh! Before I forget. President Toland has arrived in L.A. earlier than expected. Governor Melnick is escorting him here. They should arrive within an hour or so.”
“Thanks for relaying the news,” Blade said. “And hurry with those M-16’s.”
“On my way.” Di Nofrio hastened off.
“You sure got him eatin’ out of your hand,” Bear remarked.
“We have this adage at the Home,” Blade mentioned. “It goes something like this: If we want to make friends, we have to be friendly.”
“Where’s the rest of it?” Bear inquired. He’d been through many a battle with the Warriors, both in the Twin Cities and at the Home, and he knew them well.
“The rest of it?” Blade repeated, puzzled.
“Yeah,” Bear said. “Your motto should go like this: If we want to make friends, we have to be friendly, but if you mess with us we’ll stomp your face.”
Some of the others chuckled.
A lean man with black hair and brown eyes, wearing a white shirt and white pants, was walking toward the conference room. He held a tray of water glasses in his right hand.
Blade moved to the conference door, blocking the newcomer’s path.
“I beg your pardon,” the man said stiffly.
“Who are you?” Blade demanded.
The man in white glanced at the two troopers, then at the giant.
“Emery, sir. I’m with the kitchen staff. I was instructed to bring water to the heads of the Freedom Federation and inquire about your culinary needs.”
“It’s all right, sir,” the soldier to the left of the door commented. “He works here. I’ve seen him before. Yesterday, in fact.”
Blade relaxed. “Very well. Go ahead.” He stepped aside, to the left, toward the other delegates, and as he did his eyes detected a slight bulge under the kitchen worker’s white shirt above the right hip.
Emery was reaching for the doorknob.
“Hold it,” Blade said.
Emery paused, looking up at the giant.
“What’s that under your shirt?” Blade asked, not really expecting trouble.
Emery’s reaction, coming after the confirmation by the soldier, was totally unforeseen. He swept the tray of glasses straight up into the Warrior’s eyes, and as the giant instinctively took a stride backwards and raised his right arm to shield his face, Emery went into action. His right hand, the fingers rigid, the callused edge slanted upward, whipped up and around, catching the soldier to the right of the conference door in the throat, crushing the trooper’s windpipe, and even as the blow landed Emery was sweeping his right knee in a tight turn to the left, ramming it into the groin of the guard on the left. Before the guard could double over in abject misery, gurgling and sputtering, Emery was in motion, leaping into the air with his right leg snapping out and connecting with Bear’s chin, sending the huge black stumbling into his companions.
Hamlin, the small Cavalryman with the Winchester slung over his back, attempted to bring the rifle into play.
Emery landed in a crouch, never hesitating for a moment as he drove his left leg up and around, delivering a high round kick to the Cavalryman’s right cheek and knocking him to the floor.
Blade closed in as the man called Emery was trying to grab at something under his shirt. The Warrior adopted the Kokutsu-tachi, the back stance.
Emery’s right hand emerged from under the shirt gripping a pistol, a Taurus Model PT 92.
Blade automatically performed the Migi-mawashi-geri, a right roundhouse kick, slamming his right foot against Emery’s right hand.
Emery lost his grip on the pistol and the Taurus went skidding across the floor. Undaunted, he aimed a Yoko-geri, a side kick, at the Warrior’s crotch.
Blade whirled, narrowly evading the foot blow, driving his left elbow down and around in a vicious circle. His elbow caught his opponent above the left eye, staggering him, and before Emery could recover Blade pounded his elbow into the man’s face two more times.
Emery staggered backwards, his arms flailing.
Blade didn’t let up for an instant. He lashed his right boot in a jamming heel kick, smashing Emery’s left kneecap with a loud popping sound.
/> Emery’s left leg buckled and he started to fall.
Blade delivered a haymaker with his right fist to the tip of Emery’s chin. The alleged kitchen worker’s teeth crunched together, his head jerked back, and he was lifted from his feet and sailed for a yard before crashing onto the floor.
Blade straightened, his hands dropping to his Bowies, scanning the lobby for any more threats. Dozens of soldiers and stunned bureaucrats were staring at him. Otherwise, all appeared normal.
Bear and Hamlin were recovered and glaring at the fallen assassin.
The conference door opened and Plato was framed in the doorway.
“What is all the commotion out…” he began, then stopped, shocked. “Not again!”
“Again,” Blade confirmed.
Bear, rubbing his chin, stood over the unconscious Emery. “What do you want done with this sucker?” he asked.
“We’ll interrogate him,” Blade said. He knelt next to the soldier slashed in the throat and felt for a pulse. “This one is dead,” he announced.
The second guard was doubled over on the floor, clutching his groin. He looked at Blade through pain-filled green eyes. “I don’t understand! I know I saw him yesterday in the kitchen!”
“Hang in there,” Blade advised. “Help is on the way.”
And it was. Troopers and others were converging on the conference room from all points. A stocky officer with a general’s insignia on his uniform was the first to reach the prone assassin. “I’m General Gallagher,” he declared brusquely.
“General,” Blade said. He had seen the general earlier, supervising the cleanup after the lobby attack. Plato had conversed with him briefly, but Blade hadn’t had the chance.
General Gallagher moved to the soldier with the crushed throat.
“He’s dead,” Blade stated.
Gallagher squatted alongside the other guard. “Are you hurt bad, son?”
His brown eyes reflected sincere concern.
The second guard groaned, holding his privates. “He… kicked me, sir.”
“The medics will be here in a moment,” Gallagher assured the man. The general peered up at Blade. “Any of your people hurt?”
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