“Do you want me to show you the spot where I last saw the Warrior?”
Leftwich asked.
“Not so fast,” Boone said. “I want to know how many Gild members are around here and where they are right this minute.”
“There’s two more here,” Leftwich lied. He waved his right hand to the east. “They’re off that way, over by the old plaza.”
There was movement on the top of the second building from the right.
Boone glanced up, hoping to find Hickok, but all he saw were a pair of pigeons flying from the roof.
“Do you want me to take you or not?” Leftwich inquired impatiently.
“Lead on,” Boone directed. “But there’d better be some sign Hickok was there. Tracks, anything.”
“I think you’ll be surprised at what you find,” Leftwich declared.
They slowly approached the second building.
Boone held the Darter in his left hand while his right rested on the corresponding Hombre. He didn’t trust Leftwich for a minute! He recognized the slim likelihood of Leftwich being honest, but he couldn’t afford to discount the murderer’s information on the off chance of finding Hickok.
Leftwich angled toward the open door in the middle of the west wall of the second building. “We go in there.”
“You go first,” Boone ordered. “And no funny stuff!”
“Wouldn’t think of it,” Leftwich assured him, but as he turned toward the door he grinned maliciously.
Boone warily followed the assassin. If he was walking into a trap, he was going to be certain to use the Darter on Leftwich before they got him.
He briefly wished he’d undergone the extensive combat training Hickok, Blade, and the other Warriors had experienced. As was typical of the majority of Cavalrymen, he was a rugged individualist capable of surviving by relying on his wits and his strength, on his prowess at fisticuffs and his exceptional talent with his Hombres, but his actual combat experience had been limited to the war years ago between the Civilized Zone, then ruled by a dictator, and the other factions which later combined to form the Freedom Federation.
Leftwich reached the open door and glanced over his left shoulder.
“Stay close,” he said. “I wouldn’t want to lose you.”
“I’ll be right behind you,” Boone said.
Leftwich walked into the gloomy interior.
Boone took a tentative step forward, and his hesitancy saved his life.
A burly man with curly black hair, dressed in a flowing black robe secured by a red sash, lunged from the shadows to the right of the doorway, in the act of swinging a short curved sword at the Cavalryman’s head. But the Gild member had misjudged his swing, excepting his adversary to be a full stride inside the door.
Framed in the doorway, Boone threw himself backwards, the sword arching past his face and deflecting off the Darter barrel. He took two strides and leveled the Darter as his assailant charged after him.
The assassin raised his sword for another stroke.
Boone fired from the hip. There was no retort, no recoil, but the Darter was supremely effective and exceedingly lethal.
The burly assassin twisted to the right as the explosive dart penetrated his pelvic wall above the crotch and detonated, showering his kidney, intestines, and black fabric outward. Screeching, he doubled over, his face inches from the Darter barrel.
Boone squeezed the trigger again.
A spume of crimson, flesh, and gray and white matter burst out of the top of the assassin’s cranium and he tottered backwards, flopping onto his back.
There was no sign of Leftwich.
Boone was about to plunge into the building after the devious killer when a pair of steely hands fastened onto his back, one at the waist and the other on the nape of his neck. He was savagely wrenched into the air and shaken like a child’s rag doll.
“Get the bastard, Nightshade!” Leftwich cried, emerging from the structure.
Boone was slammed onto the ground, onto his knees, and he attempted to turn, to bring the Darter to bear. But a dark gray hand appeared from his rear and yanked the rifle from his grasp.
“Waste him!” Leftwich shouted in delight.
Boone rose and spun, his hands diving for his Hombres, but as fast as he was his opponent was faster. And what an opponent! Oily black hair, hooked nose, slanted yellow orbs, and gray skin, all trademarks of a genetically altered being, a mutant.
Nightshade grabbed Boone around the waist, pinning the Cavalryman’s arms, and hoisted him into the air.
Boone struggled in vain to break free. The mutant was endowed with incredible brute force!
“Kill him!” Leftwich cackled.
“No!” thundered a new voice.
Boone saw a towering man with pale blue eyes and auburn hair come into his line of vision from the left.
“Why not, Kraken?” Leftwich asked the newcomer.
Kraken stared at Leftwich, his jaw muscles twitching. “Because I said so! Do you need a better reason?”
“No,” Leftwich responded meekly.
Kraken studied the figure in Nightshade’s clutches. “You’re a Cavalryman, aren’t you?”
Boone didn’t answer.
“Nightshade,” Kraken said.
The mutant applied pressure on Boone’s back, squeezing until Boone thought his spine was on the verge of snapping. Boone’s face reddened and he gasped for air.
“Enough,” Kraken stated.
Nightshade relaxed his brawny arms.
“Obstinacy will gain you nothing,” Kraken said to Boone. “Nightshade will break you like a twig if you don’t cooperate.” He paused. “Are you a Cavalryman?”
Boone nodded, striving to suppress an acute pain in his chest.
“What’s your name?” Kraken asked.
The information was hardly worth dying for. “Boone,” the Cavalryman replied.
“Ahh, yes. I’ve heard of you,” Kraken mentioned. “A competent man in your limited way. You’re Kilrane’s bodyguard, or at least one of them.” He gazed at the dead Gild member. “I might have granted you a quick death, but you’ve killed one of our brothers.”
“Let me have him!” Leftwich requested.
Kraken glanced at Leftwich in stern disapproval. “I noticed you managed to get yourself captured.”
Leftwich blanched. “He got the drop on me!”
“Obviously,” Kraken said.
“It won’t happen again,” Leftwich asserted.
“I hope not,” Kraken stated, “for your sake.” He looked at Boone.
“Considering the level of incompetence demonstrated by my colleagues on this assignment, perhaps I should change our name from the Gild to the Simpletons.”
Boone said nothing.
Kraken sighed. “A keen sense of humor is so seldom appreciated.” He gazed at Leftwich. “Go up on the roof and tell Charley to come down here.
We are going to move our temporary base of operations to another part of the park. This place is prone to too many unwelcome guests.”
Leftwich ran into the building.
“And now to decide your fate,” Kraken said to Boone. “Your killing of Farino necessitates a gruesome demise. The code of the Gild and all that.”
“Why do you want to kill the Federation delegates?” Boone ventured to ask.
“I head an organization of professional assassins,” Kraken replied. “The answer should be readily apparent.”
“Someone must have hired you,” Boone noted. “Who?”
Kraken grinned. “That information is classified.” He looked at Nightshade. “Do you think our saurian friend might enjoy some dessert?”
The mutant smirked.
“Bring him,” Kraken directed, walking to the north.
Nightshade carted the Cavalryman without appearing to exert himself.
“As I was saying,” Kraken said over his right shoulder, “your killing of our brother Farino necessitates a fitting death. The Gild firmly believes in
the ancient adage of an eye for an eye. Since you used a Darter on Farino and blew him to pieces, so to speak, it is only fitting you suffer a similar fate.”
Boone was endeavoring to quell a rising tide of panic. He desperately wanted to pry himself loose from Nightshade’s grip, but the mutant’s arms were like bands of iron. His fingers were touching the grips on his Hombres, yet the revolvers might as well have been on the moon for all the good they were doing him. What use could they be if he couldn’t move his hands to draw them?
“The second day after we arrived in the park we discovered we had a next-door neighbor,” Kraken was saying. “You’ll be interested in meeting him, I’m sure. Or should I say meeting ‘it’?”
“They’ll come looking for me,” Boone stated.
Kraken chuckled. “Perhaps. But by the time they do, we won’t be here and you will be in the belly of Leviathan.”
“The belly of what?” Boone queried.
“Why, I’m surprised at you,” Kraken said as they rounded the northwest corner of the building and walked toward a marshy track to the northeast. “Haven’t you read the Holy Bible?”
“The Bible? I’ve read parts of it,” Boone stated. “What’s the Bible have to do with this?”
“Have you ever read Job?” Kraken inquired.
“Years ago,” Boone disclosed. “When I was a kid.”
“And you don’t remember Leviathan?” Kraken said mockingly. “Well, never fear. You’re about to have your memory refreshed.”
They traversed a field and reached the bank of a large pool of brackish water.
“This swamp encompasses several acres,” Kraken divulged. “The water is drainage from the lake over there.” He pointed to the east.
Boone glanced in the indicated direction and spotted a lake containing a big island.
“Do you see the island?” Kraken asked.
Boone nodded.
“The one you were seeking, the Warrior Hickok, is on that island,” Kraken said.
“How do you know I was looking for Hickok?” Boone questioned.
Kraken stared at the Cavalryman. “Please. Don’t insult my intelligence.”
He surveyed the bank. “I see Leviathan has disposed of poor Neborak. The beast might not be hungry again for some time, but I trust you won’t mind the wait?”
Nightshade suddenly snapped his head back, then forward, butting his forehead against the Cavalryman’s chin.
Boone felt his teeth mash together as excruciating agony lanced his jaw and face. He was unceremoniously dumped onto his stomach on the hard earth and his arms were jerked behind his back.
“Secure the bonds tightly,” Kraken ordered.
Boone felt his wrists being lashed together and he tried to resist, but the mutant held him as easily as a cougar could control the feeble escape attempts of a fawn. His legs were roughly bent at the knee and his ankles were tied.
“That should suffice,” Kraken said.
Boone shook his head, clearing his mind. He strained, looking over his right shoulder and discovering a single leather cord had been used to bind both his wrists and his ankles. Six inches of cord separated his hands from his teet. His legs were bent backwards.
Kraken knelt alongside the Cavalryman. “An ingenious technique,” he commented. “If you try to straighten your legs, you must dislocate your arms in the process. And should you try to extricate your hands, you will tear the hell out of your knees. Either way, the torture will be exquisite.”
Boone glowered at the Gild chief.
Kraken straightened. “This park abounds in wildlife. Some of the animals are quite unique. I imagine the abundant vegetation and the water attracted them.” He grinned at Boone. “When we scouted the terrain after our arrival, we discovered a few mutants had taken up residence. This is an ideal habitat because there are very few humans here. As soon as Leviathan is hungry again, you will get to meet one of the mutants.” He chuckled. “In parting, allow me to wish you bon appetit.” He laughed at some private joke.
Boone watched Kraken and Nightshade walk off toward the buildings.
He craned his neck, getting his bearings. His feet were a yard from the pool, his head angled up the slightly sloping bank. He estimated he was 40 yards from the nearest building. The cord securing his wrists was tied to tightly, his forearms were tingling. Amazingly, they hadn’t taken his Hombres. But the guns were useless unless he could free his hands. He tried to wriggle his wrists from side to side in an effort to loosen the cord, only his wrists wouldn’t budge. How long, he wondered, before Leviathan showed up? A sound behind him drew his attention.
There was a commotion in the center of the pool, an underwater disturbance causing concentric ripples to fan outward.
Boone tensed. Was it Leviathan?
As if an answer to his silent query, a huge reptilian back broke the surface of the water.
Chapter Thirteen
“I’d like you to meet my assistants,” President Toland said.
The summit delegates were gathered in the hotel lobby for a period of socializing while the leaders enjoyed a much-deserved break. Members of the kitchen staff were circulating around the room, offering snacks and drinks to everyone. Free State soldiers ringed the lobby, each one armed with an M-16. In the southeast corner Blade and Plato had been discussing Hickok’s prolonged absence when they were approached by the president of the Civilized Zone and two others.
President Toland was wearing a brown suit tailored in the prewar fashion. He gestured at a woman to his left. “Plato, may I introduce Melissa Parmalee. Her official title is Administrative Assistant to the President. She handles the thousand and one petty details I can’t afford to waste my time with, like scheduling my itinerary on trips and arranging my accommodations.”
Blade studied the woman. Parmalee was about five feet eight, her figure slim and shapely. Her attire consisted of a smart red dress and jacket. The dress reached to her knees and her ample cleavage was discreetly covered by her jacket. He received the impression she was a very dedicated, very businesslike woman who relied more on her brains than her physical charms. Her hair was a sandy blonde, her eyes brown.
Parmalee offered her right hand to Plato. “I’m pleased to meet you. I’ve heard many flattering things about you from President Toland.”
“The pleasure is mutual,” Plato assured her, shaking.
Parmalee faced Blade. “Is this who I think it is?”
President Toland laughed. “This is Blade, the head Warrior. I’m sure you’ve heard of his exploits.”
Parmalee nodded, seemingly impressed. “That I have. The man who can change the course of rivers with his bare hands,” she said grinning.
Blade shook her hand, chuckling. “I gave up changing the course of rivers,” he quipped. “It was dirty work. I kept getting my clothes all muddy.”
President Toland indicated a man standing to his right. “And this is Frank Ebert, my Federation Liaison. He’s responsible for insuring all Federation business is treated expeditiously. He was instrumental in finalizing the details for this summit.”
Ebert was a short man, about five feet in height, and his features were on the pudgy side. His hair was brown, as were his eyes, and he was wearing a green suit. “I’m happy to meet you both at last,” he commented in a low voice. He shook hands with Plato, then Blade.
“Is Hickok still missing?” President Toland asked.
Blade frowned. “Yes. Boone went after him, but neither of them has returned yet.”
President Toland gazed about the lobby until his blue eyes alighted on General Gallagher, who was engaged in conversation with Governor Melnick. “I understand you’ve assumed command of the security detail for the summit,” he remarked. “I overheard General Gallagher complaining to the governor.”
Blade shrugged. “Couldn’t be helped. I hope I didn’t cause any problems for you.”
Toland smiled. “Not at all. In fact, I was glad to hear it. I only pray there are no more
attempts on our lives.” He paused, chewing on his lower lip. “Speaking of security, I’d like to go over the setup for the banquet tomorrow night.”
“Fine with me,” Blade said.
“Will you excuse us for a moment?” President Toland said to the others.
Then he led Blade off by the arm.
“You don’t need to worry about the banquet,” Blade stated. “I’ve issued M-16’s to all of the delegates and we will personally guard the entrances to the banquet room.”
“I’m not worried about the banquet,” Toland revealed. “I drew you aside to discuss something else.”
“What?” Blade asked.
President Toland stopped and checked to make sure no one was in their immediate vicinity. “I want to discuss the spy.”
Blade’s mind flashed back to the Russian officer captured near the Home. The officer had revealed there was a Communist spy in President Toland’s administration.
“Before I go any further, I want to ask you a question,” Toland said.
“Who do you think is responsible for the assassination attempts on the summit leaders?”
“I don’t know,” Blade responded. “The Freedom Federation has made several enemies over the past five years. There are the Androxians in Houston, the androids who want to rule the world. And the Technics in Chicago want to see us destroyed. Not to mention the Soviets. Any one of them could be behind the effort to disrupt the summit. Or it could be a new enemy.”
“Don’t you have any idea which one it may be?” President Toland inquired, his blue eyes conveying his concern.
“If I had to make a guess, I’d say the Russians,” Blade speculated. “But any one of them could have hired the Gild.”
“Yes, General Gallagher told me all about your interrogation of the one called Emery,” Toland said.
Blade thoughtfully stroked his chin. “Hmmm.”
“What is it?” President Toland queried.
“I just thought of something.”
“What?”
“Emery told me the Gild is based in Paris, France,” Blade mentioned.
“So?”
Anaheim Run Page 13
