Nevada Run

by David Robbins

  Hickok nodded. “How do you know about Mindy?”

  Ozzi hesitated. What if he was wrong? The Don would never forgive him. But if he was right, then the Don must have sanctioned the killing.

  “Mindy is two floors up,” he revealed. “I think she’s in danger.”

  “What do you care?” Hickok asked suspiciously. “Is this your notion of a cockamamie trick?”

  “No!” Ozzie responded. “I’m serious, man! She could be in danger.”

  “Take me to her,” Hickok directed. If Mindy was really in danger, retrieving the Henry would have to wait. Every second counted.

  Ozzi turned and opened the stairwell door. He took the stairs two at a stride.

  Hickok stuck with the trigger man. He was puzzled by the mobster’s evident sincerity, and he decided to go with his instincts. If Mindy was in the Palace, he intended to rescue her. And no passel of mangy city slickers was going to stand in his way!

  Ozzi passed the landing for the ninth floor.

  Hickok drew his left Colt.

  As the landing for the tenth floor loomed overhead, Ozzi slowed slightly.

  What if he was making a fool of himself? What if Kenney was just checking on Mindy’s welfare? He was behaving rashly, and a wiseguy needed a cool head at all times. What had Don Giorgio said in Minnesota?

  “If you blow your cool, you’re a fool.” His best bet was to confirm Mindy was okay on the sly, a task he could not perform with the Warrior in tow.

  No sooner did the realization dawn upon him than he threw himself backwards, hoping to catch the gunman unawares.

  He nearly succeeded.

  Hickok’s lightning reflexes served him in good stead. He dodged to the left to avoid the hit man’s hurtling body, but Ozzi grabbed his right arm and yanked, causing him to lose his balance and to topple backwards.

  The pair tumbled down the stairwell for eight feet.

  Hickok’s head smacked onto the edge of one of the concrete steps, and he wound up on his left side, dazed. He saw Ozzi come out of a roll and dive toward him, and he managed to lash out with his right foot and kick the button man in the face.

  Ozzi was knocked for a loop. He landed on his back, four steps below the Warrior.

  Hickok surged erect as Ozzi was rising. He took a stride and slammed the barrel of his right Python across the mobster’s mouth.

  Ozzi, staggered, reeled.

  Hickok closed in, battering the hit man again and again. First the left Colt, then the right, then the left once more.

  Ozzi, his mouth and chin a bloody, pulpy mess, sank to his knees, then collapsed.

  Hickok was tempted to plug the varmint, but the shot might attract other gangsters. He holstered the Colts and glanced up the stairwell. Was Mindy really in the building, or had Ozzi fabricated the story to augment his chances of turning the tide? Hickok knew he couldn’t afford to leave without verifying whether Mindy was in the Palace, whether she actually was on the tenth floor.

  He jogged up the stairs.

  If Ozzi had been right about everyone being down in the casino, finding an alternate exit from the Palace should be a piece of cake. A side door would suffice, or a window close to the ground.

  Hickok reached the tenth floor landing and halted, peering through the window in the door.

  The corridor was vacant.

  Warily, his ears straining, Hickok opened the door and stepped into the hallway. He advanced slowly until he came abreast of the nearest door on the right. His right hand closed on the doorknob.

  The danged thing was locked!

  Hickok frowned as he surveyed the corridor. There were over a dozen rooms. Which one was Mindy in? He walked to the next door, which was on the left, and touched the knob.

  A piercing, terrified scream abruptly shattered the stillness.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  “How did you persuade all of your customers to leave so quickly?” Blade asked.

  “Would you want to be caught in the middle of a war?” Don Pucci rejoined.

  Blade grinned, “I see your point.”

  They were in the center of the casino, watching the preparations being made by the Don’s soldiers. Over three dozen armed trigger men were industriously piling furniture and wooden crates several feet from the ten glass doors, erecting a makeshift wall.

  Mario approached. “The calls have all been made,” he announced. “All the troops will be here within the hour.”

  “Weapons?” Don Pucci queried.

  “All the weapons and explosives are being brought up from downstairs,” Mario replied.

  “What if Giorgio attacks before you’re ready for him?” Blade inquired.

  “He won’t attack,” the Don responded.

  “Why not?”

  “Giorgio is scum, but he’s not stupid,” Don Pucci said.

  “Right now he’s doing the same thing I’m doing, fortifying his casino and calling in his button men. This will be a war of attrition.” He paused.

  “Constructing his casino next to mine was a stroke of genius.”

  “How so?” Blade probed.

  “Years ago, Giorgio and I were on friendly terms. His ambition was not so obvious, but he was planning ahead, even then,” Don Pucci detailed.

  “He asked to build his casino across the boulevard, and I assented. Now his reasons are obvious. No one will be able to enter or leave by the front doors. Our business will grind to a halt, and our financial reserves will be severely depleted the longer the war continues. If I run out of funds, I will be seriously weakened. Money talks in this town. Giorgio is in a position to keep tabs on every activity around the casino.”

  “But it works both ways,” Blade noted. “And you’ll still have the rear exits you can use.”

  “Unless Giorgio tries to surround the Golden Crown, to cut it off from the rest of the city,” Don Pucci said. “Our provisions will not last indefinitely.”

  “Will you take the offensive?” Blade questioned.

  “Not until I can find a weak link in Giorgio’s defenses,” Don Pucci responded.

  Blade looked over his right shoulder at Geronimo and Helen.

  Geronimo nodded.

  “What if we were to weaken his defenses for you?” Blade asked, staring at the Don.

  Pucci studied the giant for a moment. “I can’t ask you to do that.”

  “Mindy and Hickok are in the Palace,” Blade said. “We must go after them.”

  “You’ll be cut down before you cross the boulevard,” Don Pucci commented.

  “Perhaps,” Blade stated. “But if we can punch a hole in his defenses before he’s ready, if we can keep him occupied, you’d have the advantage you need.”

  “Hmmmm,” Don Pucci said thoughtfully. “Attack him now, before he’s ready, before he has the opportunity to call in all of his soldiers? He’d never expect a direct assault now, because he undoubtedly assumes I’m too busy mobilizing my forces.” He grinned. “It could work.”

  Blade looked at Mario. “You mentioned explosives. What kind do you have?”

  “Name it, we have it,” Mario replied. “Dynamite, grenades, plastic explosives.”

  “Any smoke bombs?” Blade asked.

  Mario nodded. “A crate or two.”

  “We’ll need a crate of smoke bombs and four grenades apiece,” Blade stated.

  Mario looked at Don Pucci, who nodded curtly. Mario hastened off.

  “How do you propose to proceed?” Pucci queried the giant.

  “We’ll go in first,” Blade said. “Hold back your men for several minutes.

  We want Giorgio totally unprepared for your attack. If he’s involved with fighting us, he won’t notice our ruse until it’s too late.”

  “You take great risks, my friend,” Don Pucci commented.

  “Nothing ventured, nothing gained,” Blade philosophized.

  “I just pray that Mindy is still alive,” Helen remarked anxiously.

  “And Hickok,” Geronimo added.

&nb
sp; Blade stared at the Don. “If Giorgio loses, what happens to his Family?”

  “They will be absorbed into my Family,” Don Pucci answered. “They will owe their allegiance to me.”

  “You won’t conduct reprisals?” Blade inquired.

  “No. Why should I? Senseless reprisals are a waste,” Don Pucci said.

  “The easiest way to kill a snake is to cut off its head, not chop its body into little pieces.”

  “With Giorgio’s Family combined with your own,” Blade noted, “you’ll be the undisputable leader in Vegas. No one else will challenge you.”

  “I hope you are right,” Pucci said. “But you never know. There is always someone who believes the grass is greener on the other side of the fence.”

  The makeshift wall was six feet high, and the mobsters had ceased piling furniture and were passing out machine guns.

  Mario returned, attended by four men carrying two heavy crates. The men deposited the crates near the Warriors.

  “Here you go,” Mario said. “A crate of smoke bombs and a crate of grenades. Take whatever you need.” He glanced at the men. “Open them.”

  One of the men departed, only to return moments later with a crowbar.

  The quartet applied themselves to prying the tops off.

  “We’ll need some assistance from you to get across the boulevard,” Blade mentioned to the Don.

  “Anything you want, you get,” Don Pucci declared.

  “I need a car,” Blade detailed. “Can you have one running behind your casino within five minutes?”

  Don Pucci snapped his fingers and Mario ran toward the rear of the casino.

  “Will Don Giorgio have men watching the back?” Blade inquired.

  “He might, but I doubt it,” Pucci responded. “He hasn’t had the time to get all his troops in place.”

  “What about the boulevard and the side streets? Will they be cordoned off?” Blade needed to know.

  “No,” Pucci said. “No one in their right mind will come near either casino. The Enforcers will keep everyone away from both joints.”

  “Are the Enforcers your men?” Blade questioned.

  “The Enforcers are selected from every Family,” Don Pucci revealed.

  “They take an oath of neutrality and serve for one year. After their duty, they return to their Family.”

  “So they won’t take a part in this conflict?” Blade remarked.

  “No,” Don Pucci said. “Neither will the other Dons, if they stick by their word.”

  “Okay, then,” Blade stated. “We will circle around the Golden Crown and approach the Palace on the boulevard. When you hear a single shot, have a dozen of your men hurl smoke bombs out to the middle of the boulevard. We’ll do the rest.”

  The tops were off the crates.

  Blade moved to the crate of grenades and selected four, stuffing two into each front pocket. “Each of you take four,” he instructed Geronimo and Helen.

  Geronimo hefted one of the grenades. “I just hope this doesn’t accidentally go off in my pants. My wife would be terribly disappointed.”

  “I hope I get to cram one of these down Giorgio’s throat!” Helen said angrily.

  Mario was running toward them. “The car is all set. It’s an antique Buick, built like a tank.”

  “Thanks,” Blade said. He looked at the Don and extended his right hand.

  The Don, somewhat surprised, took the huge hand in his own.

  “I want your word,” Blade declared. “If something should happen to me, my friends must be permitted to leave Vegas unharmed, no matter what else happens.”

  Don Pucci appeared hurt by the implication. “Need you ask?”

  “No, I guess not,” Blade said. He squeezed the Don’s hand and let go.

  “Let’s go find that ding-a-ling in buckskins,” Geronimo remarked.

  “May God be with you,” the Don said to Blade. “Oh! I almost forgot. It’s important that you know Giorgio lives on the third floor.”

  “Come with me,” Mario directed. He turned and jogged in the direction of a door on the left-hand side of the rear wall.

  Blade kept pace with the man in white, Geronimo and Helen on his heels.

  Behind them, Don Pucci was barking orders.

  They crossed the casino, following Mario down a tiled corridor until they came to an enormous kitchen with white walls and sparkling utensils.

  Once through the kitchen, they traversed another hallway and exited the building by way of a red door. Before them was a sprawling parking lot filled with vehicles. Armed mobsters ringed the rear of the casino. Ten yards from the door was a dark blue Buick, the engine idling, three hit men standing near the grill.

  “There’s your car,” Mario said.

  They ran to the Buick.

  One of the men near the grill looked at the Warriors, then at the car.

  “This is mine,” he said sadly. “She’s an antique. I’ve spent every spare penny I’ve earned to fix her up.”

  Mario smacked the front fender. “It’s as solid as they come.”

  Blade opened the driver’s door and slid in. The front seat was somewhat cramped for a man of his size. All the windows were down.

  Geronimo and Helen walked to the other side. Helen climbed into the rear and Geronimo took the passenger side, resting the Browning barrel on the dash.

  “Good luck,” Mario offered, and hurried inside.

  Blade closed his door and gripped the wheel.

  The three mobsters had moved to one side.

  “Try to keep her in one piece,” the owner called sorrowfully. He looked like he was about to cry.

  “I’ll try,” Blade said, and shifted into drive. He drove toward an exit on the northern boundary of the parking lot.

  “Do you have a plan?” Geronimo asked.

  “We’ll use the Buick to get inside the Palace,” Blade said. “Once we’re there, we’ll unload the grenades. After that, we wing it.”

  “I’m going to find Mindy,” Helen vowed. “And I’ll kill anyone who stands in my way.”

  “I hope Hickok and Mindy are okay,” Geronimo commented.

  “Check your weapons,” Blade advised. He took a right at the exit and cruised toward the boulevard.

  “Funny,” Helen remarked. “I’m not nervous at all. I thought I’d have butterflies by now.”

  “You can have some of mine,” Geronimo offered.

  Blade was driving at five miles an hour. He surveyed the side street, pleased to note there wasn’t a single soul anywhere. He did not want innocent bystanders harmed.

  The boulevard appeared ahead.

  Blade slowed until the Buick was scarcely moving. “We have to time this just right. Giorgio’s men can’t spot us before we reach the corner because the Golden Crown blocks their view. Once we reach the corner, they’re bound to cut loose unless Pucci’s men come through.” He glanced at Geronimo. “When I give the word, fire one shot.”

  Geronimo drew his Arminius from its shoulder holster under his right arm. He cocked the revolver and poked the gun out of the window.

  “Ready.”

  Blade coasted to a stop 30 feet from the intersection. He unslung the Commando and placed the machine gun on his lap.

  “I haven’t seen any traffic on the boulevard,” Helen mentioned.

  “There shouldn’t be any,” Blade said. He stared at her, then Geronimo.

  “Take care of yourselves. And keep your eyes peeled for Hickok and Mindy.”

  “Say, Blade,” Helen began.

  “What?”

  “If I don’t make it, make sure Mindy reaches the Home,” Helen said.

  “You’ll make it,” Blade told her. He gazed at the boulevard and took a deep breath. “Give the signal.”

  Geronimo fired once.

  Blade mentally counted to ten. Pucci’s men should be tossing the smoke bombs into the boulevard. The smoke would disperse rapidly, enshrouding the boulevard between the two casinos in a gray haze. He was on
eight when he heard the crackle of gunfire. That would be Giorgio’s soldiers, belatedly firing at Pucci’s men with the smoke bombs.

  Nine.

  Ten.

  Blade tramped on the accelerator and the antique Buick surged forward. He took a sharp right at the intersection, the tires squealing, and angled the car toward the Palace. As expected, a cloaking cloud of smoke enveloped the boulevard. For several seconds he couldn’t see a thing. He could only hope he was traveling in the right direction. Twice the Buick was unexpectedly jolted as it struck unseen objects.

  Bodies?

  The Buick bounced and bucked as it hit yet a third obstacle, and then the smoke was thinning.

  Blade’s hands inadvertently tightened on the steering wheel. They were on the short flight of cement steps leading up to the Palace’s seven glass doors! “We’re going to hit!” he cried, keeping the accelerator on the floor.

  Faces were visible on the other side of the doors, astonished visages of shocked mobsters.

  Blade ducked his head to spare his eyes from the flying glass.

  With a resounding, thunderous crash, the Buick rammed into the center of the row of glass doors. The glass shattered, the metal frames buckling like so much paper. Beyond the doors was a hastily constructed wall of furniture and boxes similar to the barrier Don Pucci’s men had erected in the Golden Crown. Its momentum hardly impeded by the doors, its engine roaring, the Buick plowed into the barricade, sending chairs and boxes and busted pieces of furniture in every direction. Several mobsters were hit by the grill and battered aside. Curses, shouts, and screams arose. And still the Buick hurtled onward.

  Blade spied a group of hit men to the left and slewed the Buick toward them. They frantically attempted to evade the dreadnought, but he ruthlessly mowed them down.

  Guns started firing, peppering the Buick’s thick frame.

  Fifteen yards off were rows of slot machines.

  Blade slammed on the brakes. The Buick screeched to a jarring halt, its rear end whipping around and colliding with one of the slot machines, its front end facing the incensed mobsters. “Out!” he shouted, and shoved his door open.

  The Buick’s windshield dissolved in a spray of lead.

  Blade vaulted from the car, rolling on his left shoulder and rising in a crouch with the Commando leveled. He squeezed the trigger, firing a burst into a charging cluster of hit men. Scrambling backwards, he reached the slot machines and ducked behind the nearest one.