“Well, no…” Oakes responded.
“Why not? Why didn’t you confirm his death?” Tiger queried.
“I don’t know,” Oakes said. “I guess I was in too big a hurry to return with this guy.”
“Ahhhh.” Tiger smiled at Blade, then locked his blue eyes on Oakes.
“And where is the rest of your squad?”
“Where are they?” Oakes said weakly.
Tiger let his left hand ease to his side. “Yes, Oakes. Where are they? I sent one hundred Sharks to capture four strangers. Just four. Of the one hundred, you, as one of my trusted lieutenants, had twenty-four Sharks under your command. But only fifteen returned with you. Where are the rest?”
“They died,” Oakes declared.
“Did you see their bodies?” Tiger pressed him.
Oakes averted his gaze. “No,” he admitted.
“Then how can you say they died?” Tiger demanded, his tone flinty.
“I had nine men downstairs, hidden in the lobby,” Oakes detailed.
“They were to stay down there in case the two I lured downstairs tried to escape. But I never saw them again after I caught this guy. I think they tried to take out the two strangers out front.”
Tiger pursed his lips. “So you saw no sign of these nine when you departed through the lobby?”
Oakes blanched. “I didn’t leave through the lobby.”
“Oh?” Tiger said in mock surprise. “How did you exit the building?”
“I went out the back door,” Oakes answered.
“Why?”
“I wanted to get this guy here as quickly as I could,” Oakes said. “And there was a lot of fighting out front.”
“So I was told,” Tiger commented.
Blade could sense the tension in the room. The one called Tiger was supremely displeased with his lieutenant. Obviously Oakes wasn’t telling the truth. Blade wondered what Tiger would do about the deception, and he found out the very next instant.
Tiger’s steely arms lashed up and out, a Bowie in each hand. With astonishing speed, he buried the knives in his lieutenant’s eyes. Oakes went rigid, his mouth gaping, blood pouring from his ruptured sockets.
He collapsed without uttering a sound, onto his back, the Bowies jutting toward the ceiling.
“I can not abide liars,” Tiger said softly. “And you were a liar, my dear Oakes. You departed by the rear exit when you heard the firing in front because you were afraid. You feared for your life. So you fled without bothering to confirm if the stranger who fell over the railing was dead, without bothering to check on the men you posted in the lobby, without even having the decency to wait for Gar and Fab. You were a coward, Oakes. A blustering, swaggering coward. I could not retain you as my lieutenant.” Tiger sighed. “I suppose the blame is mine. I elevated you above your station in life. I gave you responsibilities you were unable to handle. At least now, on the other side of the veil, you are released from those responsibilities.”
None of the other men in the room had moved.
Tiger knelt alongside Oakes’ body. He proceeded to yank the Bowies from Oakes’ sockets, then to wipe the knives on his lieutenant’s shirt, all the while quoting, of all things, a poem: “On this home by Horror haunted— tell me truly, I implore—Is there— is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!”
Blade suddenly recognized the quote from his schooling days at the Home and he finished the refrain: “Quoth the Raven, ‘Nevermore.’”
Tiger looked up at the Warrior with an expression of shock on his features. He rose. “You know Poe?”
Blade nodded. “He was one of my favorites in literature class. I always regarded him as a genius.”
Tiger seemed to be stunned. “Can this be?”
Blade’s mind was racing. Tiger, evidently, was the leader of those who had captured him, the Sharks. If he could impress Tiger, if he could win the leader’s confidence, he might be able to enlist the Sharks as an ally against Manta. He hadn’t read any Poe in years, but he dimly recalled a passage he’d liked. “Wasn’t it Poe who wrote that all life exists by virtue of the Spirit Divine?”
Tiger’s face lit up. “Yes. Yes. In Eureka. One of his most underrated works.” He raked the Warrior from head to toe with a probing gaze. “I can see I must amend my plans for you.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. I intended to interrogate you to ascertain the reason for your presence in Seattle. But a crude interrogation would be unthinkable now. You—wonder of wonders!—appear to be an equal, and as such I must accord you the respect your status deserves,” Tiger said.
“Thank you,” Blade responded, not quite sure if he understood.
Tiger extended his right arm, the Bowies in his hand. “Here. I believe these are yours.”
Blade stared at his knives, surprised. He quickly took them before the Shark leader could change his mind. “Thank you.”
“I want you to feel comfortable here, to enjoy your stay,” Tiger stated.
“We have so much to discuss.”
“That we do,” Blade agreed, thinking of Manta. Then his thoughts strayed to Hickok and he closed his eyes, the memory wrenching at his soul.
“Are you ill?” Tiger inquired solicitously.
Blade opened his eyes. “No. I’m okay.”
“Excellent.” Tiger indicated the room with a sweep of his left hand.
“Would you do me the courtesy of remaining here until I return? I must attend to a formal dinner in your honor—”
“There’s no need,” Blade said, interrupting.
“But there is,” Tiger said. “I insist. Except for Gar and Fab, I dwell in an intellectual wasteland. I look forward to our discourse. I crave conversation with an equal.” He started to leave, then stopped. “How rude of me! As you have undoubtedly surmised, I am called Tiger. What is your name?”
“Blade,” the Warrior answered.
Tiger’s forehead furrowed. “How unusual. Is there any correlation with your choice in weaponry?”
“Yes,” Blade verified, admiring the Shark leader’s perception.
“You must tell me all about it over our meal,” Tiger said. “It might interest you to know my real name is Blake. My father and mother named me after William Blake, a genius the equal of Poe. Ironically, I later acquired as my nickname the same appellation as one of Blake’s more famous works. Perhaps you are familiar with it?”
“The Tyger,” Blade said.
Tiger grinned. “Outstanding. Until our repast.” He hurried from the chamber.
Blade slid his Bowies into their sheaths. He was fascinated by the Shark leader; the man was a curious blend of literary connoisseur and murderous psychopath. He speculated on whether, realistically, he could hope to persuade Tiger to join in the fight against Manta. Would Tiger make a stable ally or be a treacherous stumbling block? The man had seemed so sure of himself, positively reeking with confidence. But what had been all that business about equals? Did Tiger consider himself superior to most others?
Two men, both lean, both in shabby attire, entered the room and walked to Oakes. They lifted his corpse, one by the ankles, the other by the arms, and carried the body away.
Blade thought of Tiger’s exchange with the hapless Oakes, reviewing their words concerning Hickok’s demise. Oakes had not seen the gunfighter’s body. Was there a chance, however remote, that Hickok was still alive? In his mind, Blade saw Nathan go over the railing again. They had been on the fourth floor. How could Hickok have possibly survived?
He had learned never to put anything past the gunman, but the prospect of his friend being alive was a dim one.
Enough morbid recollection!
Blade shook his head, then examined the furnishings in the room. They were exceptional, literally works of art. Magnificent paintings adorned all four walls. The furniture was in superb condition, polished and immaculate, and each piece, including the huge bed, was an antique.
Where had Tiger obtained such a collection?
A minu
te later footsteps pounded in the hallway outside. A young woman of 15 or 16, with blond hair and brown eyes, wearing jeans and a lavender blouse both past their prime, ran into the chamber. In her left hand was a book.
One of the four men stared at the woman in annoyance. “What are you doing here?”
The woman nodded her head at the Warrior. “Tiger sent me.”
“Go on, then,” the man said.
Sheepishly, the woman walked up to the Warrior. “Here.” She offered him the book. “Tiger sent this. He said you might enjoy reading it while you wait.”
“Thank you,” Blade said, taking the volume, “And thank him.”
The woman nodded and dashed from the chamber.
What was this? Blade gazed at the purple cover. The Portable Poe.
There was a bookmark protruding above the pages. He opened the book to the appropriate page and found several photographs had been underlined in blue ink. Blade started reading.
“I have sometimes amused myself by endeavoring to fancy what would be the fate of any individual gifted, or rather accursed, with an intellect very far superior to that of his race. Of course, he would be conscious of his superiority; nor could he (if otherwise constituted as man is) help manifesting his consciousness. Thus he must make himself enemies at all points.”
Blade straightened, frowning. So that was it. Tiger did believe he was some sort of superior man. He resumed reading.
“And since his opinions and speculations would widely differ from those of all mankind—that he would be considered a madman, is evident.
How horribly painful such a condition! Hell could invent no greater torture than that of being charged with abnormal weakness on account of being abnormally strong.”
Blade recalled the sight of his Bowies sticking from Oakes’s eye sockets, and then he read the sentence written in the margin of the book, evidently in Tiger’s handwriting.
“It is my destiny to subjugate all inferiors!”
Blade looked up at the doorway.
Uh-oh.
Chapter Thirteen
Rikki had never known birds could be so deadly.
The flock swirled and dove and arched above the Montlake Bridge, the gulls diving at the humans and attempting to peck or claw at the Sharks with ruthless abandon. The birds invariably went for the face, concentrating on the eyes, as if they somehow knew the humans were vulnerable in the facial area.
For their part, the Sharks were shouting and cursing and shrieking, all the while conducting a running fight with the gulls. A few firearms boomed. Knives, axes, and swords were brought into play. The Sharks were determined to reach the trees at the south end of the bridge, while the gulls were equally determined to stop them.
Rikki was hard pressed to evade the sea gulls. He blocked bird after bird, swatting them aside as they came at his face. Once a talon scraped his right cheek.
Fabiana was using her shotgun as a club, apparently conserving her ammunition. She warded off repeated assaults, but in the struggle she inadvertently moved ever closer to the railing along the west side of Montlake Bridge.
Gar was a whirlwind, swinging his shotgun right and left, concentrating on protecting his sister at his own expense. Oblivious to his own safety, he bore several deep gashes on his arms and neck.
A large gull hurtled toward Rikki, talons outstretched. The Warrior twisted to the left, avoiding the bird’s sharp claws, and clamped his hands on the gull’s wings. He held onto the sea gull’s squirming form, then bent the wings backwards until they snapped. The bird tried to peck his fingers as he released it, and it attempted to snap at his feet as it landed on the bridge. Rikki jumped into the air and came down with both heels first, directly on top of the gull’s head.
There was a faint crunch and the bird expired.
Rikki spun as a man screamed to his rear.
The Shark called Buck was in trouble. Two gulls were clinging to his face, one of them with its talons imbedded in his eyes. He was futilely swatting at the birds while screeching at the top of his lungs.
The gulls were pecking furiously at the man’s face.
Buck staggered and fell to his knees. He dropped his revolver and Rikki’s pouch but clung to the katana scabbard, vainly attempting to bludgeon the gulls with it.
Rikki reached the Shark’s side in two strides. He tore the scabbard from Buck’s grasp, then whipped out the katana. In one glistening swipe, he drove the sword through both birds, severing the gulls in half.
Three of the four feathery sections flopped to the pavement, but the fourth, the lower half of the gull which had its claw buried in Buck’s eyes, held fast, the talons reflexively clamped onto the eyeballs. Suffering intolerably, blubbering and wailing, Buck gripped the lower half of the gull and pulled, trying to pry the claws from his face. Instead, to his ultimate horror, he tore his eyeballs from their sockets. He doubled over, sobbing pathetically.
Rikki, momentarily unassailed, stuck his scabbard under his belt, aligning it over his left hip. He took hold of the katana with both hands.
Just as five gulls attacked.
Rikki decapitated one of the gulls with his first stroke. His second chopped off a wing apiece on two other birds and they flapped to the ground using their good wing to retard their fall.
The remaining pair dove for the Warrior’s face.
Rikki crouched under a pair of slashing talons, spearing his katana upward into the gull’s body. The bird squawked as it died, and he jerked his blade free to confront the last of the five.
The gull was winging skyward.
Rikki abruptly realized his opportunity had arrived. The Sharks were immersed in their combat with the sea gulls; not one of them was so much as looking in his direction. In the confusing midst of the combat, he could easily slip off and return to Yama. He grinned and turned to the north.
Behind him, a woman screamed.
Not just any woman.
The tone was unmistakably Fabiana’s.
Rikki rotated on his heels. There she was, backed up to the railing, fighting for her life against a dense concentration of gulls, perhaps a dozen of them, some tugging at her long hair with their beaks, others slashing at her body, tearing her leather garments and the flesh underneath, and several going for her eyes.
Gar was trying to reach her, but a wall of hovering gulls separated him from his sister. He could not dare fire for fear of striking her.
Fabiana cast a pleading glance in the Warrior’s direction. “Help me! Please!”
Rikki-Tikki-Tavi never hesitated. He waded into the gulls with his katana flashing in a scintillating exhibition of matchless swordsmanship.
Six, seven, eight gulls died in half as many seconds, and then Rikki was next to Fabiana, shielding her with his body and holding the sea gulls at bay.
The next moment, as swiftly as they had attacked, the gulls departed.
As if they were reacting to an invisible command, they soared high on the currents en masse, reformed into a cohesive flock, and flew to the east.
Rikki surveyed the bridge. It was littered with the dead and the dying, with scores of birds and well over a dozen Sharks. Moans and cries of despair wafted skyward. Pools of blood and feathers were everywhere.
“Thank you,” Fabiana said softly.
Rikki turned, smiling. Her hair was disheveled, with a few feathers entangled in the strands. She was cut on her face and neck, and sweat caked her skin, sweat intermixed with blood. For all that, she was extraordinarily lovely, and Rikki had to force himself to think of his beloved Lexine, the woman he cherished, who was awaiting him at the Home.
“You saved my life,” Fab stated.
“I could do no less,” Rikki declared.
For a moment they stared into one another’s eyes, sharing an unspoken bond of deep affection. Only for a moment. Before reality intruded on their silent emotional exchange.
“Drop the sword, little man!”
Rikki pivoted to the south.
Gar wa
s holding his shotgun leveled at the Warrior’s stomach, not five feet away, his finger on the trigger. “I said drop it!”
Fabiana took a step toward her brother. “Gar! Don’t!”
“Butt out, sis!” Gar barked. “This doesn’t concern you.”
“The hell is doesn’t!” Fab retorted angrily. “He saved my life!”
“I saw it,” Gar said. “But it doesn’t change things.”
“It changes everything!” Fab snapped. “Can’t you see that?”
“I can see what’s happened to you,” Gar replied. “I can see you’re head over heels for this clown. So you don’t have a say in this, sis. This guy is going to Tiger, whether you like it or not.” He paused. “I’m sorry, but I’m doing this for the both of us.”
Seven of the Sharks approached, their weapons at hand.
“What’s it going to be, little man?” Gar demanded. “You can drop your sword or you can die. It’s up to you.”
Fab looked at the Warrior with tears in her eyes. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
Rikki shrugged and lowered the katana to the pavement. He removed the scabbard and placed it next to the sword, then stood.
“Now step away from the sword,” Gar directed.
Rikki moved several paces to the left.
Gar glanced at his sister. “You like this guy so much, I’ll let you carry his sword. But I’m warning you. If he gets his hands on it, no matter how much you like him, sister or no sister, I’ll blow him away. Understood?”
Fabiana nodded.
“Okay. Pick it up,” Gar said.
Fabiana bent down, set her shotgun on the ground, then slid the katana into the scabbard and straightened with the scabbard in her right hand and the shotgun in her left.
Gar spied a tall Shark nearby. “Simms! Find out how many we lost, how many are injured. We’ve got to get the hell out of here! Move your ass!”
Simms hastened off.
Fab hefted the scabbard, staring at the hilt of the sword. “Why?” she asked.
“Why what?” Gar replied innocently, scanning the bodies on the bridge.
“Why did you let me have the sword?” Fab inquired.
“Why not?” Gar rejoined.
Seattle Run Page 11
