She turned and extended the gun.
“Thank you,” Geronimo said, taking the weapon in his left hand.
“What’s your name?” Blade asked her.
“Eberle. Holly Eberle,” she said, stepping down the stairs and placing a hand on each of her children. “My daughter’s name is Claudia, and my son is Danny. Please don’t hurt us.”
“I’ve already told you that we’re not going to hurt you,” Blade reminded her.
Holly glanced at the Bowies. “Where’d the blood come from?”
Blade frowned and hefted the knives. “I’m afraid we had to kill some of your dogs.”
“Our dogs!” Danny exclaimed, and tried to move toward the front door.
“Stay put!” Holly snapped, gripping his right shoulder. “We don’t want to make these men angry, honey.”
Danny looked up at her. “But mom, they killed our dogs! They killed Buttercup!”
“We didn’t kill all of your dogs,” Blade said, guilt racking him as he beheld the boy’s horrified features. “There was a large brown dog and a small black and white one—”
“That’s Daffodil!” cried Danny. “And the brown one must be Buttercup!”
“Daffodil and Buttercup are okay,” Blade declared. “They don’t have a scratch on them.”
Danny’s accusing brown eyes bored into the Warrior’s. “You swear to God you didn’t hurt them?”
“They’re fine,” Blade reiterated. “You can see for yourself shortly.” He looked at Holly. “Lead the way to the living room.”
Holly and the children edged past the giant cautiously, Claudia gazing at Blade as if he was the worst monster on the face of the planet. “You meanie!” she declared.
Geronimo came down the stairs. “At least Tillers and Hunters don’t have people hating their guts.”
“Check the house,” Blade ordered testily. “Every room, from top to bottom.”
“What do I do about this?” Geronimo asked, wagging the shotgun.
Blade wiped the Bowies on his pants, slid the knives into their sheaths, and took the shotgun.
“I’ll start upstairs,” Geronimo said, and went back up.
“There’s no one else here,” Holly told Blade.
“We’ve got to check,” the giant said. “We won’t disturb any of your property. We’re not thieves.”
“What, exactly, are you?”
“We’ll ask the questions,” Blade said. “Now where’s the living room?”
Holly and the children led the way down the hall to a door on the right, and Holly pushed the door inward and flicked on a light. She escorted her children to a faded blue sofa and seated herself between them, hugging them close.
Blade walked to a rocking chair on the left and leaned the shotgun against an arm. “I’ll make this short and sweet. Answer me honestly and we’ll be out of your hair in no time.”
“What do you want to know?” Holly asked.
“Are we behind the Russian lines?”
Holly cocked her head to one side and peered at him quizzically. “You don’t know?”
“I believe we are, but the Russians haven’t strung barbed wire along their frontier or posted signs,” Blade mentioned. “We didn’t see any patrols, which doesn’t mean a thing because they tend to concentrate most of their troops in the cities. So are we in Soviet-controlled territory or not?”
“Unfortunately, you are,” Holly said bitterly.
“Where is the nearest Soviet garrison?”
“Cincinnati.”
“That far?”
“They’ve turned Cincinnati into a military-industrial complex,” Holly disclosed. “The city is an armed camp. They send out regular patrols in a fifty-mile radius.”
Blade scrutinized the modest furnishings in the living room, the peeling green paint on the walls, the cracks in the plaster coating the ceiling. “The Russians let you keep your own home? I’m surprised they haven’t turned your farm into a collective.”
“My grandfather told me the Russians tried to organize a collective system after the war,” Holly disclosed. “But their scheme didn’t work. The farmers wouldn’t cooperate, even though many of them were tortured and killed. The city folks didn’t know beans about growing crops and couldn’t do diddly without help from the farmers. And there weren’t enough Russians to enforce the edicts establishing the collectives.”
“So the Soviets let the farmers keep their land?”
“In most cases. They did succeed in setting up a few collectives here and there, but for the most part they simply take ninety percent of all the crops the farmers harvest,” Holly said.
“They visit you periodically?”
“At least once a week a patrol shows up to check on us,” Holly replied.
“They keep tabs on the crops, and they send trucks at harvest time to take their fair share.” She spoke the last two words with unconcealed rancor.
“You don’t sound too happy about the state of affairs,” Blade commented.
“Would you be?” Holly responded resentfully. “But there’s nothing I can do about it, not after they…” she said, and stopped, her eyelids lowering, her lips compressing.
“They what?” Blade prompted.
“They killed my husband,” Holly revealed softly.
“I’m sorry.”
Holly looked up at him, trying to gauge if he was sincere, and decided he was. “Thanks.”
“Care to tell me about it?”
“There are a lot of poor folks around,” Holly said. “The people in the cities and the towns receive just enough food to keep them alive. Even the farmers barely get by. My husband, Tim, was part of an underground movement.”
“Go on.”
Holly studied his rugged features. “I’ve told you too much already.”
“What about this underground movement?”
“How do I know I can trust you?” Holly queried suspiciously. “You might be with the KGB.”
“Do you really think I am?”
Before the woman could respond, Hickok sauntered into the living room carrying Blade’s combat boot and laces in his left hand. He scrunched up his nose. “Here, pard. Take these before my nose kicks the bucket.” The Commando was slung over his left shoulder.
Blade took the boots and sat down in the rocker to put them on.
Holly stared at the gunman. “There’s no way he could be with the KGB.”
“What the dickens is the KGB?” Hickok asked.
“The Committee for State Security,” Holly said, “the Soviet secret police.”
Hickok chuckled. “I’m not a Commie, ma’am.”
“That much is obvious,” Holly said. “But where are you from? Why are you here?”
“Shouldn’t you be more concerned about your ma?” Hickok rejoined.
Holly appeared shocked. “Damn! How is she?”
“She’s snoozin’ away on the front porch,” Hickok said.
“Bring her inside,” Blade instructed.
Hickok deposited the Commando on the floor next to the rocking chair, slung the AR-15 over his right shoulder, and strolled out.
“Tell me more about the underground,” Blade stated, sliding his right foot into a combat boot.
“Some of the farmers banded together to try and do something about the food situation,” Holly said. “They hide a small portion of the harvest, then smuggle the food into Cincinnati. Not much, mind you, but every little bit helps.”
“They put their lives on the line for a handful of grain,” Blade remarked.
“That’s about it.”
“What happened to your husband?”
Holly sighed. “Tim built an underground bin for grain and corn in the southwest corner of one of our fields to the east. There were trees all around, and no one could see the corner from the road. He never expected the Russians to find the bin.”
“They did?”
“I don’t know how, but they did,” Holly said. “It was like they knew
where to look.” She paused, hugging her children, her countenance a mask of sorrow. “They took him to Cincinnati, tried him, and put him in front of a firing squad.”
“But they let you stay on the farm?”
“The Soviet commander of the Cincinnati garrison, General Kasantsev, told me that we could stay as long as our production quota is met. If we’re one bushel short, though, we’ll be booted off and sent to a relocation camp. I think he allowed us to stay because we know the land so well, and because we were in the middle of the growing season when Tim was executed.”
Their conversation was interrupted as Hickok ambled in with the elderly woman cradled gently in his arms.
She was awake, regarding the gunman angrily, her thin hands on his chest. “Put me down, young man! I’m perfectly capable of walking by myself.”
“Mom!” Holly exclaimed, rising and hastening to her mother. “Are you all right?”
“Of course,” her mother replied. “Tell this pervert to put me down. I don’t like having strangers paw me.”
“I’m not a pervert,” Hickok said.
“That’s a matter of opinion,” the mother retorted.
Hickok halted and lowered the woman to the floor. “And I don’t go in for pawin’ women. My missus would break my fingers if I tried.”
“You’re married?”
“Yep.”
“Your wife has my sympathy.”
Holly grabbed her mother’s left wrist. “Mom! Don’t talk like that.”
“I’m not scared of these scavengers,” the mother stated.
His combat boots snug on his feet, Blade rose and placed his hands on his hips. “We’re not scavengers.”
The mother swiveled toward him, her right hand covering her mouth.
“Good Lord! I didn’t imagine it. You are real!”
“What’s your name?” Blade inquired.
“Ethel,” she answered, gawking, astonished at his size.
“Have a seat,” Blade said, indicating the sofa with a jerk of his right thumb.
At that moment Geronimo materialized in the doorway. “You’d better come outside,” he informed Blade. “We might have an uninvited visitor.”
Chapter Eight
“Watch them,” Blade directed Hickok, then snatched the Commando and dashed after Geronimo to the front porch.
“See?” Geronimo said.
Less than a mile to the southeast a pair of headlights were visible, approaching in the general direction of the farmhouse.
“Get Holly,” Blade directed.
“You’ve got it,” Geronimo responded, and went indoors.
Blade stared at the circles of light, pondering the implications. The hour was still early, too early for anyone to be abroad, for someone to be paying the Eberles a visit. How far would the noise of the shotgun blast have carried? If a Russian patrol heard the sound, they’d undoubtedly investigate. He intended to jump a Soviet squad and confiscate their uniforms, but he wanted to pick the time and the place.
Geronimo returned with Holly.
“What is it?” she queried.
Blade pointed at the distant headlights. “Is there a road to the south of your farm?”
“A dirt lane leads from our farm to a paved road,” Holly said. “I’d say that vehicle is on the road.”
“Are there any other farms nearby? Any turnoffs?”
“Gus Seuell has a farm a quarter of a mile to the east,” Holly mentioned. “To get here, he has to swing around to the south. That could be him.”
“Why would he be coming here at this time of the morning?” Blade questioned.
“I don’t know,” Holly said.
“Is this Seuell a close friend of yours?”
“To tell you the truth, I never much liked Gus. Tim and him were good buddies, but he always made me feel uncomfortable,” Holly disclosed.
“Why?”
Holly shrugged. “I can’t really say. Gus was always nice to me, always considerate. Since Tim was executed, Gus has been over here every day asking if there’s anything he can do to help out. I suppose I should like him more, but my intuition bothers me whenever he’s around.”
“Hmmmmm,” was all Blade said.
“Orders?” Geronimo asked.
“Go inside and turn out all the lights,” Blade stated. “Have Hickok stay in the living room with the Eberles, except for Holly. She’ll be with me.
Find a second-floor window and be ready if I give the signal.”
“What about the dead dogs?”
“I’ll hide them,” Blade proposed. “Get going.”
Geronimo departed.
“What about me?” Holly queried.
“You can remain on the porch or come with me,” Blade said, striding down the steps.
“I’ll go with you,” Holly said, following. “I must be crazy. You killed most of our dogs, broke into our house, and yet I feel safe around you.”
Blade looked at her. “I’m truly sorry about the dogs. I tried to avoid harming them. They didn’t leave us any choice.”
“Farm dogs are very territorial,” Holly commented.
The large brown dog and the small black and white canine abruptly raced around a yellow poplar tree on the left, growling as they neared the Warrior.
“Daffodil! Buttercup! No!” Holly declared. “Stop!”
They checked their rush, growling and glaring at Blade.
“Go to the barn!” Holly directed. “The barn! Go! Now!”
Buttercup and Daffodil, unwilling but obedient, padded off.
“The barn!” Holly called after them. “Go to the barn!”
“Thanks,” Blade said. “I didn’t want to kill them too.” He walked to the corpses of the five dead dogs.
“Sweet Jesus!” Holly blurted out when she spied the bodies.
Blade slung the Commando over his left arm and grabbed one of the dogs by the scruff of the neck. He lugged the canine to a nearby lilac bush and placed it at the base of the ten-foot high shrub. He arranged the lower branches and leaves to partially screen the dead dog, then stepped back to inspect his handiwork. Unless someone was within a yard or two of the lilac bush, he doubted the corpse could be seen. Working quickly, he brought the other bodies over and hid them in the shadows.
“I’d better bury them before Danny and Claudia see them,” Holly remarked.
“We’ll bury them before we leave,” Blade said, and turned to the southwest. The headlights were a half mile distant, intermittently discernible, their glimmering radiance eclipsed by periodic stands of trees. He glanced at the barn and noticed a driveway on the south side.
The gravel drive widened and extended to within 15 yards of the farmhouse. A cement walk connected the end of the driveway to the front steps.
“Do you mind if I ask a few questions?” Holly queried.
“No,” Blade replied, walking toward the porch.
“Why are you here?”
“I can’t divulge the reason we came to Ohio,” Blade said.
“The Soviets have renamed Ohio and call it Novgorod,” Holly divulged, “but that’s not what I meant. Why are you at our farm?”
“This was as good a place as any to acquire the information we need.”
“About what?”
“Cincinnati. Have you visited the city?”
“Fairly frequently, particularly within the past year. Tim’s trial was held in Cincinnati, and I was in the courtroom every day.”
“Then you can provide a diagram of the streets and the Soviet installations.”
“You plan to take on the Russians?”
Blade nodded. The house, he observed, was shrouded in gloom.
“Just the three of you?”
Blade nodded again.
“You’re nuts.”
“So we’ve been told.”
Holly scrutinized the giant as they climbed the stairs and paused.
“What do you hope to accomplish?”
“I can’t say.”
&nbs
p; “I don’t know why I should, but I’ll do what I can to help you. I hate the damn Commies, and if you’re going to give them a taste of their own medicine, then I’m all for it.”
“Let’s just say that they’ll know we’ve been there.”
Holly grinned. “Real men at last!”
Blade glanced at her. “Real men?”
“Most of the people have given up on the idea of opposing the Russians.
There’s the underground movement, but they’re not very effective. They try to slip food to the needy, but they don’t commit any violent acts because they’re afraid of reprisals. It’s nice to see men who aren’t afraid, who aren’t cowed by the Commies.”
“You can’t blame the people. Most, like your husband, probably have families, loved ones they wouldn’t want to see harmed. Your Tim sounds like he was a… real man. The measure of manhood does not lie in a man’s capacity for violence.”
Holly folded her hands at her waist and gazed at him. “You’re a strange one.”
“Do you think any less of Tim even though he didn’t rebel openly?”
“No, I don’t,” Holly conceded.
“I rest my case.”
“Are there others like you where you come from?”
“Quite a few.”
“Too bad there aren’t enough of you to overthrow the Russians.”
“One day, maybe,” Blade said.
“I hope it happens during my lifetime. I want to see them ground into the dust. I want every last one of the mothers pushing up daisies,” Holly stated harshly.
Blade grinned. “Maybe you should start a revolution yourself.”
“Maybe I will.”
The headlights were now several hundred yards south of the barn.
“Let’s go in,” Blade said, and opened the door for her. Once they were both in the hallway, he closed the door and positioned himself to the left, near the hinges.
“What do I do?” Holly inquired.
“We wait to see who it is,” Blade responded. “If they come to the door and knock, don’t answer for at least a minute. We want them to think that they roused you out of bed.”
Holly reached out and flicked a metal button underneath the doorknob.
“I locked it.”
“Thanks,” Blade said. Why hadn’t he thought of that? He suddenly realized he was feeling very fatigued, and he mentally chided himself for not having slept in over 24 hours. He’d attempted to rest early in the evening, after they had hidden the SEAL. Bothered by thoughts of Jenny and Gabe, and deeply upset at Geronimo’s impending resignation from the Warriors, he’d tossed and turned in his seat, unable to doze off.
Cincinnati Run Page 7
