“I know that car,” Holly stated, curtailing the giant’s reverie. She was standing next to a narrow pane of glass on the right side of the jamb.
Blade peeked out, noting a rattling black sedan as the vehicle braked within a yard of the cement walk. “Who is it?”
“Gus Seuell. What does he want at this hour?”
“We’ll know in a moment,” Blade said. “Don’t let him spot you.”
Holly backed into the corner. “This is really weird. First you guys, now Gus. What gives tonight?”
“There’s a full moon.”
“Oh.”
Blade heard a car door slam, then the sound of someone whistling. The tune was unfamiliar and erratic, rising in volume and tapering off repeatedly, as if the whistler wasn’t concentrating on the song. Footsteps shuffled on the cement walk, and then the caller was on the front porch.
Boots thudded up to the front door, and a fist pounded on the upper panel. Blade put his hands on the hilts of his Bowies.
“Open up!” a gruff voice barked. “This is Gus!” He knocked louder.
Holly went to move toward the doorknob, but Blade gestured with his left arm, stopping her.
“Open up, Holly!” Gus demanded. “I want to see you.” A series of blows to the door accented his request. “Don’t keep me waiting!”
“Now?” Holly whispered.
“Now.”
Holly stepped to the door, released the lock, and pulled on the knob.
“Gus,” she said. “This is a surprise.”
A gust of cool night air brushed Blade’s face. He peered through the crack between the inner edge of the door and the jamb. Gus Seuell was a scarecrow of a man with a scraggly beard and a wispy mustache, dressed in a red flannel shirt and bib overalls.
“About time,” Gus stated testily.
Blade’s nostrils detected the odor of alcohol.
“Why are you here?” Holly asked, her arms folded across her chest.
“Can’t you guess?” Gus responded.
“No. And I don’t appreciate your behavior. You have no call to show up on my doorstep drunk, waking up my family at this ungodly hour.”
Gus craned his neck to gaze into the darkened hall. “I don’t see your family. All I see is you.”
“Why don’t you come back after you’ve sobered up,” Holly suggested.
“Like hell I will,” Gus said, and seized her right forearm. Before she could break loose, he hauled her onto the porch and closed the door.
“We’re going to talk.”
Shocked and indignant, Holly tried to wrest her arm free. “Let go of me!”
“Not on your life, sweetheart,” Gus said. “I’ve got some words for you, and you’re going to listen.”
“You’re hurting me!”
Gus snickered. “Ain’t that a crying shame.” He let go and leered at her.
“Why do you think I’m here?”
“I have no idea,” Holly said, rubbing her forearm.
“Don’t play the innocent with me,” Gus stated, his breath reeking of whiskey.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Holly insisted.
“Sure you don’t,” Gus said.
“I don’t,” Holly repeated, reaching for the door.
Gus Seuell slapped her, a hard blow across the mouth, knocking her backwards. “Don’t touch that door!” he hissed.
Holly pressed her right hand to her stinging mouth, tasting the salty tang of blood on her tongue.
“You’re going to hear me out!” Gus declared, stalking toward her.
Frightened by such cruel behavior in a man who previously had treated her with the utmost respect, Holly moved to the right, to the top step.
“Don’t touch me!” she warned.
Gus halted, his mouth twitching. “All right. We’ll play this your way.”
He took a pace nearer and she retreated to the cement walk.
“You’ll never set foot on my property again,” Holly said.
“That’s what you think,” Gus replied, and laughed. “This isn’t your property, you dumb broad. All the land belongs to the Ruskies, to the State. Diehards like your jerk of a husband and you can’t seem to accept the facts of life.”
“I thought you liked Tim.”
“Tim was a jackass. He believed he could resist the Commies. And he trusted me.”
Holly forgot about her bleeding lips and lowered her hand as the implications of Seuell’s comment dawned. “What do you mean?”
“Haven’t you figured it out yet, missy?” Gus asked angrily, then tapped his chest. “I was the one who tipped the Ruskies to Tim’s bin. I was the one who turned him in.”
Holly was stupefied.
“That’s right!” Gus gloated, savoring her shock. “I called the KGB and reported your husband’s underground activities. I knew what would happen. Your idiot husband never suspected a thing.”
“But why?” Holly blurted.
“Can’t a smart woman like you figure it out? For years I’ve wanted you. For years I’ve dreamed about having you for myself. I came over here all the time not to see Tim, but to be close to you. I watched you cooking, and hanging the laundry, and feeding the cows and chickens.” He paused, his expression softening. “You drove me crazy. I’ve never wanted anyone like I want you.”
“You turned Tim in to the Russians,” Holly said in a daze. “You were responsible for his execution.”
“Damn straight I was. I knew I could never make a play for you while he was around, so I arranged to have him disposed of. I figured you’d open up to me after his death, but it’s been six months and you treat me like I’m dirt.”
Holly stared up at him, her eyes beginning to focus. “You killed Tim!”
“And I was paid in gold for doing it,” Tim bragged. “The Russian commander himself thanked me for my patriotism.” He tittered. “Can you imagine that? They paid me to get Tim out of the way.”
“You bastard!” Holly exploded, springing at him, her nails raking at his eyes.
Gus shoved her from him, sending her sprawling onto the grass. He moved down the steps and stood at her feet. “You have this coming, bitch.
I’ve waited long enough, and now I’m going to take what’s mine. Everyone has dues to pay, woman. Everyone.”
“How true,” said a deep voice behind him.
Gus Seuell turned to find the biggest man he’d ever seen standing on the steps, looming above him like a colossus, blotting out the stars.
“Who—?”
The colossus clamped his left hand on the back of Seuell’s head, gripped Gus by the chin with his right, and wrenched his massive arms in a sharp, twisting motion. There was a pronounced snap and the betrayer went limp.
“Dear Lord!” Holly breathed.
Blade flung Gus Seuell’s body contemptuously aside and looked at her.
“Like the man said, everyone has dues to pay. He paid his.”
A shiver ran along Holly’s spine.
Chapter Nine
“Why the blazes do I have to do this?”
“You volunteered.”
“That’s funny. I don’t recollect volunteering.”
“I was going to have Geronimo do it, but he says you owe him one.”
“That mangy Injun,” Hickok muttered. He glared at Geronimo, who was standing 20 yards to the east.
Geronimo grinned and waved.
“There’s no way he’ll become a Tiller or a Hunter,” Hickok declared.
“Why not?” Blade asked.
“He’s too cussed ornery.”
Blade wagged the Commando barrel at the asphalt. “Well, get to it.”
Hickok’s AR-15 was slung over his left shoulder.
The gunman looked at the dusty roadway and frowned. “I’ll get my duds dirty.”
“Since when did you mind a little dirt?”
“It’s not me I’m thinking of. It’s my missus. Do you have any idea how hard it is to wash buckskins?”
Hickok eased onto his knees. “Why can’t we just bushwhack the varmints?”
“We need their uniforms intact, not riddled with bullet holes,” Blade noted, gazing at the woods lining the road.
“I feel like a blamed sittin’ duck,” Hickok groused, and lowered himself onto his stomach.
“All you have to do is lie there and pretend you’re unconscious,” Blade said. “We’ll take care of the rest.”
“I hope you know what you’re doing.”
“Look, we know the Russians patrol this stretch of road daily. This is the only road connecting Highway 127 to Dunlap, and this spot is ideal for our purposes. It’s secluded, so we won’t need to worry about witnesses.”
Hickok placed his elbows on the asphalt and rested his chin in his hands. “How do you know we can trust that Eberle lady?”
“I trust my instincts.”
“Oh, now I’m relieved.”
“Holly was grateful to us for taking care of Gus Seuell. She offered to help us in any way she could. Thanks to her we have a map of the city and we learned about this daily patrol.”
“I hope the map she drew for you isn’t a phony,” Hickok commented. “I wouldn’t want to think that Geronimo and I were wastin’ our time burying all those flea-ridden mutts while you were in her kitchen sippin’ hot coffee.”
“Her dogs weren’t flea-ridden.”
“How would you know?”
Blade sighed and took several strides toward Geronimo. “We’ll signal you when we see a vehicle.”
“Thanks heaps. My missus would really be ticked if you let someone put tread marks on my buckskins.”
“I hope they’re on time,” Blade stated.
“How’d Holly know about this patrol?”
“The underground movement her husband belonged to keeps tabs on the Soviets,” Blade said. “A farmer living a mile west of here is also part of the underground. He told Tim, and Tim told her before he was executed.”
“Can’t I hold onto my AR-15?”
“Nope. The patrol has to get right on top of you. You’ve got your Pythons. What more do you want?”
“I want to hold Sherry in my arms and hear her tell me how adorable I am. I want to take Ringo fishin’ and watch him get his line all tangled. I want to be at the Home, where I don’t have to watch my back every blasted minute of the day. I want—”
“Sorry I asked,” Blade said, cutting him off. He took a pace, then paused and looked at the gunman.
“What’s the matter?” Hickok inquired.
“Is it my imagination, or are you as homesick as I am?”
“I am gettin’ tired of all this gallivanting around the country,” Hickok replied. “And I’ve been feelin’ a bit grumpy.”
“First me, then Geronimo, and now you,” Blade said. “Maybe all we really need is an extended vacation.”
“Sounds great, pard. Where do you want to go?”
“I don’t know. I’ll give it some thought.”
“Our wives will go for the notion. Sherry’s always gripin’ that we never have enough time to ourselves,” Hickok mentioned. “A holiday would do all of us a world of good. The wives can cook us some grub and set up a picnic somewhere and watch the young’uns while we kick back and shoot the breeze.”
Blade glanced at the gunfighter. “That’s your idea of a vacation?”
“Yep. What’s wrong with it?”
“Oh, nothing. But I want to be there when you tell Sherry.”
Geronimo suddenly whistled and waved his right arm.
“Here they come,” Blade said. “Now remember my instructions. I don’t want bullet holes in their uniforms.”
“Piece of cake.”
Blade hurried to Geronimo’s side. “What did you see?”
“There,” Geronimo said, pointing.
A green vehicle was cresting a low hill 300 yards to the east.
“Think it’s the Soviets?” Geronimo queried.
“We’ll soon know,” Blade said, and jogged back toward Hickok. Ten yards from the gunman, he veered to the left and took cover in the underbrush.
Geronimo stayed right beside him. “What’s Nathan doing?” he asked as he crouched down.
Blade gazed at the road.
Hickok was lying on his right side, his head propped on his right arm, twirling a Colt Python in his left hand and humming.
“Lie down!” Blade ordered.
The Family’s supreme gunman sighed and flattened. He drew his right Python, then tucked them both under his chest, screening the Magnums from view. He angled his body slightly so his back was to the east.
“This will never work,” Geronimo remarked.
Blade trained his eyes eastward. “Why not?”
“They won’t stop. The Russians will take one look at Hickok and run him over.”
“Wishful thinking.”
The sound of an engine reached their ears.
“Hey,” Geronimo declared, as if an idea had just occurred to him.
“What?”
“They really might not stop,” Geronimo stated, his tone reflecting his worry. “Or they might pump a few rounds into him instead of checking him out. What do we do then?”
“If they don’t slow down, or if one of them so much as lifts a weapon, we waste them.”
“Good,” Geronimo said, clearly relieved. “Not that I care, of course.”
“Of course.”
The growl of the motor grew louder, and a jeep filled with Soviet soldiers appeared 70 yards to the east.
Blade fingered the Commando’s trigger. The sight of the familiar brown uniforms reminded him of the run he’d taken to Philadelphia with Sundance and Bertha. They’d been lucky to escape with their lives. The Russians were a perennial threat to the Family and the Freedom Federation. Perhaps Holly Eberle had the right idea. Perhaps the Freedom Federation should give serious consideration to invading Soviet territory and driving the Communists into the Atlantic Ocean.
Geronimo pressed the SAR stock to his right shoulder and sighted on the vehicle.
The jeep was 40 yards from Hickok’s prone form when the driver braked. Seconds later the door on the passenger side opened and three Soviet soldiers climbed out, each one armed with an AK-47. They engaged in a brief discussion, with the tallest gesturing repeatedly at the figure blocking their path. Finally they advanced, spreading out, the tallest moving down the center of the road flanked by his companions. The jeep stayed where it was, the engine idling, the driver leaning forward to peer out the windshield.
Blade glanced at Geromino and nodded at the jeep.
Geronimo melted into the undergrowth.
The trio of troopers halted 15 yards from Hickok and the tallest shouted a few words in Russian, then switched to English. “You there! Stand up!”
Hickok did not budge.
“Did you hear me? Stand up!” the tallest soldier instructed warily.
Hickok remained motionless.
Cautiously, their AK-47s trained on the buckskin-clad form, the three troopers walked forward slowly. Two yards away they stopped again.
“If this is a trick, you will live to regret it!” the tallest soldier declared.
“Roll over so we can see your hands!”
Hickok was like a rock.
“You have been warned,” the tallest soldier said, and stepped up to the gunman and rammed the AK-47 barrel into Hickok’s back.
Still Hickok did not move.
The tallest trooper looked at his comrades, both of whom edged closer.
Blade watched as the tallest soldier reached for Hickok’s right shoulder.
He rose and started toward the road, intending to burst from cover and take the Soviets unawares. Capturing four prisoners increased the likelihood that one of the Russians would know something about the Soviet superweapon. He hoped to interrogate all four, but his h
opes were dashed by, of all things, a tangled clump of weeds. As he darted into the open his right combat boot caught on the clump and he tripped, pitching onto his knees, using the Commando stock to catch himself,—but the damage was already done. The muted thud of his knees striking the earth alerted the four Russians.
The soldiers spun, swinging their AK-47s around.
Blade saw the barrels swiveling in his direction and tensed, expecting to feel searing agony as dozens of rounds perforated his torso. In the fleeting instant before the troopers went to squeeze the triggers on their AK-47, he thought of Jenny and Gabe.
His vision of his death, however, was premature.
Even as the soldiers were turning, the man who was recognized by the Family as the greatest gunfighter in the 105-year history of their survivalist group, the man who was renowned in the Freedom Federation for his lightning speed and unerring accuracy, was flipping onto his back, his arms sweeping up and out, the Colt Pythons gleaming in the late afternoon sun. Three shots boomed as one.
The soldiers never knew what hit them. One moment they were about to slay a giant in a black leather vest, and the next blackness engulfed them as a hollow-point slug passed completely through their head from back to front, exploding their foreheads outward in a spray of flesh, blood, and brains. All three sprawled to the asphalt, the AK-47s falling from their limp fingers.
Blade surged erect and looked at the jeep.
Geronimo had the driver’s door wide, and was covering the soldier behind the wheel with his SAR.
“Like I said, pard. A piece of cake.”
Blade turned.
Hickok was already erect, inspecting the troopers to insure they were lifeless.
“Thanks,” Blade stated. “Jenny was almost a widow.”
“I’d do the same for any other klutz.”
Blade unslung the AR-15. “Here. Haul the bodies into the brush while I talk to the driver.”
Hickok came over, holstered his left colt, and took the rifle. “Why am I doing all the heavy work on this run?”
“You can use the exercise.”
Cincinnati Run Page 8
