Cincinnati Run

by David Robbins

  “Captain Stuart?” He slung the SAR over his left shoulder.

  “Blade? Is it really you? The door is locked.”

  “Stand back,” Blade advised. He executed a snap kick to the wood near the knob, and there was a resounding crack and the door popped open.

  A lean, handsome man attired in the blue uniform of a pilot in the Free State of California Air Force stepped into view, limping on his left leg. His features were haggard and pale, but his green eyes were lively and radiating happiness. “I never expected to see you again!” he exclaimed. “I can’t believe you came for me!”

  “Save the celebrating for later,” Blade said. “Can you walk?”

  “The leg was fractured when these sons of bitches brought me down,” le disclosed. “It’s pretty much healed. I’ll keep up. Don’t worry.”

  “Then grab an AK-47 and stick by my side,” Blade stated.

  Lyle shuffled into the hall and took an assault rifle from a slain soldier.

  “Are you here alone?”

  “Hickok and Geronimo are with me, sort of,” Blade replied.

  “Sort of?”

  “We can’t stay on this floor,” Blade said, heading for the elevator. “The Russians will throw everyone they have at us now. Do you know where the control room is located?”

  “On the twenty-fifth floor.”

  “Then that’s where we’re going,” Blade declared. He stopped suddenly, staring at the oval metal object clutched in the hand of a dead Russian officer.

  “What is it?” Lyle asked nervously, his view obstructed by the giant’s body.

  “Hand grenade,” Blade answered, and leaned down, rummaging through the officer’s pockets. He found two more grenades, and stuffed all three into his own pants. “Let’s go.”

  They hastened into the elevator and the Warrior pressed the button for the 25th floor.

  Lyle leaned against the rear wall as the car rose, grinning and shaking his head. “I just can’t believe this is really happening.”

  “Believe it.”

  “You have no idea of the hell I’ve been through. The commander here, a bastard by the name of Stoljarov, used electroshock torture to persuade me to teach the Soviets about the Hurricane.”

  “I gathered as much.”

  “I’ve been holding back,” Lyle said. “They don’t know as much as they think they do.”

  “Can you fly the Hurricane?” Blade queried.

  “No problem.”

  “You may get your chance,” Blade said.

  Without warning the elevator jerked to a sharp stop, nearly causing both men to lose their balance, and the lights went out.

  “What’s happening?” Lyle asked.

  Blade looked at the control panel, which was also unlit, and scowled.

  “We’re stuck on about the tenth floor.”

  “Why?”

  “Three guesses,” Blade replied.

  A booming voice addressed them from the other side of the door.

  “Attention, you in the elevator! We have cut your power and demand your immediate surrender!”

  “What do we do?” the pilot whispered.

  Blade slung the Commando over his right arm and fished the grenades from his pockets. “Take one,” he directed, handing it over. “Don’t pull the pin until I give the word.”

  “Did you hear me?” the voice outside barked.

  “I heard you,” Blade responded.

  “Then you will lay any weapons on the floor and raise your arms over your head. We will open the door at the count of three. If you have not complied, you will be shot.”

  Blade leaned toward the captain. “They’ll need to restore the power to the elevator to open the door. Get set.”

  “One!” the Russian called out gruffly.

  “They don’t know there are two of us in here,” Blade mentioned. “Are they in for a surprise. Stand to the left of the door.”

  “Two!”

  Blade stepped to the right, inserting a finger into the circular ring of each grenade.

  “Three!” the voice shouted.

  “Now!” Blade whispered, and jerked both pins out.

  The lights came on abruptly, and a second later the door started to slide open.

  Blade knew the timing was critical. At the instant there was just enough space for the grenade to fit through the opening, he nodded at Lyle. They tossed their grenades into the corridor in unison, and Blade immediately stabbed the button for the 25th floor.

  “Grenades!” someone in the hall screeched. “Grenades!”

  Blade flattened against the side of the elevator, his eyes riveted to the door. Would it open all the way or swing shut? Would one of the Russians fire into the elevator, or were the troopers all too busy scrambling for cover? Would the elevator withstand the explosion, or would they be crushed to death or plummet to the bottom of the shaft? All of these thoughts raced through his mind, and then the door was closing again and the elevator started upward. If the grenades were typical, there would be a ten-second delay between the pulling of the pins and the detonation. At least five seconds had already elapsed, and he mentally ticked off the remaining five as the elevator rose rapidly, passing the 11th floor and almost reaching the 12th.

  The blast was tremendous.

  The elevator bounced and swayed as if it were being shaken by an invisible giant. Blade and Lyle Stuart were buffeted from side to side, smacking into the walls repeatedly, jouncing every which way. The elevator heaved and tilted, falling and rising, before finally stabilizing, coming to rest in an upright position with the lights still on.

  Lyle was on his back in the right-hand corner. He gazed in wonder at the door and the lights. “We’re alive!” he breathed. “We’ve alive!”

  But they weren’t moving.

  Blade wound up near the rear, his hands against the wall. He stepped to the panel and punched the button for the 25th floor several times. “Come on!” he prompted. “Don’t fail us now!”

  With a grinding lurch, the elevator resumed its ascent.

  “We did it!” Lyle said, rising to his feet unsteadily.

  Blade unslung the Commando and faced the door. “We’re not out of the woods yet.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Hickok could scarcely credit his own eyes.

  The mutant surging out of the sewer was an enormous, repulsive, leechlike creature with glistening greenish-brown skin divided into segmented rings and a huge, disk-shaped maw. Slimy refuse sprayed in all directions as the mutant broke the surface and reared like a striking cobra.

  “No!” Elmer cried, fear lending speed to his legs.

  Hickok slowed, the right Python streaking from under his shirt. He snapped off three shots from the hip, and all three hit home, drilling into the mutant’s body. The booming of the Colt was deafening.

  Stung by the slugs, the leech veered past the Warrior and bore down on the bum.

  “Elmer!” Hickok yelled. “Look out!” He sprinted forward, attempting to reach Elmer’s side before the leech attacked.

  The mutant got there first.

  Elmer’s feet were pumping frantically when his right heel made contact with a wad of slippery sewage on the walkway and he fell, his arms swinging wildly, landing on his buttocks.

  Hickok saw the leech angle down and in, its huge mouth fastening on Elmer’s face, choking off his strangled scream, the disk covering Elmer from his hairline to his chin.

  “Try me!” Hickok cried, thumbing the hammer twice, each shot smacking into the center of the creature’s thick body.

  Oblivious to its wounds, the leech whipped its body backward, dragging Elmer with it, his arms and legs thrashing, causing the lighter to flicker out and plunging the tunnel into dank darkness. The mutant’s inky bulk was barely visible as it dived into the sewage, its mouth gripping Elmer’s face with the power of a vise, hauling the flailing bum under the surface.

  “Elmer!” Hickok shouted, taking several paces and halting, shocked by the sudden
demise of his newfound friend. Except for a faint swishing, the tunnel was quiet. Goose bumps broke out all over his body as he gazed at the foul, black stream.

  Dear Spirit!

  Elmer was gone!

  And the gunman realized he could well be next. Without the feeble light cast by the lighter, he was shrouded in gloom. If another leech should come after him, he’d have scant warning. And as it was, the Pythons were ineffective against the bloodsucking worms. He replaced the right Colt under his shirt.

  There was only one thing to do.

  Head for the hills.

  So to speak.

  Hickok hastened along the tunnel, staying as close to the wall as he could, straining his ears to hear the telltale swishing of the leeches.

  How many yards before he reached the access tunnel?

  The gunman frowned, thinking of Elmer, wishing he could have saved the poor man. He’d only known Elmer for a short while, but he’d grown to like the old-timer. His failure to protect his newfound companion distressed him terribly. As a Warrior, his whole life was devoted to safeguarding others, whether they belonged to the Family or not. Rarely had he let those he was protecting down, making Elmer’s death all the harder to take. The man had tried to help him, had saved him from the Russians, and he had flopped when Elmer needed him the most. There was no one else he could blame. The responsibility belonged to him.

  And the Soviets.

  Elmer would still be alive if not for the Russian superweapon. Without the development of the L.R.F., the Warriors would not have traveled to Cincinnati, and Elmer would not have offered to help.

  Yes, sir.

  Any way Hickok considered the circumstances, the ultimate blame had to be shared with the Commies, and the longer he dwelled on Elmer’s horrid end, the angrier he became. He covered 30 yards immersed in cogitation.

  What was that?

  Hickok drew up short as an indistinct swishing sounded from the rear.

  He looked back, the hair at the nape of his neck prickling.

  Another leech!

  Or maybe the same mutant returning for a second helping!

  The gunman turned and raced recklessly on the cement. Never again would he wear someone else’s footwear! The boots he’d taken from one of the dead troopers fit too tightly, cramping his feet, slowing him down. He could hear the swishing growing louder, and he sensed the leech was after him. His eyes detected a break in the tunnel ahead, a lighter shading near the top, and he ran for all he was worth.

  The swishing seemed to be right on his heels.

  Hickok reached the patch of feeble light and glanced up, perceiving the outline of a manhole cover and the metal rungs leading upward. There was a hiss almost in his ear, and he leaped into the air, his outstretched fingers catching on a rung as something nipped at his right foot. He banged against the side, then climbed quickly, applying his right shoulder to the lid and heaving. The cover slid partially aside, and he grabbed the edge with his right hand and shoved.

  There was a commotion in the sewer below.

  The gunman clambered from the hole and rolled to the right, and he heard a heavy body slap the rim and then a loud splash. Inhaling the fresh air deep into his lungs, Hickok rose to his knees, finding himself in the middle of a deserted, narrow side street.

  He’d made it!

  But his relief was fleeting. The gunman stood and proceeded to load the spent chambers in his right Python.

  So much for the leeches.

  Now he had a score to settle with the Russians.

  But wasn’t that the way it always was? There were always scores to settle. A death for a death. Tit for tat. And there were always those innocents who wound up caught in the crossfire.

  The thought gave him pause.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  The Butcher reached out and patted the top of the laser. “Perhaps I should start with one of your ears,” he said, and grinned.

  Geronimo looked at the small hole through which the laser beam would be fired, and tensed. The two soldiers had his stocky body bent at the waist, with his shoulders and head above the tabletop. His arms were twisted up and back, and his sockets ached terribly.

  “Move his head to the left,” General Stoljarov ordered.

  The tall trooper gripped Geronimo’s chin in his right hand and pushed, but Geronimo jerked his head away.

  “Not like that, imbecile!” the Butcher snapped. “Move his entire body.”

  By increasing the pressure on his arms to compel compliance, the soldiers sidled their captive to the left.

  “Now hold his head steady,” Stoljarov instructed.

  Again the tall trooper grasped the Warrior’s chin.

  General Stoljarov leaned down, gauging the alignment, and motioned at the tall guard. “Your body is too close to his ear. You’re in my line of fire.”

  The trooper stepped back, arching his spine to ensure his abdomen was out of the beam’s projected path.

  “So what will it be?” the Butcher asked Geronimo. “Will you sketch the complete layout of the Home for me?”

  “Give me a pencil—” Geronimo said.

  General Stoljarov smiled in triumph.

  “—and I’ll shove it up your ass,” Geronimo finished.

  The Butcher frowned, his eyes narrowing. “Very well. You have brought this on yourself. I’ve heard many stories about how brave the Warriors are supposed to be. Now let’s put your bravery to the test.” He adjusted the dials, then smirked. “This will hurt you more than it will me.”

  Geronimo focused on the second dial, the one the Butcher would turn to activate the laser. He must make his move the moment before the dial was rotated. His best hope lay in grabbing the AK-47 propped against the right side of the table, and first he had to break free of the guards. The trooper on the left stood in a firm stance and would be difficult to dislodge, hut the tall soldier on the right was standing awkwardly.

  Geronimo tensed his legs, his eyes on the laser.

  “After I burn a hole in your ear, I think I’ll work on your forehead,” General Stoljarov said.

  Geronimo said nothing.

  “Have you ever smelled burning flesh?” the Butcher asked, and touched the second dial.

  Concentrate on those fingers! Geronimo told himself. He saw the fingertips grip the dial and start to turn, and he threw himself to the left, against the shorter trooper, while yanking his right arm downward, feeling as if he tore every muscle in his arm. The unexpected tactic took the tall guard by surprise and he was pulled off balance, directly in line with the laser at the distant the red beam flared.

  The tall soldier uttered a petrified shriek as the beam seared into his groin, flaming through his pants and underwear and scorching his gonads. He released Geronimo and stumbled backwards, automatically lowering his hands over his genitals, and cried out when the laser burned off two of his fingers.

  Geronimo wrenched his right arm loose and pivoted, driving his fist into the short guard’s stomach, then extended his right thumb and spiked it straight up, burying the digit in the fleshy folds of the man’s throat. The hold on his left arm slackened, and he dove for the floor, tearing his left arm from the trooper’s grasp, and scrambled to the right side of the table.

  He surged erect, his hands closing on the AK-47 and sweeping the gun to his right shoulder.

  The tall Russian was staring down at himself in terror as the laser penetrated his body, while the short soldier gurgled and wheezed, his features livid. Only the Butcher saw the Warrior grab the weapon, and he reacted by taking hold of the laser and attempting to swivel the device at the Indian.

  Geronimo shot Stoljarov first, smiling as he squeezed the trigger, seeing the Butcher’s head dissolve into chunks and pieces of flesh and hair. He spun, the next rounds slamming into the short soldier’s chest and flinging him against the wall.

  Bubbling blood out his mouth, the tall Russian was sinking slowly to the floor, the red beam slicing his torso up the center, splitting h
im in half.

  Shooting him would be a waste of ammunition, Geronimo decided, and ran for the door, skirting the dying soldier. He entered the Control Room, heading for the elevator, and shot a pair of technicians on a console to his right, then a third man in red seated at a computer to his left.

  “Look out!” a woman yelled.

  “Get down!” bellowed another.

  Geronimo advanced toward the elevator, shooting any technicians foolish enough to show themselves, and when he was within ten yards of the elevator door he began firing at the equipment, reducing a bank of complicated instruments and panels to smoldering, sparking ruins.

  “No! Don’t!”

  Geronimo stopped, staring at the skinny man with the wire-rimmed glasses coming toward him down an aisle on the right.

  “You don’t realize what you’re doing!” Leonid Grineva declared. “This is a work of a lifetime!”

  His lips compressing, Geronimo trained the AK-47 on the scientist.

  Leonid Grineva blinked rapidly and extended his arms, palms out.

  “Wait! You can’t!”

  “Watch me,” Geronimo said.

  “But I was just doing my job!” Grineva declared.

  “So am I,” Geronimo responded, and stitched the genius from his navel to his neck. Without a backward glance he walked to the elevator and went to press the button.

  The door opened.

  “Going down?”

  Geronimo’s mouth dropped as his gaze alighted on the speaker.

  “Are you going to stand there all night catching flies, or will you join us?” Blade asked.

  Geronimo entered the car.

  “Nice to see you again,” Captain Stuart commented.

  Blade pressed the button for the ground floor. “Where have you been?”

  he queried Geronimo as the door shut and the elevator began its descent.

  “I took the shortcut.”

  “Here are some presents for you,” Blade said, unslinging the SAR.

  Geronimo leaned the AK-47 against the rear wall and took the Springfield, the Arminius, and the tomahawk. He hefted the latter and grinned. “I’m ready to go on the warpath now.”

  “What have you been doing? Goofing off?”