“Pssssst!”
Blade halted and pivoted, thinking Hickok had signaled him, but he was mistaken.
Rikki had done the whispering.
The martial artist dashed up to Hickok and the Dealer. “We are being followed,” he declared in a hushed voice.
Hickok looked to their rear. “What? Are you sure?”
“Something is after us,” Rikki asserted.
Blade walked to them. “Something?”
“Listen,” Rikki said.
“I don’t hear nothin’,” Hickok commented.
“Listen,” Rikki reiterated.
Blade cocked his head to one side, straining his ears, hearing only the sounds of the swamp. He was surprised Rikki would be susceptible to a case of overwrought nerves.
“I don’t—” Hickok began, then froze.
Blade heard it then too. A deep, heavy sort of breathing, as if a gigantic animal was on their back trail, expelling its breath in wheezing sighs.
“It’s comin’ after us,” Hickok said.
“What the hell is it?” Barbish asked fearfully.
“We’re not sticking around to find out,” Blade stated. “Run!”
And run they did, sprinting to the south, their feet pounding on the gravel, swirls of dust rising from the road.
Blade intentionally refrained from reaching full speed. His companions could not hope to match his lengthy strides, and he was not about to outdistance them in a crisis. If whatever was chasing them caught up with them, he would make a stand with his friends.
Which just might be the case.
Because the thing was gaining.
Chapter Eleven
The three Warriors and the Dealer raced down the gravel road two abreast, with Hickok and Barbish a few feet in front of Rikki and Blade.
From their rear came the measured thump-thump-thump of their colossal pursuer.
Blade could hear the breathing grow louder and louder. He racked his mind, speculating on its identity, and reached an inescapable conclusion.
Only one type of creature achieved such awesome prportions; only a genetic deviate, a hybrid or a unique new specimen, fit the bill; only a mutant could be after them. A gust of warm air suddenly struck the nape of his neck, and a fetid stench assailed his nose.
The thing was so close it was breathing on him!
Blade risked a glance over his right shoulder, his eyes discerning the bulk profile of a lizard-like beast with a gaping maw rimmed by white teeth. The creature’s head was eight feet behind him and twice that distance above the gravel road.
Damn!
What was the word Barbish had used?
Dinosaur?
It fit.
Involved with keeping his eyes on the gargantuan, carnivorous brute, Blade did not realize that Barbish was on the verge of collapsing until the Dealer abruptly cried out, clutched his chest, and toppled forward. Blade looked around in time to see Barbish go down onto his knees, but he did not have enough time to react. The Dealer was directly in his path, and he tried to throw himself to the left to avoid a collision. His legs crashed into Barbish and he was upended, tumbling to the gravel and landing on his right shoulder. He rolled onto his back, bringing the Paratrooper up.
The creature reared above them.
Blade could see the beast swiveling its huge head, gazing from Barbish to himself.
The Dealer was on his hands and knees, taking deep gulps of air and groaning.
Blade waited for the thing to lower its head. He wanted a better line of fire at the mutant’s eyes.
Barbish unexpectedly rose on his knees, swaying unsteadily, his arm flapping weakly. “My chest!” he cried. “My chest!”
The movement and the outcry attracted the creature’s attention. Its head tilted downward as its eerie, light green eyes appraised the human below it.
Barbish caught sight of Blade. “Help me! It hurts!”
Blade went to warn the Dealer to keep quiet, but the harm had already been done.
The beast’s head swooped low, its maw wide, attacking with astonishing rapidity for an animal so huge. Its mouth closed on the Dealer, its jaws locking fast, taking in Barbish’s head and shoulders in one bite. There was a muffled scream as Barbish was lifted into the air, his arms and legs flapping wildly. Without a moment’s hesitation, the creature turned to the west and plowed into the vegetation. Loud splintering and crackling attended its progress through the undergrowth, terminated by a monstrous splash. Then all was still.
“Are you lyin’ down on the job again?”
Blade craned his head backwards.
Hickok and Rikki were a yard away, their weapons trained on the west side of the road.
“I thought you kept going,” Blade remarked as he rose.
“You know better than that, pard,” Hickok said.
“We would never desert you,” Rikki added.
Blade gazed to the west, listening for more sounds of the creature’s passage. Everything was quiet.
“What the blazes was that critter?” Hickok asked.
“A mutant would be my guess,” Blade said.
“What happened to Barbish?” the gunman queried. “It looked to me like the cow chip had a heart attack.”
“Same here,” Blade concurred. “He wasn’t in the best of shape. Maybe he didn’t exercise regularly. Maybe the strain was too much for him.”
“That critter will probably get indigestion,” Hickok joked.
“Perhaps Barbish will not satisfy the creature’s appetite,” Rikki commented.
Hickok glanced at the martial artist. “What?”
“Perhaps it will return for a second helping,” Rikki said.
“We’d best vamoose,” Hickok suggested.
“Let’s go,” Blade stated, jogging to the south.
Hickok and Rikki flanked the giant.
“Do you think they heard Barbish yell at the estate?” Hickok questioned.
“I doubt it,” Blade replied. “We have about a mile to go yet.”
They ran a quarter of a mile, constantly glancing to their rear, alert for the return of the beast.
“What’s the plan once we get to Happy Acres?” the gunman inquired.
“We’ll go in over the wall,” Blade said. “We’ll find this Arlo, Paolucci and force him to take us to the Masters.”
“Then we can wrap this up and head for the rendezvous site,” Hickok mentioned.
“We have plenty of time before the Hurricane returns to pick us up,” Blade noted. “The VTOL won’t be at the site for five days.”
“There’s something I’ve been wondering about,” Rikki mentioned.
“What’s the maximum range of the Hurricanes?”
“The Hurricanes were constructed right before the Big Blast,” Blade answered, using the colloquial term the Family employed for World War Three. “They were designed to ferry combat troops, strike squads, over vast distances. With greater fuel efficiency than previous models, with their state-of-the-art technology, and with their six fuel tanks each filled with five hundred gallons, they have a maximum one-way range of approximately three thousand miles.”
Rikki performed a few mental calculations. “The Hurricane that dropped us off won’t have enough fuel to return to the Home.”
“It’s flying to Denver, not the Home,” Blade said.
“Denver?” Rikki repeated. “It still won’t have enough fuel.”
“It will once it’s been refueled en route,” Blade divulged.
“What are you talkin’ about?” Hickok inquired. “They can refuel those contraptions in midair?”
“Yes,” Blade replied. “Refueling in flight was a common procedure before the war. California owns eight tanker aircraft, and the governor has loaned a pair to the Civilized zone. They’re being housed at Stapleton Airport in Denver. If necessary, they can fly out to meet the Hurricanes and refuel the VTOLs.” He paused. “Do you remember when we left the Home to come to Florida? We flew a wide loop to the so
uthwest.”
“I remember,” Hickok said. “I figured the pilot was gettin’ his bearings.”
“He flew the southwest loop so he could radio Stapleton and arrange to be refueled on his return flight from Florida,” Blade explained.
“So the Hurricanes can go anywhere in the country,” Rikki remarked.
“And out of it,” Blade added.
They were now within a half mile of the estate. The insect sounds, mixed with the calls of other wildlife, emanated from everywhere.
Blade noticed more and more trees as they drew near to the lights, and he realized they were on the estate, on the 40 acres of dry land Barbish had mentioned as comprising the Director’s domain. Ahead was the walled, five-acre compound. If it wasn’t for the thin ribbon of gravel connecting Happy Acres to Highway 41, the swamp would enclose the 40
acres entirely. If Arlo had financed the construction of the gravel road, merely to link his compound to the rest of the world, then the Director must be a man of staggering wealth and influence. All of which substantiated his status as a top kingpin in the Dragons.
The Warriors advanced cautiously until they were within 40 yards of the brick wall.
Blade stood behind a tree and studied the layout. As the Dealer had related, the wall was eight feet high, but Barbish had failed to disclose a pertinent fact: The wall was crowned with strands of barbed wire. The gravel road went straight up to the closed metal gate in the center of the north wall. Floodlights were positioned just inside the wall at 20-yard intervals. The vegetation for 30 yards from the walls had been stripped to the ground, affording the guards an unobstructed view. Two guards were standing inside the gate, conversing idly. Another guard, armed with a machine gun, was patrolling the top of the brick wall. Evidently there was ample walking space between the strands of barbed wire and the inner edge.
“How will we play this?” Hickok whispered from a tree on Blade’s right.
Blade motioned for his companions to withdraw deeper into the undergrowth. They retreated 15 yards and crouched down. “We’re going to circle around the compound,” he informed them.
“I wouldn’t want to trip and give us away,” Hickok commented. “Any chance of you carryin’ me piggyback?”
Blade straightened and headed eastward.
“I guess not,” Hickok said to himself.
The Warriors wound between the trees, moving as shadows, their consummate stealth a testimony to their skill at their lethal trade. They angled to within a few yards of the cleared strip bordering the walls, never once exposing themselves to the men on guard duty. A hush enveloped the compound, the lull before the dawn.
Blade knew they had to work quickly if they were to gain access to the compound and locate Arlo Paolucci before daylight. He surveyed the walls intently, searching for a weak spot in the defenses. But there wasn’t one on the north wall, nor the east. Only when they were skirting the compound to the south did they hit pay dirt. They found a door.
Blade halted under the spreading limbs of a willow and stared at the small wooden door situated in the middle of the south wall. What was its purpose? Why have a narrow door on the opposite side from the gravel road? Was it an exit in case of an emergency? Not likely. Who would dare attack a Director of the Dragons? There was a trail in the grass, leading from the door toward the south side of the estate. Where did the trail lead?
A finger tapped him on the right side.
Blade looked around.
Rikki pointed at the south wall. “Where is the guard?”
The guard? Blade gazed at the wall again, his forehead creasing as he noted the absence of a sentry. Strange. There had been a guard on the rampart on both the north and east walls. Why wasn’t there one on the south side?
“Let’s go for it,” Hickok urged from Blade’s left.
“I don’t like it,” Blade said.
“What’s not to like?” Hickok responded. “They don’t know we’re here, so this can’t be a trap. Maybe the guard is takin’ a leak. Why don’t we give it a shot?”
Blade looked at Rikki.
The martial artist shrugged. “When the time has come for action, the moment must be quickly seized,” he quoted.
“More Zen?” Blade asked, smiling.
“The I Ching,” Rikki said.
“Sounds like my kind of book,” Hickok commented. “I’ve always said that the direct approach is the best.”
“You should read it sometime,” Rikki suggested.
“Does it have any gunfights in it?”
“No.”
“Any mangy Injuns tryin’ to scalp thievin’, fork-tongued whites?”
“No.”
“Any damsels in distress?”
“No.”
“I’ll reckon I’ll stick with Zane Grey.”
“Are you two done with your literary discussion?” Blade demanded.
“You sure are touchy this trip, pard,” Hickok whispered. “Is your missus makin’ you sleep on the couch again?”
Blade sighed and moved toward the wall, using every tree, and bush as a screen, his gray eyes sweeping the wall again and again, insuring the guard was really absent. He stopped in the shelter of the last tree before the cleared section and crouched.
Hickok and Rikki were right behind him.
“Rikki,” Blade ordered. “You stay here and cover us. I’ll signal if the coast is clear.”
“If I see the guard, I’ll whistle,” Rikki said.
“Whistle? What kind of warning is that?” Hickok asked. “If you see the guard, pretend you’re a hoot owl.”
“A hoot owl?”
“Yep. Like this.” Hickok placed his right hand on the side of his mouth and uttered a realistic imitation of an owl’s “Whooo?”
Rikki glanced at Blade. “Which do you prefer? The whistle or the hoot owl?”
“Blow a trumpet, why don’t you?” Blade answered.
Hickok and Rikki stared at the ground.
“I want you two bozos to remind me of something after we return to the Home,” Blade said.
“What’s that?” Hickok inquired.
“To bring Geronimo and Yama the next time I make a run,” Blade said, and eased forward.
Hickok leaned toward Rikki. “Don’t take it personal. He has these cranky moods now and then.” He grinned and tailed after his giant friend.
Blade checked the wall once again, then took a deep breath and bolted from under the willow’s limbs, racing across the open stretch, anticipating a verbal challenge or the blast of gunfire at any moment. Amazingly, he reached the wall to the right of the door without incident.
Hickok ran to the left of the door and flattened his back against the wall, his Henry in his hands.
So far, so good, Blade thought. He glanced at the vegetation, pleased Rikki was completely hidden. Now for the door. Gingerly, he reached for the brass knob and twisted it.
The door wasn’t locked!
Blade frowned as the door swung inward on well-oiled hinges. His intuition was nagging at his mind, but he couldn’t pinpoint the reason.
What could be wrong? Hickok was right. The Dragons didn’t know the Warriors were at Happy Acres. Still, his intuition blared.
Hickok was waiting.
Annoyed at his indecision, Blade slid inside, keeping his back to the wall, stepping to the right away from the doorway and pausing with the Paratrooper level.
The gunfighter came through the doorway, stepping to the left and standing in front of the door.
The Warriors found themselves in a 20-foot grassy space between the wall and a waist-high hedge. Beyond the hedge flourished the gardens, with an astounding array of diverse plant life; flowers, shrubs, herbs, and other ornamental greenery grew in profusion. The floodlights illuminated the gardens as brightly as if it were daylight.
Blade was about to take a step when he heard the metallic click. He tensed, glancing at Hickok, and for a second their eyes touched.
And over a dozen men in cam
ouflage outfits, each armed with a machine gun or an automatic rifle, rose from concealment behind the hedge, their weapons pointing at the pair of Warriors.
Blade held his fire, knowing to do otherwise would be suicide, hoping the impetuous gunman would do the same.
He didn’t.
Hickok’s Henry boomed twice, and with each shot one of the gunmen was hurled backwards to drop from view. He managed a stride toward the doorway before the inevitable transpired.
The tallest of the men behind the hedge, an M-16 already pressed to his shoulder, fired once.
Hickok grunted as he was struck, the impact wrenching him to the right and bringing him down.
Blade turned toward the gunman.
“Don’t move!” barked the tall man. “Drop your gun!”
Blade hesitated, his gaze on Hickok. The gunfighter was sprawled face down, eyes closed, with a bullet hole rimmed by blood above his right shoulder blade, next to his backpack.
“Look above you, señor!” the tall man declared.
Blade gazed up at the wall, stunned to discover ten more men in camouflage clothing, ten more barrels centered on him.
“I will not tell you again!” the tall man stated. “Drop your weapon!”
Gritting his teeth in resentment at his stupidity, and shaken by what it had done to Hickok, Blade reluctantly released the Paratrooper.
“Excelente,” the tall man said.
The men in camouflage filed through a six-food-wide gap in the hedge, the tall one in the lead. He radiated an aura of power, of strength. His black hair was curly, and a dark mustache framed his upper lip. With a measured stride he crossed the grass.
Blade took a step toward Hickok.
In one light-footed bound, the tall man reached the giant’s side and pressed the barrel of his M-16 against Blade’s temple. “Are you prepared to die, señor?”
Chapter Twelve
Blade felt his abdominal muscles tighten into a knot. Immobile, his right arm outstretched in the act of reaching for the gunman, he forced himself to project an air of indifference to the tall man’s threat. “You won’t shoot me.”
Miami Run Page 12
