“From the Armorer, a guy in Detroit who can supply any weapon you want if you can meet his price,” Bruno disclosed, and eyed the missile launcher proudly. “We traded him seven women for this baby.”
“Seven women?”
“Yeah. We hit a small town a while back and found seven foxes living there. They were real prime, if you get my drift.”
“You’re disgusting,” Blade remarked.
A belly laugh burst from the biker. “Am I, now? Well, Mister Goody-Two-Shoes, if I’m such a bad cat, how come I didn’t just blow you away the second I laid eyes on your van?”
“Because you want the van for yourself,” Blade stated flatly. “You don’t want to destroy our vehicle if you can help it. So you set up this ambush, hoping to draw everyone inside out in the open where your buddies can gun them down.” He paused. “But your ploy hasn’t worked. We have friends in there ready to take off if you open fire.”
Bruno snickered. “And how far do you think they’d get? If I can’t have your van, nobody can.”
“We’ve heard that line before,” Blade said.
“Tough dudes, huh?” Bruno commented, and chuckled. He gazed past the giant at the green van. “Why can’t I see inside that thing?”
“We have the curtains closed.”
“I’ve never seen a vehicle like yours,” Bruno mentioned. “I bet it’d be worth a ton of gold to the right party.”
“Like the Armorer?”
“Or the Commies. Or maybe even the Technics.”
Blade tensed. “The Technics deal with the likes of you?”
“Up yours, mother,” Bruno snapped, then added, “Yeah, they do. What of it? We keep them posted on everything we see and they fix our bikes for us and give us guns.”
A convenient arrangement, Blade realized. The bikers served as eyes and ears for the Technics, an arrangement similar to the pact the Technics had worked out with the Leather Knights in St. Louis. The Technics weren’t yet strong enough to subjugate the Midwest, so they maintained a spy network to keep them apprised of ongoing events.
Crude, but effective.
“The Technics are all right,” Bruno went on. “They treat us fairly. And they let us do whatever we want with the foxes we snatch.” He paused.
“You got any foxes in that van?”
“No,” Blade said.
“Too bad,” Bruno stated. “I could go for some fluff. We might even let you live if you had some women for us.” He snorted. “Except for those Technic bitches. I had one once. Boy, was she lame in the sack. Those Technics can’t screw for beans.”
Blade felt his abdominal muscles tighten.
“Yes, sir. I could go for a little fuzz right about now,” Bruno said. He was surprised when the other guy, the one in blue who hadn’t spoken a word, suddenly took a step toward him.
“How about a little lead instead?” Yama asked, and before any of the bikers could hope to react to his threat, he leveled the Wilkinson and fired.
Chapter Six
It took three and a half seconds for the startled bikers to react to the sudden attack, and in the brief span the silver-haired Warrior downed six of the bikers. He whipped the Wilkinson barrel in a tight arc and sent a withering hail of bullets into the scavengers. His first rounds ripped into the fleshy features of the scavenger leader, tearing Bruno’s face to shreds.
Several of the bikers screamed as they died.
Blade had intuitively sensed, a fraction of an instant before Yama squeezed the trigger, that the man in blue was about to wade into the gang. He brought the Commando barrel up with a flick of his wrist and added his firepower to Yama’s, going for the scavengers directly in front of him, the louder blasting of the Commando drowning out all other noise.
He felt the short hairs at the nape of his neck tingle, and he wondered if one of the bikers on the side of the road would shoot him before he could whirl to confront them. He saw two scavengers hurled to the asphalt, their torsos perforated and gushing crimson, then three, four, five of them were dead or dying, leaving a tall biker who was taking a bead on his chest with a rifle. Blade started to throw himself to the left, knowing the man would fire before he could leap out of the way.
Several rounds suddenly bored into the scavenger’s forehead and catapulted him backwards.
Blade spun, crouching as he did, sweeping the Commando at the nine bikers to the left of the highway, but someone had already beaten him to them.
Samson had both his steely arms sticking out of the window on the driver’s side, and in each malletlike hand he held a Bushmaster Auto Pistol. At a range of ten yards he had emptied both 30-shot magazines into the scavengers on his side of the road. Two of them had managed to get off wild shots that struck the SEAL and ricocheted off. Now six of the nine were prone on the ground, their motorcycles lying beside them or under them, while two others had fallen to their knees and were aiming at the Nazarite.
Blade disposed of the duo with a short burst, then scanned the field for the last of the nine. Twenty yards to the north, and rapidly gaining speed, was a wounded biker who weaved unsteadily, struggling to control the handlebars on his machine. Blade took three quick, long strides, pressed the stock to his right shoulder, and stitched a straight pattern of red dots down the middle of the scavenger’s back.
The biker flung his arms wide and toppled from his cycle, which continued to wobble for a good ten yards before it crashed onto its side.
Blade pivoted, anxious about the four bikers on the right side of the highway. Two of the four were sprawled on the grass, and the remaining pair were fleeing for their lives, their engines revved to the maximum, racing to the south.
Yama materialized at the edge of Highway 46, the Wilkinson slung over his left shoulder. He drew the Smith and Wesson and clasped the gun in his right hand while bracing his wrist with his left. Exercising deliberate care, he sighted on the lead biker and fired. The gun boomed, and 30 yards away the scavenger tumbled to the turf, flipping off the back of his bike and landing on his head. His cycle veered toward the last biker, causing the man to angle sharply to the right. Yama aimed and slowly squeezed the trigger, and he displayed no emotion when his shot caught the man between the shoulder blades. Both the biker and the bike fell over.
Blade surveyed the carnage, verifying that all of the scavengers were out of commission. Some were groaning or whining pitiably, but none were in any condition to continue the fight. He walked over to Yama and motioned at the slain leader. “What the hell did you think you were doing?”
“Eliminating the enemy before they could eliminate us,” Yama responded stiffly. He began to reload the Smith and Wesson.
“I didn’t give the signal to open fire,” Blade said angrily.
“I jumped the gun.”
“You’re damn right you did. And do you know why?”
Yama studiously avoided his friend’s gaze. He palmed a spent cartridge and shrugged. “I felt it was necessary.”
“And I feel it’s necessary to put you on report. If you don’t shape up, you’ll find yourself in front of a Review Board when we return to the Home.”
Yama looked down at the ground.
“I want you to check each and every biker. Put every one who isn’t dead out of his misery,” Blade ordered.
“Right away,” Yama said softly, and walked off.
Blade sighed and moved toward the SEAL, annoyed at himself. He’d brought Yama along against his better judgment, and he shouldn’t have.
He knew how devastated Yama had been after her death. So how could he blame the man for doing what he would have done under the same circumstances?
Samson stepped into view next to the right front tire, holding his Bushmaster Auto Rifle, his features downcast.
“Did you see what happened?” Blade asked.
“I saw.”
“We were lucky the scavengers were sloppy. Yama’s blunder would have cost us dearly if they’d been real pros. So cheer up. It could have been a lot wors
e.”
“It is,” Samson said.
“What?” Blade responded, and from the look in Samson’s eyes he immediately perceived the Nazarite’s meaning. “Oh, no.”
“I’m afraid so,” Samson stated.
Blade hurried to the window on the passenger side and peered inside, sadness overcoming him. He slapped the SEAL in frustration.
A bullet had struck Andrew Wolski on the bridge of the nose and drilled through his cranium, splattering blood and brains over the console and the dash. He lay on his back on the console, his lifeless eyes fixed on the roof, his mouth hanging slack and his tongue protruding.
Dear Spirit, no!
Blade closed his eyes and bowed his head. Not him! The farmer had gone to so much effort to locate the Family, to secure aid for his wife and daughter, and now Andy would never see them again in this life. He heard footsteps and glanced up.
“He didn’t duck as you told him to do,” Samson said, coming to the window. “He tried to fight and shot one of them. Then he got hit.”
“We’ll have to bury him here,” Blade stated. “I’m not about to leave his body for the buzzards and the mutants. He deserves a proper burial.”
Scowling, he slung the Commando over his left arm.
Samson nodded, then reached up and rubbed his right hand on his neck. When he removed the hand, blood streaked his fingers.
“You were hit too,” Blade declared. He bent closer and examined the Nazarite’s neck. A bullet had carved a fine groove, just breaking the skin, and a trickle of blood seeped from the torn flesh.
“It’s just a scratch,” Samson responded. “The shot that killed Andy went clear through him and struck me. If I’d been several more inches to the right, I’d be lying in there with him.”
“Get the first-aid kit and I’ll clean it for you,” Blade offered.
“I’m fine. Really.”
“What is this? Doesn’t anyone here know how to listen? Go get the damn first-aid kit.”
“Yes, sir,” Samson replied, and extended his right arm to grab the door handle. He hesitated, realizing he would have to crawl over Andrew to reach the storage section, then headed for the other side. “Be back in a jiffy.”
Blade heard the burp of Yama’s Wilkinson. He walked to the front of the transport and watched the man in blue finish off the scavengers. What now? he asked himself. Should they turn around and return to the Home?
Did Wolski’s death have any bearing on their mission? No, he decided.
Even though rescuing Sandra and Nadine had been Andrew’s overriding concern, and even though Blade would do everything in his power to locate and save them, of more critical consequence to the Family were the Technic activities in Green Bay. If the Technics were up to their usual dirty tricks, they had to be stopped. Proceeding with the mission was imperative.
Which left him with the problem of what to do about Yama.
Blade observed the man in blue walk over to a prone scavenger who had a half-dozen bullet holes in his back, but who was still alive, moaning and sobbing. Yama placed the Wilkinson barrel against the base of the biker’s skull and fired. The scavenger convulsed for a few seconds, then lay still.
With methodical precision, Yama continued on his circuit.
What a shame.
Blade had always rated the man in blue as one of the best Warriors and considered Yama to be extremely dependable. But after the death of the Technic woman, Yama had changed. Not outwardly, not in any obvious manner, but to his close friends the change had been noticeable, a slight lessening of his zest for life. Where before Yama had thrown himself into his craft with a fiery passion, after Alicia Farrow’s death he had seemed to lose some of his emotional zeal. He went through all the motions, practiced as diligently as ever, but some of his inner spark had burned out.
Until the Near Death Experience.
No one could quite figure out why the NDE had so totally transformed Yama’s personality. While Blade had rejoiced to see Yama filled with fire again, he’d been disturbed by the way Yama waded into battle with a bewildering, reckless abandon.
Talk about being careless.
After experiencing the NDE, Yama seemed to view himself as invulnerable. No matter the odds against him, he didn’t care. He would fight any number of enemies, head-on. And where before he had fought with supreme skill, now he added to his skill an arrogant attitude, an air of presumed invincibility that potentially threatened not only his life, but the lives of the Warriors he worked with.
Blade had hoped that the silver-haired Warrior had adjusted to the loss of Alicia Farrow and the Near Death Experience, but quite obviously Yama had not. One of the best Warriors now lacked the single most important attribute: self-control. And without self-control, it would only be a matter of time before Yama’s recklessness brought about his undoing.
What a rotten shame.
Yama approached, the Wilkinson slung over his right shoulder. “All of the scavengers are dead.”
“Have you looked inside the SEAL yet?” Blade asked.
“No. Should I?”
“Yes,” Blade stated harshly.
Yama’s brow knit at the tone his friend used. He pivoted and hastened to the door on the passenger side.
“Here’s the first-aid kit,” Samson announced, coming up behind the giant.
Blade turned and took the kit. He knelt, flipped up the lid, and found gauze and a bottle of hydrogen peroxide. The bottle had come from a shipment of supplies received in trade with the Civilized Zone.
“I gather we’ll continue to Green Bay,” Samson remarked.
“Yep.”
“What will we do with Andrew’s wife and daughter if we find them?”
“Whatever they want. We’ll take them to their relatives, or they can come live at the Home,” Blade responded gruffly. He opened the bottle, grabbed the gauze in his other hand, and stood.
“Something is bothering you, my brother,” Samson observed.
“What do you think is bothering me?”
“Yama?”
“Bingo.”
“Trust in the Lord,” Samson said. “Everything will work out.”
Blade nodded absently and proceeded to clean the bullet wound. The trickle of blood had ceased, enabling him to complete the cleaning quickly.
He replaced the gauze and the hydrogen peroxide in the kit and took out a box of bandages.
“I won’t need a bandage,” Samson stated. “My mother always told me that injuries heal faster when they’re exposed to the air.”
“Suit yourself,” Blade said. He stuck the bandages in the kit and closed the lid. “Would you put this back in the SEAL?”
Samson took the first-aid kit and walked off.
“And bring the shovel too,” Blade added. He saw the Nazarite’s head bob up and down. Girding himself for the distasteful task, he moved to the passenger side and stopped in surprise when his gaze fell on Yama.
The silver-haired Warrior stood with his head bowed, his hands gripping the lower edge of the window, and his eyes closed. His features were a study in misery.
Blade slowly stepped up to the door.
“I’m responsible for his death, aren’t I?” Yama asked without opening his eyes.
“More or less,” Blade admitted.
“I never wanted Andrew to be harmed. You know that, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“I didn’t want to lose control.”
“I know.”
“But when that bastard started insulting Technic women, I kept thinking of her, of the happiness we shared,” Yama said, and his next words were strained and barely audible. “I’ve never loved any woman but her.”
“I know.”
Yama looked up, his haunted eyes conveying his inner turmoil. “Why, Blade? Why is it all coming to the surface now? It’s been three years!”
“Let me ask you a question.”
“Anything.”
“What did you do the day after she died?
”
Yama blinked a few times, as if the query had been completely unexpected. “I worked the next day. Wall duty, I believe. Why?”
“And the night she was killed?”
“You know what happened. She betrayed the Technics and gave her life to spare mine.”
“That’s not what I meant,” Blade said. “Did you cry on the night she died?”
“A little,” Yama replied in a whisper.
“Then is it any wonder that you can’t control your emotions where the Technics are involved? For three years you’ve been simmering under the surface like an overheated pot ready to boil over. You lost the only woman you’ve loved, and you never came to grips with that loss. You never let your emotions out,” Blade stated, and placed his right hand on Yama’s shoulder. “Even when a person believes in the Spirit, as we do, and even when we know that those who die pass on to the higher mansions, the loss of a loved one can be a terrible experience. If we try to suppress our emotions and keep all our hurt and anguish inside, eventually we’ll explode.”
“So how do I let it out? I’ve practiced total self-control for so long, I don’t know if I can let it out.”
“You must find a way,” Blade told him. “If you don’t, if you can’t stem your erratic behavior, then your days as a Warrior are numbered.”
Chapter Seven
“What’s our approximate location?” Blade asked.
Samson consulted the map in his lap, running his finger along the route they were following. “I estimate we’re a quarter of a mile west of New London.”
“And how far is it from New London to Green Bay?”
“I’d say about thirty-five miles, give or take a few,” Samson responded.
He glanced out his open window at the trees flashing by and shifted in the bucket seat. “We’ll be there soon.”
“We’ve made good time,” Blade commented. A day and a half had elapsed since the incident involving the bikers, a day and a half during which Yama had barely spoken a word. Blade glanced over his right shoulder at the man in blue, who sat behind Samson. “How’s it going back there?”
Green Bay Run Page 6
