Thief River Falls Run

by David Robbins

  The only question was, could he succeed before the sun was completely above the horizon?

  Several Watchers suddenly appeared on the buildings nearest the headquarters, their rifles pointing at the front door.

  Sweat coated his powerful frame as Blade strained against his bonds, his body quivering.

  Just a few more minutes! All he needed was a few measly minutes!

  Someone was moving in the park behind him, rustling the underbrush.

  Blade was on the verge of freeing his hands, and wondering what his next move should be, considering his legs were still fastened to the post, when the one thing he didn’t expect to happen happened.

  The front door opened and Hickok stepped outside, holding his arms over his head, grinning like an idiot.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Hickok stopped on the third step, smiling, slowly glancing to his left, then to his right. As he expected, Watchers were posted on the roofs of nearby structures, their M-16s at the ready. He counted three to his left, two to his right. That meant seven were still unaccounted for.

  “I’m glad to see you have some sense,” Captain Williams boomed from the cover of the park.

  Hickok faced front, still grinning. He stared at Blade, puzzled. Were his eyes playing tricks on him, or was Blade moving?

  “Where are the others?”

  Stall. He had to stall, giving Geronimo and Bertha time to clamber down their makeshift rope, fall to the ground, and made their way around front.

  “Where are the others?” Captain Williams repeated. “I know there are more of you.”

  “They’re still inside,” Hickok shouted.

  “Tell them to come out, now!” Williams ordered.

  “They don’t trust you,” Hickok yelled. “They’re afraid you’ll shoot them in the back.”

  “They have nothing to fear,” Williams said, sounding impatient.

  “They don’t know that,” Hickok countered.

  “We do not intend to kill you,” Williams stressed. “If they don’t come out and drop their weapons, we will kill your friend.”

  “Looks like we don’t have much choice,” Hickok admitted.

  “Then you first. Drop your guns.”

  Hickok took two more steps, then paused. He’d given his Henry to Geronimo, leaving him the Colts and the Ruger, fully loaded. Eighteen shots didn’t seem like much at a time like this.

  “Drop your guns!” Williams barked. “Now!”

  Hickok nodded and slowly lowered his hands, knowing the Watchers wouldn’t expect him to match his revolvers against their M-16’s, wouldn’t anticipate anyone being that dumb, especially when he was so vulnerable, in the open, without any protection, so he could well imagine their surprise when he shifted to the right, drawing, the Pythons flashing from their holsters as he cocked the hammers, the Colts held waist high in the traditional gunfighter’s stance, the two shots sounding as one.

  The Watchers to his right, each on a different roof, disappeared from sight in a spray of blood and brains. .

  Hickok moved, the slugs from the M-16’s already striking the concrete steps at his feet. He twisted and waved, dodged and spun, being as difficult a target as he could possibly be.

  One of the shots tore a gash in the right side of his neck.

  Another slug chipped his left heel.

  Hickok reached the SEAL and whirled, firing each Python, and one of the Watchers to his left screamed, tumbling down the slanted roof and plummeting to the hard ground.

  “Get the son of a bitch!”

  Hickok dropped to the ground, rolling under the SEAL, relishing the temporary protection afforded by the transports body, wishing he could stay where he was, but he couldn’t, it wasn’t part of his plan. He kept moving, coming out from under the vehicle on the side fronting the park, and he was up and running, heading for Blade, realizing it was do-or-die time.

  A Watcher emerged from the vegetation, shouldering his M-16, taking precise aim.

  Hickok let him have one in the head.

  The Watchers were focusing all their firepower on the bobbing, spinning, twirling, and churning Warrior.

  Another bullet hit home, biting into the gunman’s left side.

  Hickok slowed, ten yards from Blade, and snapped off shot at a Watcher directly ahead. The soldier went down, his hands over his face, shrieking and thrashing.

  Blade abruptly came to life, his arms finally free. He stooped over, frantically tugging at the ropes binding his ankles.

  Hickok heard a new gun enter the conflict, the blast of the Henry followed by Bertha’s shotgun. He reached Blade’s side, placing his body between Blade and the park. “Hurry it up, slowpoke!”

  Three Watchers charged from the undergrowth, firing as they ran.

  Hickok fired his right Colt twice, seeing one of the soldiers stumble and fall, and something ripped through his left shoulder. He staggered, dropping to his knees, flinging the empty right Colt aside and grabbing for the Ruger.

  Somebody beat him to it.

  Blade was suddenly at his side, leaning over him and drawing the Ruger, aiming at the remaining Watchers.

  Geronimo opened up with the Henry again.

  The two Watchers were caught in a vicious cross fire, game to the very end, trying to shoot their foes even as slugs pierced their bodies, their faces contorted as they jerked from the impact. They landed on their stomachs, oozing blood, one of them gasping and wheezing from a shattered windpipe.

  The firing suddenly ceased.

  Geronimo and Bertha ran from the left side of the headquarters and joined their companions.

  “Are you all right?” Bertha asked, placing her left hand on Hickok’s shoulder. “You look pitiful.”

  “Thanks, Black Beauty,” Hickok said wearily. “I needed that.”

  “Where are the rest?” Blade asked warily, scanning the park. “Or did we get them all?”

  “By my calculations,” Hickok replied, “there should be four of them left.”

  “Geronimo?” Blade said, running off. “The jeeps and the truck!”

  Geronimo followed, alert for another attack from the park.

  Hickok watched them go, his body aching. They were still in sight when the noise of engines cranking rent the dawn.

  “They’ll never make it,” Bertha commented.

  Hickok stood, his legs shaky.

  “Hey, let me,” Bertha said, using her right arm to support him around the waist. “How many times you been hit?”

  “I lost count,” Hickok replied.

  “We’d best get you in to old Josh,” Bertha stated, leading the gunman toward the steps. “He’ll take care of you.”

  “Okay by me,” Hickok agreed.

  “You did real good, White Meat,” Bertha beamed. “I was proud of you.”

  “Piece of cake.”

  “I’ve never seen anyone handle a gun like you.”

  “Piece of cake.”

  “You sure say that a lot,” Bertha noted. “Is it your favorite expression, or something?”

  “I just like cake.” Hickok grinned.

  “You big dummy!” Bertha said affectionately.

  They were half the distance to the SEAL when the heavy footsteps thudded behind them.

  “What the…?” Bertha began to turn, but something struck her across her chin, knocking her down.

  Hickok crouched and whirled, his left Colt still gripped in his sweaty palm. Had one of the Watchers returned? If so, the Watcher had made a mistake because he still had some fight left in him and…

  He froze, his eyes widening.

  It was a massive male brute, caked with dried blood, its beady eyes ablaze, its gleaming teeth dripping with pink saliva. Wounds covered its torso.

  Hickok managed to get off one shot before a brawny fist sent him to the ground.

  The brute stood over its prey, clenching and unclenching its hands.

  Neither of them were the one he wanted.

  Krill was after Blade.
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  Voices, raised in alarm, sounded to his rear.

  Krill ran to the park, angling for the point where the vegetation bordered the street. A huge tree was closest to the roadway, and Krill slid behind the trunk as two men, Blade and another, raced by.

  “It’s Hickok and Bertha!” Geronimo exclaimed as they sighted their friends.

  “But how…” Blade slowed, confused. They’d caught a glimpse of the four Watchers making their getaway in a pair of jeeps, two soldiers to a vehicle. The remaining pair of jeeps, and the truck, were abandoned.

  Unless Hickok miscounted, the Watchers were all accounted for. So who had knocked Hickok and Bertha unconscious?

  Krill roared as he sprang, reaching Geronimo in a single bound and slamming the Warrior to the pavement.

  Blade raised the Ruger and fired once, the slug penetrating the brute’s right chest area, the impact tugging Krill to the right, but the brute stayed on its feet and kept coming, snarling. Blade was caught in a bear hug and lifted off his feet. He jammed the barrel of the Ruger into Krill’s right ear and pulled the trigger.

  The Ruger was empty. He’d used five rounds on the two Watchers.

  Krill growled as he attempted to crush the life from Blade. The brute smiled when Blade smashed the revolver barrel against his face. Krill wanted Blade to know there was no way to escape the inevitable. Krill desired sweet revenge for Aria.

  Blade bashed the brute again and again, splitting the skin and busting the crooked nose, and still Krill maintained his pulverizing hold. He dropped the Ruger and crammed his palms under the brute’s chin, striving to force the thick neck backward, to snap the spine. Krill’s bullish neck barely budged.

  Geronimo was suddenly there, one of his tomahawks in his right hand.

  He shouted his war whoop and plunged the tomahawk into the brute’s neck.

  Krill, shocked, enraged, flung Blade aside and pounced on Geronimo.

  The brute’s neck injury was pouring blood, but Krill ignored the laceration and heaved the struggling Warrior into the air, completely over his head.

  Geronimo landed with a pronounced thud.

  Blade, lying on his right side, striving to collect his breath and gather his energy, glanced around. Hickok and Bertha were lying still, both rendered unconscious. Geronimo, momentarily stunned, was prone and motionless.

  It was all up to him.

  Blade labored to rise, his battered and bruised body sluggish in responding.

  Krill was watching Blade, grinning and waiting.

  “You must want me real bad,” Blade muttered. He was astonished when the brute nodded.

  “You can understand what I say?” Blade said, gawking.

  Krill’s smile widened.

  “But that’s impossible…” Blade mumbled.

  Krill pounced, reaching Blade in a single mighty bound. His huge hands gripped Blade’s head and he began tugging, intending to literally tear Blade’s head from his body.

  Blade reacted automatically, reaching up and gouging his thumbs into the brute’s eyes.

  Krill released him and stumbled aside, rubbing his watery eyes, trying to clear his blurred vision.

  Blade cast about for a weapon. He spied one of the tomahawks, on the ground near Geronimo, and ran to it, grabbing the handle, never stopping as he turned and closed on Krill, sweeping the tomahawk all the way back and, as he reached the brute, jumping as high as he could into the air while crashing the blade onto the top of the brute’s head, completely burying it in Krill’s cranium.

  The brute sagged and collapsed on its knees, barely conscious.

  Blade stepped back as Joshua ran up, holding the Browning. “Finish it off,” Blade ordered. When Joshua went to object, Blade savagely poked him in the chest. “Finish it now!” he shouted.

  Startled, bewildered at Blade’s attitude, Joshua reluctantly placed the barrel against the brute’s ear and pulled the trigger.

  Chapter Twenty

  They were gathered in the headquarters building while Joshua ministered to their injuries.

  “Josh the brute-slayer!” Hickok was teasing. “Has a ring to it!”

  “Please.” Joshua grimaced. “Don’t remind me!”

  “Wait until the Family hears about this,” Hickok remarked. He was lying beside Bertha, near the bar. Blade was at the table, Geronimo standing guard.

  “Please,” Joshua addressed Hickok. “Don’t inform the Family.” He was bandaging Blade’s wounds.

  “Why not?” Hickok demanded.

  “I simply don’t want to be known as a…” he paused.

  “As a killer,” Hickok said, finishing the sentence for him.

  “Exactly.” Joshua nodded.

  “You get used to it,” Hickok informed Joshua.

  Joshua stopped his ministrations and stared into Hickok’s eyes. “Unlike you, I could never get used to it. Never.”

  “If that’s what you want,” Hickok said, shrugging, “it’s fine by me. It’ll be our little secret.”

  “So what’s our next move?” Geronimo inquired.

  “Do we have any choice?” Blade answered, flinching as Joshua applied a compress to his right shoulder.

  “The beast took quite a bite out of you,” Joshua noted.

  “Yeah,” Bertha cracked. “He and I have a lot in common!”

  “As I was about to say,” Blade commented, “I don’t think we have any other choice. As I see it, we head for our Home instead of the Twin Cities.

  Anyone disagree?”

  No one spoke.

  “Fine.” Blade nodded. “The Twin Cities will wait for another week or two, while we rest and recuperate.” He stared at the floor, reflecting. It was funny. First, he had wanted to reach the Twin Cities as quickly as possible, and he had even persuaded Bertha to go along against her better judgment. Then, after Hickok and Bertha had been hurt, he had prevailed on them to return to the Home, using the pretext of their injuries, when in reality he wanted to see his darling Jenny again and ferret out the power-monger in the Family. It was as if he had looked for an excuse, any justification, for heading back. Now there was nothing else they could do.

  With three of them seriously wounded, the Twin Cities were definitely out of the question. It was funny, sometimes, how things worked themselves out.

  “What about the truck and those jeeps?” Geronimo asked.

  “What about them?” Blade inquired.

  “Do we take one of them with us? The Family could really use another vehicle,” Geronimo stated.

  “Who’d drive it?” Blade inquired.

  “I could do it,” Hickok chimed in. “I’ve driven the SEAL before, you know.”

  “Except for one thing,” Blade commented. “When Geronimo and I examined them earlier, I discovered both of the jeeps, and probably the truck too, are not like the SEAL.”

  “How so, pard?” Hickok questioned.

  “The SEAL is what Plato called an automatic,” Blade reminded him.

  “The Watcher’s vehicles are not automatics. They’re the old shift variety, using something called a clutch. I don’t know how to drive one of those. Do you?”

  “No,” Hickok admitted. “But I could learn.”

  “We don’t have the time,” Blade said. “It’s almost noon.”

  “The reinforcements aren’t due until this evening,” Hickok said.

  “Maybe I could learn by then.”

  “And what if they arrive sooner than expected?” Blade retorted. “What if they send an advance patrol? We’re hardly in condition for another fight.”

  “Okay. So it’s not such a hot idea,” Hickok conceded. “No need to get all testy about it.”

  “Don’t get me wrong,” Blade corrected him. “I think it’s a great idea, and if we had the time, and if we weren’t in such lousy shape, I’d go for it.

  But…” He left the thought dangling.

  “So what do we do?” Geronimo asked.

  “We stick with the original plan,” Blade answered.
“We load up the generator and the supplies we confiscated, and whatever we can cram in from the truck, and take off for the Home.”

  “Don’t forget the radio,” Hickok added.

  “That too. Anything I’ve forgotten?” Blade looked at each of them.

  “There is one small thing…” Joshua said quietly.

  “What is it?” Blade asked him.

  “It’s about the dead Watchers…”

  “Oh no,” Hickok groaned. “Here we go again.”

  “I don’t suppose we could provide them with a proper burial?” Joshua inquired.

  Blade shook his head. “I’m sorry, Joshua. We haven’t got the time to spare.”

  “Just thought I’d ask,” Joshua stated.

  “Let’s get cracking,” Blade announced.

  While Hickok and Geronimo retrieved the provisions hidden before the convoy arrived, Blade, with the assistance of Joshua and Bertha, dismantled the generator and the stereo. By three in the afternoon they had the supplies, the generator, various miscellaneous items, and a stack of M-16’s piled into the transport, utilizing all the space available until there was scarcely room for them.

  “I reckon it’s about time, pard,” Hickok said to Blade as they stood on the steps.

  Blade nodded, his hands on his Bowies. He’d found his weapons stashed in the rear of the truck, and he had thanked the Spirit for the return of the long knives when he’d strapped them to his waist.

  “The Family will be plumb tickled,” Hickok commented.

  “I’d like to know somethin’,” Bertha said, coming through the door.

  “What’s that, Black Beauty?” Hickok asked her.

  “How come you talk so funny sometimes?” Bertha inquired.

  “Talk funny?” Hickok repeated.

  Geronimo came through the door, laughing. “He does that because he’s a fanatic about the Old West, as it was called in the books in our library,” he explained. “Hickok likes to talk like he thinks they did way back then.

  You know, and I know, he sounds like a congenital idiot, but it’s impossible to argue with a man who has rocks for brains.”

  “You’re weird, White Meat.” Bertha shook her head. “You’re really weird.”