“So whoever hired the Gild must have the means of traveling from the continental U.S. to Europe,” Blade deduced. “And we know the Soviets lack the capability. The Russians possess a lot of functional helicopters, but no jets, so far as we know. And the Technics don’t have an Air Force or any craft able to make a transatlantic voyage. But the Androxians do. So I could be wrong. The Androxians might have hired the Gild.”
“Unless, of course,” President Toland observed, “the Gild has a North American office or headquarters or some means of being contacted here.”
“That’s another possibility,” Blade admitted.
“Which brings us to the spy,” Toland stated. “I must make a confession.” His mouth curled downward. “I expected the summit to become the target of some form of attack.”
“You did? Why didn’t you inform us?” Blade demanded.
“Put yourself in my shoes,” President Toland said defensively. “The more people I told about the summit, specifically about the summit’s location, the greater the likelihood of the information falling into hostile hands. By the same token, the more people I told about expecting an attack increased the probability of our unknown enemies refraining from mounting an attempt if they knew we were anticipating one. Do you follow me so far?”
“I think so,” Blade responded.
“My strategy was simple,” Toland explained. “I knew the spy would consider the summit information crucial. I believed the spy would pass on the location of the summit to the Russians. And I knew full well the Russians wouldn’t hit the summit if they knew we were prepared for them.”
“I’m beginning to see what you’re driving at,” Blade commented.
“So while I told no one about expecting an attack,” Toland elaborated, “I did confide in a few close advisors about the summit’s location. That way, if an attack was made, I’d know one of the people I confided in must be responsible for relaying the information to the Russians, must be the spy.”
“Pretty clever,” Blade admitted. “But what if whoever is behind the assassination attempts received the news through another source?”
“That’s possible, I suppose,” Toland conceded.
“How many on your staff knew the exact location of the summit site?”
Blade asked.
“The two envoys I initially sent to California were aware of the selected site,” Toland detailed. “But both of them are completely reliable. I’ve known them since we were children in Wyoming.”
“Who else?” Blade probed.
“General Reese, whom you know,” Toland said.
“And I can’t see Reese being the spy,” Blade declared.
“Me neither,” President Toland agreed. “Which leaves just two other people I told.”
“Which ones?” Blade inquired.
President Toland turned and nodded toward Plato, Parmalee, and Ebert. “Guess.”
“Parmalee and Ebert?”
“Exactly,” Toland confirmed. He looked at Blade. “One of them is the Russian spy. I’m certain of it.”
“And you want me to find out which one,” Blade deduced.
“Can you?” President Toland asked.
“I’ll give it my best shot,” Blade promised. “But the job won’t be easy.
I’m going to have to be rough with them. I can’t use kid gloves. And if they’re innocent, they might resent the treatment and blame you.”
President Toland stared at the floor. “It can’t be helped. We know there’s a spy in our midst and we must discover the agent’s identity before irreparable harm is done to the Freedom Federation.”
“Since I have your permission, I can get started right away,” Blade said.
“Is there anything I can do?” Toland queried.
“Yes,” Blade stated. “In about fifteen minutes send one of them up to Room 212, the room I interrogated Emery in.”
“Which one do you want first?” Toland questioned.
Blade scrutinized the two bureaucrats. “Send up Ebert first.”
“He’ll be there in fifteen minutes,” President Toland assured the Warrior.
Blade glanced at the Civilized Zone’s leader. “I hope you’re right. If you’re not, there are two people who might wind up hating you.”
“Don’t you think I know that?” Toland responded. “But preserving the Federation must take precedence.”
“If it’s any consolation,” Blade offered, “I agree with your decision.”
President Toland stared at his two advisers, then at Blade. “It’s not.”
“You know the old saying,” Blade remarked.
“Which one?” Toland wanted to know.
“It’s lonely at the top.”
Chapter Fourteen
This was another fine mess he’d gotten himself into!
Hickok was trussed up like a wild animal ready for slaughter. His shoulders ached from the strain of bearing all of his weight. The wind was increasing in intensity, the gusts causing him to spin. He faced north, then east, then south, then back to the north again, and he frowned as he surveyed the preparations for the feast at which he was going to be the main course.
Lousy cannibals!
The gunman had encountered cannibals before, during his two runs to the Twin Cities. And there were stories about other human maneaters, bands of them roving the countryside and pouncing on hapless wayfarers, and isolated colonies where unwary travelers were lured in, slain, and consumed. Despite the prevalance of such tales, Hickok had never gave them much credence.
Until now.
One of the Family Elders had once discoursed on the subject. The Elder had chronicled the history of cannibalism and emphasized several salient points. Cannibalism had been part of the religious and social mores in primitive society, and at one time had been almost universal among the early races. And in periods of supreme stress, during war or drought or any other calamity, to avert starvation some people reverted to the primeval practice of eating their fellows. The aftermath of World War Three had been a case in point. Millions suddenly found themselves without food as the distribution network collapsed. Where formerly they could waltz into the nearest supermarket or restaurant and glut themselves on their favorite foods, they abruptly discovered the realities of life without a fast-food outlet. Relatively few prewar citizens had bothered to stockpile provisions in case of an emergency. Consequently, they were compelled to roam the land seeking whatever sustenance they could find.
Even those skilled at hunting and fishing were hard pressed to keep food on the table when the environment was so drastically polluted by the radiation and the chemicals, thereby contributing to a massive kill-off of game.
Hickok stared at his captors. Their ancestors must have sought refuge in the amusement park during the war and stayed, isolating themselves from the world outside, eating anything and everything they could scrounge up. Perhaps there hadn’t been many animals in the park right after the war. Perhaps, unable to grow their own food in sufficient quantities to assuage their constant hunger, they had turned to another food source: picking off anyone who ventured into the park. Once started, the practice must have passed from generation to generation and been accepted as normal behavior. Ironically, when one of them had finally opted to break with tradition and make peaceful overtures to others in the park, the dummy had picked the Gild. And not wanting witnesses to their operation, the assassins had killed poor Chester and three others and driven the rest into hiding on the island. So much for brotherhood.
Hickok felt the rope chafing his wrists. His captors had led him north across the island until they had reached an astonishing structure. Hickok had gaped at it in stark wonder. He’d seen the like before, in photographs and paintings in books in the vast Family library. Among the hundreds of thousands of volumes personally selected by the Founder, Kurt Carpenter, were dozens dealing with life in the Old West. A number of them dealt with Western history, detailing the spread of the white man as he drove the Indians f
rom the Plains. And during the course of his reading, Hickok had seen photos and reproductions of the typical forts utilized by the U.S.
Army. But never in his wildest dreams had he ever expected to find himself in one!
His captors had taken refuge from the Gild in a decaying fort on the north side of the island. The fort was complete with four guard towers, one at each corner, and a spacious cental compound with headquarters, a barracks, and a corral. The fort was in terrible shape, with most of the wood used in its construction blistered or warped. The front gate, located on the south side of the compound, lacked the large left door, which was laying in the dust inside the fort. The cannibals had produced a 20-foot length of stout rope and proceeded to loop the rope over a beam on the ramshackle rampart above the gate. Next they had bound their victim’s wrists and raised him into the air, dangling him three feet above the ground in the middle of the gate opening, where they could keep an eye on him while readying their meal.
How the blazes did he get himself into these fixes? Hickok saw the one called Pax walking toward him. There were 14 cannibals in the fort, including 4 women and 4 children. Tab was strutting around the compound with the Pythons stuck in his frayed leather belt.
“What do you want, you polecat?” Hickok demanded as Pax drew near.
Pax had his rifle slung over his right shoulder. He stopped and looked up at the prisoner. “Are you hungry?”
“What?” Hickok thought his ears were deceiving him.
“Do you want something to eat? We have some root soup,” Pax offered.
“You eat it,” Hickok told him. “You’re going to need your strength when I come gunnin’ for you.”
“You must eat something,” Pax declared.
“Why all this fuss over givin’ me a meal? What difference does it make?” Hickok asked.
“The women don’t like you,” Pax stated.
“Well don’t take this personal,” Hickok retorted, “but your womenfolk aren’t exactly the pick of the crop.”
“The women say you’re too skinny,” Pax elaborated.
“So?”
“You’re all muscle,” Pax said. “And we don’t care for stringy meat.”
“Then find somebody with a pot belly,” Hickok snapped. “And cut me loose.”
“The women think we should hold onto you for a while,” Pax disclosed.
“Fatten you up in the meantime.”
“Your women sure are a bunch of sweethearts,” Hickok cracked.
“It’s up to me to decide,” Pax said.
“Don’t rush on my account,” Hickok recommended.
“I just don’t know,” Pax stated uncertainly. “We could all use a good feed.”
“How can you do it?” Hickok inquired.
“Do what?” Pax responded.
“What do you think, you cow chip! How can you go around eatin’ folks?” Hickok asked irritably.
“When you’re hungry, you’re hungry,” Pax answered.
“Yeah, but eatin’ other people!” Hickok scrunched up his nose. “Yuck!”
“Don’t you eat people?” Pax queried in surprise.
“Are you crazy? Of course not!” Hickok retorted.
“You should try it sometime,” Pax suggested.
“Don’t hold your breath,” Hickok said.
“You’d like it,” Pax asserted. “Human flesh is quite tasty. It’s better than deer meat.”
“There’s no way I’d eat a fellow human,” Hickok declared distastefully.
“Ain’t you the noble one?” Pax said sarcastically. “I’ve got news for you.
If you had a choice between starvation or eating someone, you’d eat.”
“Bet me.”
Pax inspected the Warrior’s frame. “Trying to fatten you up would take too much time. I think we’ll have you for supper.”
“Tonight?” Hickok asked.
“Tonight,” Pax confirmed, starting to turn away.
“I hope I give the whole bunch of you diarrhea!” Hickok stated.
Pax gave a little wave of his left hand and smirked. “Be eating you!” he said cheerily, then walked off.
Mangy coyote! Hickok felt a blustering blast of wind strike his back. His body swayed, then turned as the rope twisted. He was facing to the west this time, and he beheld a dark, roiling cloud bank filling the western horizon.
A storm was coming.
Perfect!
Just what he needed!
As if it wasn’t bad enough he was going to be eaten by a group of looney-tunes, now he was about to be rained on in the bargain! Some days it just didn’t pay to roll out of the sack!
Chapter Fifteen
Other eyes were also gazing at the approaching frontal storm.
“Look!” Kraken declared, pointing to the west.
The Gild members, their arms laden with Darters, uniforms, and supplies, were tramping to the east, seeking another suitable temporary headquarters.
“It’s a storm, guv,” Charley commented.
“So what?” Leftwich chimed in.
“So the elements themselves are working in our favor,” Kraken said.
“How do you figure?” Leftwich inquired.
“This storm is an unexpected ally,” Kraken stated. “We can use it to our advantage.”
“What do you have in mind, mate?” Charley asked.
“We’re going to change our plans,” Kraken replied. “We’re going to hit the Federation leaders this evening.”
“But I thought you wanted to hit them tomorrow night,” Charley observed.
Kraken glanced from Charley to Leftwich. “What is the distinguishing earmark of a professional in our trade?”
“Skill with weapons,” Leftwich replied.
“Smarts,” Charley opined.
Kraken sighed and shook his head. “Wrong, brothers. The distinguishing earmark of a true assassin is adaptability, being able to adjust according to the constantly shifting circumstances you’re confronted with, being able to modify your plans to suit the situation.”
“I knew that,” Leftwich stated.
Kraken looked at Nightshade, who grinned.
“This storm is a godsend,” Kraken informed them. “I estimate the front will arrive here in about two hours, just about the time it gets dark. The storm will enable us to easily penetrate hotel security. Terminating the leaders will be a simple task.”
“Are all of us going in at once?” Charley queried.
“Yes,” Kraken responded.
“Shouldn’t we hold someone in reserve, just in case?” Charley questioned.
“No,” Kraken answered. “We’ve tried sending in one at a time and the strategy hasn’t worked. We’ll go after them in force. There are enough Army uniforms left to go around.”
“What about the motorcycles?” Leftwich asked.
“What about them?” Kraken countered.
“Are we going to leave them stashed in the Plaza?” Leftwich inquired.
“The bikes will remain where they are,” Kraken said. “Once the delegates have been terminated, we will return to the amusement park, retrieve the cycles, and head for the coast. The sub is waiting for our signal. We can be on our way home by tomorrow morning.”
“What about Emery?” Leftwich questioned. “I never did get to contact him and tell him to lay low.”
“We’ll find him tonight,” Kraken stated.
“I’m looking forward to some action,” Charley remarked.
Kraken swept them with a somber stare. “Before we go into action, I must reiterate the essentials of our contract. We have been hired to terminate all of the Freedom Federation leaders. But should the circumstances prevent us from killing all of the leaders, we are to concentrate on hitting the most important ones. You’ve all read the file.
Which three leaders must be terminated at all costs?”
“Toland, the president of the Civilized Zone, is one of them,” Leftwich noted.
“And Plato, the head of the
Family,” Charley said.
Nightshade, holding two Darters tucked under his left arm, moved his hands in sign language.
“Yes,” Kraken said. “The third one is Governor Melnick. Our employer does not want the Free State of California to join the Freedom Federation.
So remember the description provided in the file. Plato, President Toland, and Governor Melnick must be killed no matter what. The rest are not as crucial.”
“Don’t fret, guv,” Charley commented. “All their bloody leaders are as good as buried.”
Chapter Sixteen
“You wanted to see me?” Frank Ebert inquired, standing in the doorway to Room 212.
“Come in,” Blade said. “Have a seat.”
Ebert hesitated.
Blade was standing next to a chair in the center of the room. The rest of the furniture, except for a double bed behind the chair, had been removed to Room 213 prior to Emery’s interrogation.
Ebert, his pudgy features betraying a hint of nervousness, glanced at the big black nonchalantly leaning against the wall to the right of the door.
“Who’s this?”
“This is Bear,” Blade said, introducing his friend. “He’s from the Clan.”
“Yo, bro,” Bear said, smiling pleasantly.
“Pleased to meet you,” Ebert said, looking at the M-16’s both men carried slung over their right shoulders and sounding slightly anxious.
“Have a seat,” Blade repeated, motioning toward the chair.
Frank Ebert frowned as he entered the room. He crossed to the chair and slowly sat down. “What is this all about?”
Blade nodded at Bear, who closed the door and faced them.
“President Toland said there’s something I may be able to help you with,” Ebert mentioned.
“There is,” Blade acknowledged, stepping in front of the chair and locking his eyes on Ebert’s.
“What is it?”
“We need to know your reporting procedure,” Blade stated matter-of-factly.
“To President Toland?” Ebert said, puzzled.
“No,” Blade replied, leaning forward. “To your Soviet superiors,” he said, grinning, never expecting the reaction he provoked. He had not bothered to tie Ebert’s hands and feet, partly because he had to assume the bureaucrat was innocent of espionage until proven guilty—and he didn’t want to use excessive force right off the bat, and partly because he was overconfident. Blade stood a good two feet taller than Ebert, and his bulging muscles dwarfed the rotund administrator’s. He didn’t consider Ebert as much of a threat, and his blunder cost him.
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