The wind was singing its siren song as the Warrior raced like a madman toward the front of the hotel.
Chapter Twenty
“That was Blade, wasn’t it, guv?” Charley asked as they rounded the northeast corner of the hotel and headed for the front entrance.
Kraken, in the lead, nodded.
“Why didn’t we waste him, mate?” Charley inquired.
Kraken looked over his right shoulder. Charley was behind him, followed by Nightshade and Leftwich. “Because we were too close to him when we first saw him. We would have had to unsling our Darters, and his hands were almost touching those Bowies of his. Besides, he had an M-16 over his shoulder. We could have killed him, but he might have taken one or two of us with him, and we can’t afford to lose a single man at this stage of the game.”
Nightshade raised his left arm and pointed straight ahead.
Kraken saw them too. A pair of guards outside the front entrance. He continued moving toward the glass doors until he was 15 yards from the soldiers, then he stopped and motioned for the others to gather closer.
“This is it,” he told them. “We go in shooting. Stay close to me and kill everyone you see. I know the layout. The Federation leaders could be in the lobby or the conference room. They won’t be hard to find.”
“How many soldiers do you think are inside?” Leftwich asked.
“Perhaps two or three dozen,” Kraken answered.
Leftwich whistled.
“The soldiers will not pose a problem,” Kraken assured him. “Our Darters are fully loaded with thirty darts apiece. That’s one hundred and twenty rounds. We can handle a few dozen inexperienced soldiers.”
“Just say the word,” Charley said.
Kraken started to turn, then paused. “I stand corrected. There is one person we should avoid killing if possible.”
“Who’s the exception?” Leftwich inquired.
“Our employer has an undercover agent at the summit,” Kraken disclosed. “A woman. Blonde. About five eight. I was provided with her description but not given her name. To play it safe, don’t kill any blonde not wearing a uniform.”
“Got it,” Leftwich said.
“Unsling your Darters,” Kraken ordered, facing the entrance and taking his rifle from his shoulder. He knew the conference room was on the ground floor, and he would have preferred to try and ambush the delegates from outside. All he would have needed to do was locate the appropriate window. But the Darters’ singular deficiency had dissuaded him from the course of action. The explosive darts detonated after penetrating whatever they hit, so the first rounds fired through the window would detonate just inside the window pane, far short of the leaders, alerting them and allowing them to seek cover while the security forces came to their rescue. An ambush through the window might succeed in slaying several of the leaders, but his employer wanted all of them dead—Plato, Toland, and Melnick at the very minimum. To guarantee the success of the assignment, Kraken was compelled to take the direct approach.
A frontal assault.
Kraken flicked the safety off on his Darter. “On me,” he said, and jogged toward the front entrance.
The two soldiers outside the doors were gazing at the foursome in evident perplexity. “What’s up?” one of them inquired as the quartet came abreast of the entrance.
“Just this,” Kraken said, and shot both of them, once each in the chest.
He pushed through the glass doors, scanning the lobby. Emery had mentioned the conference room was on the righthand side of the lobby, but had not pinpointed its exact location with reference to the front entrance. Kraken had hoped to find the Federation leaders gathered in the lobby, but instead there were about a dozen troopers and perhaps an equal number of bureaucrats. His gaze alighted on a pair of Flathead Indians standing next to a closed door, and all at once he knew.
Charley, Leftwich, and Nightshade came through the glass doors.
Some of the occupants of the lobby were staring at the four dripping newcomers in confusion.
“Kill them and follow me!” Kraken commanded, opening up with the Darter as he sprinted in the direction of the Flatheads.
Charley, Leftwich, and Nightshade began firing as rapidly as targets presented themselves.
Bedlam ensued. The Darters downed soldiers and civilians with indiscriminate abandon. Faces exploded outward, heads ruptured, and torsos were racked by the lethal darts. The silent Darters were an eerie counterpart of the confusion and clamor they generated. Men and women screamed as they died. Some of the bureaucrats attempted to flee in a screeching panic but were shot in the back of the head. Blood sprayed over the carpet and the furniture. Bodies littered the floor.
Kraken saw the two Flatheads charging toward them. He snapped off a shot, his dart catching the younger of the Indians in the head. The older Flathead stopped and fired his M-16, and Kraken heard someone grunt behind him. He sent a dart into the second Flathead’s face, and the Indian’s nose and forehead erupted like a miniature volcano. Kraken looked over his left shoulder.
Charley had been creased on the left side of his head. His curly hair was matted with blood. He grinned and hefted his Darter. “Just a scratch, mate!”
Kraken headed for the conference room door just as a dozen more troopers appeared at the rear of the lobby and surged forward. The assassins concentrated their fire on this new threat, blowing apart soldier after soldier. A few of the troopers managed to return the withering barrage, but their shots were wild and ineffective. In the space of seconds all of the soldiers were dead or writhing on the floor in their death throes.
An elevator door opened on the left side of the lobby, disgorging three men. One was a diminutive frontiersman in buckskins, armed with a Winchester. The second was a man with a beard, dressed all in black, carrying an M-16. The third was a nondescript type, also holding an M-16.
Three of the Federation delegates! “There!” Kraken shouted, swiveling and shooting.
Charley, Leftwich, and Nightshade did likewise.
The nondescript delegate was the first to fall, half of his face splattering the carpet.
The bearded one in black toppled over next.
Undaunted, the feisty frontiersman kept coming, levering the rounds into his Winchester and coolly sighting before squeezing the trigger.
Leftwich was knocked backward by the impact of a slug striking his right shoulder, but he retained his footing.
Kraken and Nightshade fired simultaneously, and the frontiersman flipped onto the floor, convulsing.
“Did it penetrate your vest?” Kraken asked Leftwich.
Leftwich shook his head.
“That door!” Kraken yelled, pointing at the conference room. “Kill everyone inside!” He raced toward the door, confident of success. No more soldiers had appeared. Nothing stood between them and the completion of their assignment!
But Kraken was wrong.
Two men burst through a door at the rear of the lobby, on the right side. Both men wore buckskins, and both were armed with a pair of revolvers. One was blonde with a moustache, the other had long brown hair and was cleanshaven. Both wore the determined expressions of men out for revenge.
Hickok and Boone!
“Take cover!” Kraken bellowed, diving behind a sofa. He knew better than to expose himself to the two pistoleers. Their reputations as shootists were well deserved.
Nightshade ducked in the shelter of a large mahogany chair.
But Charley and Leftwich foolishly charged the gunfighters, prompted by their desire to resolve the conflict quickly, both believing their marksmanship equal to the occasion.
Kraken happened to look to the rear, and his eyes widened as he saw Blade barreling through the front doors. The Gild had lost the initiative.
Fulfilling the contract was no longer feasible. Surviving was the issue.
Surviving to try again another day. Both the front and the rear were blocked by exceptionally skilled adversaries, and reinforcements might arr
ive at any moment. There was one recourse open, and that was to retreat.
The elevator door was still open.
“Follow me!” Kraken shouted, dashing toward the left side of the lobby, keeping doubled over, weaving among the furniture.
Nightshade kept pace with his chief.
Kraken reached the elevator and scooted inside, glancing hack and seeing Hickok down Leftwich with two shots to the head even as Boone’s Hombres thundered and Charley was captapulted into a potted plant.
Blade, his M-16 in his hands, was racing on a course to the elevator.
Kraken punched the button for the first floor as Nightshade slid inside.
The elevator doors shut and the car began climbing. He realized Blade would be in hot pursuit, and Kraken grinned as his fertile mind concocted an escape plan. What was the room his employer’s secret agent was in?
Room 103! That was it!
Nightshade motioned with his hands.
“We’re not out of the woods yet,” Kraken agreed. “But I can get us both out of here if you’ll buy me the time I need.”
Nightshade grimly nodded.
“Good. Here’s what I want you to do…”
Chapter Twenty-One
Blade was 20 feet from the elevator when the doors closed and it ascended. Fuming, he sped up to the elevator, watching the numeral display overhead.
“Wait for us, pard!”
Blade looked to his rear, smiling at the sight of Hickok and Boone running his way.
The elevator stopped on the first floor.
“Did those bastards take the elevator?” Hickok queried as he reached his friend.
Blade nodded, staring at Boone. “I want you to stay here in case they get past us.”
“They won’t get past me,” Boone vowed.
Blade stabbed the down button, impatiently waiting while the elevator descended to the lobby. He stepped inside before the doors were fully open, Hickok right behind him.
“I have a score to settle,” the gunman announced.
Blade pressed the button for the first floor. “I was worried about you,” he remarked.
The elevator doors closed and it started upward.
“They might be waitin’ for us,” Hickok said.
“Let them!” Blade stated gruffly, gripping his M-16, facing the doors.
“I missed you, big guy,” Hickok mentioned.
“Where were you?” Blade asked, his gaze riveted on the indicator panel.
“Takin’ lessons in culinary etiquette,” Hickok replied.
Before Blade could comment, the elevator coasted to a stop and the doors widened.
Hickok exited first, his Pythons held close to his hips, surveying the corridor. No one was in the hall and all of the doors in sight were closed.
“Is there a back way out of here? A stairwell?” he whispered.
“I don’t know,” Blade said, advancing along the left wall. “I don’t think so.”
Hickok took the right side. “I won’t rest until I’ve nailed Kraken and his mutant buddy, Nightshade.”
“You know who they were?” Blade queried in a hushed tone.
“The lowest scum alive,” Hickok responded. “But not for long, if I can help it.”
The Warriors lapsed into silence as they neared the first door, Room 101 on the right side of the hall. Blade trained his M-16 on the door while Hickok tried the knob. The door opened and the gunman vanished into the room, reappearing moments later shaking his head. They cautiously proceeded to the next door, Room 102 on the left. This time Hickok covered Blade as the giant Warrior, without bothering to check if the door was locked, drew his right leg up, then kicked. The wood near the doorknob splintered with a resounding crash and the door swiveled inward. Blade vaulted into the room, his finger on the trigger of his M-16, but the room was empty. He stooped to peer under the bed and verified no one was secreted in the bathroom or the closet.
“Where the blazes are they?” Hickok hissed as his towering companion emerged from the room.
Blade shook his head and kept going.
The next room was 103, on the right side of the hall. The two Warriors were a yard from the door when it unexpectedly opened and a woman stepped into the corridor, a sandy-haired blonde in a red dress and jacket.
Her brown eyes seemed to register surprise at the sight of them. “What was that noise I just heard?” she asked Blade, closing her door.
“Do you know her?” Hickok inquired.
“This is Melissa Parmalee,” Blade said, introducing her. “One of President Toland’s assistants.”
“Howdy, ma’am,” Hickok said. “We’re lookin’ for a couple of varmints. Have you seem ’em?”
“What are you talking about?” Parmalee queried.
“We’re searching for a pair of assassins,” Blade explained.
“Assassins? Here?” Paramelee said doubtfully.
“Didn’t you hear the ruckus in the lobby?” Hickok questioned.
“I haven’t heard a thing until just now,” Parmalee answered. “I’ve been taking a nap. I have a headache, and President Toland said I wasn’t needed for a while.”
“So you didn’t see anyone?” Blade asked.
Parmalee shook her head.
Hickok started to walk past her toward her door.
“Where are you going?” Parmalee demanded, grabbing his left arm.
“To check your room,” Hickok told her, staring at the hand on his forearm.
“That won’t be necessary,” Parmalee stated. “There’s no one in my room.”
“Then you won’t mind if we check, will you?” Hickok rejoined.
“Really. It isn’t necessary,” Parmalee reiterated, looking at Blade, smiling sweetly. “Tell him.”
“Check the room,” Blade ordered.
Hickok pulled his arm from Parmalee’s grasp and reached for the doorknob, keeping his eyes on her, suspicious of her behavior. He detected motion out of the corner of his right eye and spun.
The door had been yanked wide, framing Nightshade in the doorway, his Darter in his left hand, the barrel pointing upward, mere inches from the gunman.
Hickok, his Colts at waist level, knowing there wasn’t time to tilt the barrels for a head shot, planted two shots in the mutant’s chest.
Nightshade was rocked by the impact of the slugs, but he only stumbled backward a step, then furiously surged forward, his right hand closing on the Darter barrel.
Hickok fired both Pythons again, astonished when his shots failed to drop the mutant.
Nightshade clubbed the amazed Warrior on the head with his rifle butt, his prodigious power sending the gunman flying across the corridor into the far wall.
Hickok slumped to the floor, his Colts sliding from his hands, his eyes closed.
Blade, unable to shoot because Hickok had blocked his line of fire, now aimed at the mutant. But before he could squeeze the trigger, intervention from an unforeseen source turned the tide of battle.
Melissa Parmalee—shapely, slim, five feet eight and dainty—grabbed the M-16 barrel and tore the gun from his hands! The M-16 went off, but the round imbedded harmlessly in the ceiling.
Blade crouched, his hands gripping his Bowies, his astounded gaze on Parmalee.
The woman tilted her head and laughed, a brittle, malevolent titter.
“Look at him!” she said to Nightshade. “The fool can’t believe his eyes!”
Nightshade grinned and pointed his Darter at the Warrior.
“No!” Parmalee exclaimed. “He’s mine! This will only take a minute. I want the privilege of snapping his spine! Mo one else is on this floor. You watch the elevator.”
Nightshade nodded.
Parmalee disdainfully extended the M-16 toward Blade. “Here! Do you want this?”
Blade waited for her to make a move.
Parmalee snickered. “I guess you don’t!” She held the stock in her right hand and squeezed, crushing the gun with a grinding of metal and a crunching no
ise, then contemptously flung the useless weapon to the floor.
“Have you figured it out yet?” Parmalee baited him.
“I think so,” Blade responded.
“Oh, really?” Parmalee retorted sarcastically.
“I was wrong,” Blade said. “The Soviets didn’t hire the Gild to assassinate the Federation leaders. They don’t want to kill just the leaders. The Russians want to crush the entire Federation. Their spy, Ebert, would have relayed details of the summit, and the Soviets would plan their strategy accordingly.”
“But if the Soviets didn’t hire the Gild,” Parmalee observed mockingly, “who did?”
“I didn’t know until just now when you destroyed the gun,” Blade stated. “I didn’t realize more than one of our enemies might have a spy planted in President Toland’s administration. But the Civilized Zone is the perfect place to plant a spy. The Family, the Clan, and the Moles are too small to successfully infiltrate an outsider. And the Flatheads and the Cavalry are out of the question, unless the spy is an Indian or an expert horseman. But the Civilized Zone is so large, with President Toland’s staff numbering in the dozens, that installing a secret agent would be relatively simple.”
Parmalee took a step toward the Warrior. “But you still haven’t told me which side I’m with. And here I heard you were such a bright little boy!”
“Only someone with incredible strength could pulverize an M-16,” Blade noted. “A mutant, say… or an android.”
Melissa Parmalee cackled. “Excellent!”
Blade’s mind flashed back to his harrowing experiences in Houston, Texas, renamed Androxia by the android rulers of that city-state.
Developed by NASA prior to the war to replace human astronauts and prevent the loss of human lives, the androids had continued producing themselves after civilization crumbled to a standstill. Eventually, the androids had conquered the surviving humans in southern Texas and established themselves as the ruling class. Dubbed the Superiors, the androids were led by a computerized entity known as Primator, an entity Blade had exterminated before escaping from Androxia.
Parmalee took another step. “Now that the socializing is dispensed with, let’s conclude this, shall we?”
Anaheim Run Page 18