A burly man burst from cover, a 15-inch survival knife in his right hand, the rope in his left. He was dressed all in black, and his head was covered with a black mask. The knife extended, he rushed from behind a tree five yards away.
Damn! Bertha knew he had been waiting for her to drop the M-16! She let go of the rope and dived for the M-16, but her foe was already upon her.
The man in black launched his hefty body into a flying tackle, dropping the rope, and his left arm caught Bertha around the neck and drove her back, her desperate fingers inches from the M-16, and slammed her to the ground, onto her back, with him on top of her.
Bertha grunted and jerked her head to the right, and the survival knife plunged into the ground next to her left ear.
The man in black swept the knife up for another blow.
Bertha bucked and heaved, unbalancing her opponent, causing him to teeter to the right. She brought her right fist up and cuffed him on the cheek.
The man in black slashed at her face.
Bertha turned her face aside, but felt the keen edge of the survival knife slice open her right cheek.
The man stabbed at her right eye.
Bertha narrowly evaded the knife. Her left hand clutched his right wrist and held on fast.
He clamped his left hand on her throat.
Bertha was in dire straits. She was tiring, and tiring rapidly. She needed to do something, anything, to gain the advantage, or she was lost.
Her years of street fighting served her in good stead. She jabbed her right hand upward, burying her forefinger in her attacker’s left eye.
The man in black yelped, and his grip on her throat slackened.
Exerting her strength to its limits, Bertha surged her hips and stomach off the ground, tumbling the assassin over her head. She scrambled to her hands and knees, twisting to confront her foe.
He was superbly trained. Even as he landed on the dank earth, the man in black tumbled, coming out of the roll and straightening, whirling toward the woman in green.
The cabin door unexpectedly opened, spilling more light outside, bathing Bertha and the man with the survival knife.
The man in black spun, anticipating a threat from the cabin. For a fleeting moment, his back was to Bertha.
In a twinkling, Bertha struck. She shoved off from the ground, bringing her right foot up and around, executing one of the karate kicks taught to her by Rikki-Tikki-Tavi, the Family’s supreme martial artist. It was a basic roundhouse kick, a Mawashi-geri, and it connected with the man in black between his shoulder blades.
The man in the mask was knocked forward by Bertha’s kick. He tripped and toppled onto the makeshift latticework covering the pit. The limbs and reeds rent with a resounding crash, and the man in black sank into the pit.
Cole ran from the cabin, a lantern in his left hand, an AK-47 in his right. He halted at the pit rim.
Bertha saw the fury on Cole’s features, and she surmised his intent at one glance. “Cole! No!” she shouted.
To no avail.
“Here, bastard!” Cole barked, and squeezed the trigger.
Bertha froze in midstride. She looked down, unable to prevent the inevitable.
The man in black was just scrambling to his feet when the slugs plowed into his chest and flung him against the pit wall. His body twitched and thrashed as more and more rounds were poured into him. A linear pattern of crimson geysers erupted across his torso, then angled higher, stitching a red path from his chin to the top of his head. The firing ceased, and the man in the mask pitched onto his face.
Cole gazed at his handiwork, smirking.
“You didn’t have to do that!” Bertha exclaimed, panting.
Cole glanced at her. “Yes, I did.”
“We could of questioned him!” Bertha stated. “He was a Hunter, right?”
“Without a doubt,” Cole said.
Bertha doubled over, her ribs aching. “You didn’t have to do that!” she reiterated.
Cole stared at the startled Claws emerging from the cabin, a few rubbing their sleepy eyes. He looked at Bertha, the set of his jaw determined and straight, and then at the corpse in the pit. “Yes, I did,” he insisted softly.
This time. Bertha didn’t argue.
Chapter Fourteen
“What the hell are they trying to pull?” Blade snapped.
“Beats me,” Sundance admitted.
“Maybe they weren’t after us at all,” Nick commented.
The headlights behind them, after trailing the jeep for several miles, had turned off the highway.
“I don’t get it,” Blade said. “First, they almost catch up to us. Then they fall back and follow us for a while. Now, they’re taking off. It doesn’t make any sense.”
“Who said the damn Commies have to make sense?” Nick asked.
Blade sighed. He was still experiencing a premonition of danger. But why?
“Take a left up ahead,” Nick directed. “Stick with me, boys, and old Nick will guide you right up to the detention facility’s front door.”
“You’d do that for us?” Sundance queried.
“Hey! What are friends for?” Nick remarked light-heartedly. He patted Blade on the back. “Right, Warrior?”
And suddenly Blade recognized the source of his apprehension. The trifling inconsistencies accumulated into a plausible explanation, the only explanation possible under the circumstances. He smiled at Nick in the rearview mirror. “Right, Freeb,” he replied.
Nick grinned. “Glad to see you’re comin’ around to my way of thinkin’!”
“I may be slow,” Blade said, “but I catch on eventually.” He glanced at Sundance.
Sundance grinned and nodded. “About time.”
Blade realized Sundance had beaten him to the punch. How? What were the clues he had missed?
They drove to the southeast, Blade heeding Nick’s infallible directions, using back roads until they reached the Schuykill Expressway.
“Just follow this south,” Nick instructed them once they were on the Expressway. “We’ll be there before you know it.”
“I can hardly wait,” Blade mentioned. There were few vehicles on the road at such an early hour, and he maintained the speed at 50 miles an hour. Twice military transports passed on the opposite side of the Expressway traveling to the north.
“Look for the City Line exit,” Nick advised.
“Will do,” Blade stated.
The jeep reached the specified exit within minutes.
Blade wheeled onto City Line Avenue, moving to the southwest. A bakery truck approached from the other direction, conducting its morning deliveries.
“You want to make a left on Belmont Avenue,” Nick disclosed.
Blade did, and a sign loomed ahead.
“The Vladimir I. Lenin Ministry of Psychological Sciences,” Sundance read aloud. “Two miles.”
“That’s it!” Nick declared. “That’s the place you want!”
“That’s the detention facility?” Blade queried.
“That’s it,” Nick confirmed.
“You’re sure?” Blade persisted.
“Of course I’m sure!” Nick retorted, annoyed. “Have I lied to you yet?”
Sundance began scratching at his chest. He idly started unbuttoning his uniform shirt.
Blade glanced over his right shoulder. “I doubt I could count all the lies.”
Nick bristled angrily. “What the hell are you ravin’ about?”
“Just this,” Sundance stated, spinning in his seat, a gleaming Grizzly in his right hand.
Nick’s eyes widened. “Hold on there, boy! What is this?”
“You tell us,” Blade said.
“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about,” Nick averred.
Blade looked at Sundance. “Why don’t you do the honors?”
“Gladly,” Sundance agreed. He leaned toward Nick.
“If you don’t cut the crap, right now, I’m going to plant a bullet right between your ey
es.”
Nick was gawking from Sundance to Blade in bewilderment.
“The next words out of your mouth better be truthful ones,” Sundance warned. “What’s your real name?”
Nick’s shoulders slumped. “Georgiy Bakunin.”
“Your rank?”
Bakunin frowned. “Captain.”
“You’re out of uniform, aren’t you, Captain?” Sundance asked sarcastically.
Bakunin motioned with his left hand toward his face. “May I?”
“Only if you do it real slow,” Sundance cautioned. “Twitch the wrong way and you’re history.”
Bakunin slowly raised his left hand and gripped the top of his long gray beard. He tugged on the upper right corner and his “beard” flopped to the floor.
“What about the hair?” Sundance queried.
“Dyed,” Bakunin revealed. He ran his hand over his face, removing his “wrinkles.”
“And the missing teeth?” Sundance said.
Bakunin reached his fingers into his mouth, scraping and pulling, and a minute later extracted a gummy black substance. His four upper front teeth miraculously reappeared.
“Pretty clever,” Sundance conceded.
“Wha’t did I do wrong?” Bakunin asked in a pained tone.
“You figure it out for yourself,” Sundance said.
“I’d like to know,” Bakunin stated.
Sundance wagged the Grizzly barrel. “Don’t press it. I’ll pose the questions. What were you doing in that abandoned house?”
“Waiting for Packrats,” Bakunin answered.
“You’re a Hunter,” Sundance deduced.
Bakunin nodded.
“You kill kids for a living,” Sundance growled.
“No!” Bakunin said hastily. “It’s required for all officers in Elite Branch.”
“There’s something I’d like to know,” Blade interrupted, concentrating on his driving. “Why’d you string us along? Why’d you help us get this far? Why didn’t you turn us in back at the garrison in Norristown?”
“I wanted to discover the reason you were here,” Bakunin explained. “Find out what your connection to the Vikings might be.”
“So you let us jump your comrades in Norristown,” Sundance commented. “Didn’t it bother you, knowing they could be hurt, or worse?”
“We must all make sacrifices for the cause,” Bakunin said.
“The cause?” Sundance repeated quizzically.
“For the greater glory of Communism,” Bakunin stated proudly.
“How did you know we were Warriors?” Blade interjected.
“You told—!” Bakunin started to reply, then angrily smacked his right palm against his forehead. “What an idiot I’ve been!”
“I wouldn’t say you’re an idiot,” Sundance said. “Stupid, maybe, but not a complete idiot.”
“How did you know we were Warriors?” Blade repeated his question.
Bakunin stared at the giant Warrior. “Your name was vaguely familiar. Something about it rang a bell. And then I remembered the incident in Washington, the one involving another Warrior named Hickok, I believe. And I recalled seeing an intelligence report on your Family.”
“The information the spy in Denver uncovered,” Blade speculated.
“We have a spy in Denver?” Bakunin asked innocently.
“What did this intelligence report say?” Sundance queried.
“It was merely a brief rundown on your Family,” Bakunin replied. “A capsule summary of your Family’s known history, organization, and leadership. It included a section on the Warriors, and contained a paragraph on the head of the Warriors. A man of gigantic proportions. A man named Blade.”
Another sign materialized ahead, displaying an arrow indicating the direction they should travel to reach the Ministry of Psychological Sciences.
Blade took a left.
“Uh-oh,” Sundance commented.
Five hundred yards to the southeast was a huge stone wall, 15 feet in height, capped with another 4 feet of barbed wire. A latticed iron gate, now closed, provided the only means of entering the Ministry. Four soldiers stood outside the gate.
Blade spotted a turnoff to the right and took it. The jeep lurched as he spun the steering wheel sharply, and then they were on a quiet side road.
A stand of trees and brush screened the jeep from the guards at the iron gate. He braked the jeep.
“Now what do we do?” Sundance inquired.
“We proceed with the mission,” Blade said.
“But how do we know this jerk was telling the truth about this place?”
Sundance asked. “How do we know it’s even a detention facility? Bakunin never said the Vikings were here for sure.”
Blade glanced at the Russian. “No, he didn’t. But so far, all the directions he’s supplied have been right on the mark. Oh, he lied about who he was and lied to gain our confidence. But he told the truth about the garrison in Norristown, and about how to get to Norristown from Valley Forge. He didn’t want us to know he was a soldier, didn’t want us to discover his secret before he discovered ours, so he gave us accurate directions, expecting us to trust him, hoping we would blurt out the information he wanted. He couldn’t come right out and say he definitely knew where the Vikings were being held, because that would have been too obvious, too suspicious. But he could, and did, give us a viable lead. I could be wrong, but I think he was telling the truth about the Ministry.
The Vikings might well be there.”
Sundance nodded toward Bakunin. “What do we do about him?”
Blade studied the captain. The wisest recourse was to kill Bakunin and dump his body in the weeds. Leaving the Russian alive needlessly invited trouble. If they tied him up, Bakunin might escape and alert the Ministry guards. A true expert could always slip free of constraints if given enough time. Blade seriously considered slitting Bakunin’s throat, but then his conversation with Plato concerning excessive brutality flashed through his mind and he frowned. “We’ll tie him up,” he stated.
“You’re the boss,” Sundance said, “but if it was up to me, I’d waste the son of a bitch right now.”
Blade nodded. “I agree with you.”
“What? Then why are we going soft on him?” Sundance responded in surprise.
“It’s something Plato said,” Blade revealed. “About us not stooping to their level.”
“Plato isn’t a Warrior,” Sundance stated cryptically.
Blade knew Sundance was right, but he didn’t want to debate the issue.
His affection for his mentor overrode his seasoned inclination. Just this once, he told himself, he’d do it Plato’s way. Give Plato’s outlook a chance.
And hope he wouldn’t live to regret it.
But he did.
“We don’t have any rope,” Sundance mentioned.
“We’ll improvise,” Blade said. He slid his right Bowie from under his shirt.
“What’s that for?” Bakunin asked when he saw the big knife.
“I thought I’d carve my name on your forehead,” Blade quipped. He shifted in his seat, examining its fabric. The back of the seat was covered by a leather-like, durable material. He inserted his knife into the fabric and began slicing wide strips from the seat.
“Cup your hands together and hold your arms out toward Blade,” Sundance directed the captain.
Bakunin complied.
Blade swiftly bound the Russian, applying the strips to the officer’s wrists and ankles, cutting additional strips as needed.
“You are cutting off my circulation,” Bakunin said at one point.
“Should we cry now or later?” Sundance retorted.
Blade applied two strips around Bakunin’s mouth, effectively gagging the Soviet officer. “This should keep you comfy until we return.” He eased his Bowie under his shirt.
Bakunin’s eyes were simmering pools of hatred.
Blade accelerated, seeking another turnoff. He found a field after driving 60 yar
ds, an overgrown patch of weeds and brush to his left, and he angled the jeep into the densest undergrowth. He stopped when he was satisfied the jeep was concealed from passersby on the road. “This will suffice,” he announced, and switched off the ignition, placing the keys in his right front pants pocket.
Sundance replaced his Grizzly under his shirt. “What’s our first move?”
he queried as he buttoned up.
“We’ll see how close we can get to that wall,” Blade said. “Check out the layout.”
Sundance grabbed his FN 50-63 and exited the jeep.
Blade verified the strips binding Bakunin were tight, then patted the captain on the head. “I want to thank you for your assistance. We couldn’t have done it without you.” He chuckled.
Bakunin vented his anger in a string of expletives, his words muffled by the gag.
“Be nice,” Blade baited him. “And make yourself right at home. We’ll be back in a bit.” He climbed from the jeep, clutching the Commando in his right hand.
Sundance was waiting at the front of the vehicle.
Blade took the lead, moving off into the brush, heading for a row of trees close to the wall. Bright lights were discernible through the trees.
A tinge of faint light rimmed the eastern horizon.
“We’ll have to hurry!” Blade remarked. “Dawn isn’t far off.”
Sundance nodded.
The two Warriors jogged to the row of trees and took cover behind two maple trunks, Sundance to Blade’s right.
Blade peered around the bole of the tree, scanning the landscape ahead.
A field, 20 yards in width, separated the trees from the stone wall.
Brilliant spotlights were attached at regular intervals along the top of the wall, aligned toward the field. A half-dozen towering structures reared skyward on the far side of the wall.
Sundance uttered a low whistle.
Blade glanced to the right.
Two soldiers were strolling along the base of the wall, AK-47’s slung over their shoulders, coming toward the Warriors.
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