The three remaining soldiers hesitated. One of them turned and dashed for the gate, intending to open it and seek shelter inside. But three shots struck him in the middle of his back, between his shoulder blades, and he was hurled forward to crash into the unyielding iron gate. He slumped to the earth.
One of the guards spotted a faint gun flash near the large oak, and charged, firing his AK-47 at the tree, his rounds chipping bark from the trunk. He managed four strides before he was hit in the right eye. His body jerked to the right and flopped to the grass.
The last guard, having seen his comrades die and realizing there was nowhere he could flee, dropped his AK-47 and raised his hands above his head, mustering a feeble grin. His grin vanished, collapsing inward and filling his mouth with blood and chunks of teeth, as a shot penetrated his mouth and exited out the back of his neck. A look of amazement flitted across his features, and he tottered and fell.
Sundance raced from cover, sprinting the 20 yards to the wall and then running to the gate. He stepped over the body of one of the guards, peering inside.
Lights were coming on in a low structure approximately 50 yards distant, to the left of the front gate.
Sundance leaned against the wall and hastily replaced the partially spent magazine in the FN. He wanted a full clip when the soldiers arrived on the scene. He tossed the partially spent magazine aside and pulled a fresh clip from his right rear pants pocket. As he inserted the magazine, loud shouting arose from within the complex. He glanced around the corner of the wall, between the iron gate bars.
A cluster of 10 to 12 troopers had gathered at the entrance to the low structure. They were yelling and gesturing toward the front gate.
Sundance grinned. He suspected the low structure was a barracks for the soldiers. They would need to cross a wide lawn before reaching the gate, and would be sitting ducks for 40 yards or so. A row of trees lined the road beyond the gate, but the road and the trees would be to the right.
A long drive connected the barracks to the road, and someone had thoughtfully neglected to line the drive with trees.
More shouting. Seven of the Russian soldiers started running in the direction of the gate.
Sundance rested the FN barrel on one of the horizontal bars in the iron gate. He patiently waited until the soldiers were only 30 yards off, then squeezed the trigger and held it down.
The seven troopers jerked and thrashed as they were hit. Only one of them was able to get off a shot. Surprised in the open, they died en masse, their bodies bunched together.
Louder yelling from the barracks.
Sundance took a deep breath to calm himself. His blood was racing, his adrenaline pumping. In a strange sort of way, he was enjoying himself, despite the over-whelming odds. He’d fought in the battle for the Home against the Doktor’s forces, but this was different, different even than fighting the scavengers. This time it was him against an army, and he relished the challenge. He would buy Blade the time the Warrior chief needed, or he would perish in the attempt.
Soldiers continued to pile from the barracks. An officer took command, and with a wave of his right arm led ten of them toward the gate.
Sundance sighted the FN.
It was do-or-die time!
Chapter Sixteen
The Russian soldier, a private, was carrying a tray of dirty dishes and an empty carton of milk. He inadvertently started as a giant wrenched the door in front of him open, but then he saw the uniform and grinned.
“Comrade! You scared the hell out of me!”
Blade froze. The soldier had an AK-47 slung over his left shoulder.
The young guard glanced over his shoulder at the gloomy hallway, then stared at Blade, his expression evidencing a certain nervousness. “You won’t report me, will you?”
“Report you?” Blade repeated.
The soldier hefted the tray. “I know we are not permitted to eat on duty, but I become so bored at night when there is little to do, and my friend in the kitchen…” He abruptly stopped, his eyes narrowing, focused on the Commando.
Blade bent his right leg at the knee.
“Where did you get that weapon?” the guard asked. “That is not standard issue.” He raked Blade from head to toe. “And your uniform does not seem quite right,” he stupidly blurted out.
Blade flicked his right leg out, striking the guard on the left kneecap.
There was a distinct snapping noise, and the guard gasped and dropped his food tray. Blade’s left hand gripped the guard by the shirt before he could fall. The tray clattered to the tiled floor. Blade moved into the hallway, closing the door behind him. He shoved the Commando barrel into the guard’s frightened face.
“Please!” the guard cried. “Don’t kill me!”
“That depends on you!” Blade informed him.
The guard’s thin lips were quivering. “I think my knee is broken!”
“You knee will be the least of your problems if you don’t cooperate,” Blade stated menacingly.
“What do you want?” the guard wailed.
“The Vikings.”
The guard’s brown eyes widened. “The Vikings?”
“Are you hard of hearing?” Blade snapped. “Where are they?” He decided to try a bluff. “And don’t play games with me! I know they’re here!”
“They were here,” the guard exclaimed.
“What do you mean?”
The guard motioned toward a series of doors in the hallway to their rear. “They were held here while the Committee for State Security questioned them.”
“And what happened to them?” Blade queried.
The guard’s mouth turned downward. “They… did not survive the questioning.”
“They died?” Blade probed.
The guard nodded.
Blade jammed the Commando barrel into the guard’s cheek. “I don’t believe you!”
“It’s true!” the guard insisted in terror. “The last one died four days ago! The Security people were not lenient in their interrogations!”
Blade frowned. He’d anticipated this eventuality, but dreaded it all the same. Too much time had elapsed since the Vikings were captured, and the Soviets were not notorious for allowing their captives to live once the required information had been obtained.
The information!
“Where’s their office?” Blade demanded.
“What?” the guard responded, perplexed.
“The office of the Committee for State Security,” Blade said.
The guard blanched. “You are joking, yes?”
Blade’s countenance hardened. “Do I look like I’m joking?”
“But it would be im—” the guard started to object.
Blade smacked the Commando barrel against the guard’s head. “They must have an office in this building! Somewhere where they could conduct their interrogations in private! Where is it?”
The guard pressed his left hand to his injured ear. “Upstairs,” he answered.
“How far up?” Blade asked.
“Three floors,” the guard revealed.
“Come on!” Blade yanked the guard toward the door.
“What are you doing?”
“You’re going to take me to their office,” Blade told him.
“No!” the guard protested. “They will kill me when they find out!”
Blade paused. “I won’t tell them if you don’t! But I will kill you right here and now if you don’t take me to their office! So what’s it going to be?”
The guard was clearly scared out of his wits.
Blade shoved him toward the door. “Get going!”
Whining, the guard hobbled to the door and opened it.
“Up the stairwell!” Blade barked. “Move it!”
They ascended the stairs, proceeding slowly, impeded by the guard’s injured knee. As they reached the appropriate landing, a muted siren began wailing in the distance.
Blade halted. “What’s that?”
The guard cocked hi
s head. “The security alarm.”
Blade rammed the Commando barrel into the guard’s back. “They must know I’m here!”
“I don’t think so!” the guard replied, afraid of receiving a round in the spinal column.
“Why?”
“It sounds like it is coming from out near the barracks,” the guard explained, hoping to alleviate the giant’s obvious tension and reduce his risk of being shot. “If they knew you were here, the alarms in Penza Hall would go off.”
Blade gazed up the stairwell. Why would they be blaring an alarm outside? Did it have something to do with Sundance? “Keep moving!” he ordered.
The guard cautiously eased open one of the two yellow doors, the one on the left, and looked in both directions. “All clear,” he claimed.
Blade pushed the guard into the hallway, then followed. The corridor was indeed deserted. “Where’s their office?”
“This way,” the guard said, pointing to the right.
Blade nudged the guard with the Commando. “Lead the way.”
The guard limped down the hall and stopped at one of the many doors.
“This is it.”
Blade glanced at the door. Printed in English—along with strange letters from another language, undoubtedly Russian—were the words.
COMMITTEE FOR STATE SECURITY. STAFF PERSONNEL ONLY.
“Try the knob,” Blade directed.
The guard did. “It is locked.”
“Step aside.” Blade waited while the guard shuffled a few feet further along the corridor. He placed his right hand on the door and tested the knob, verifying the door was locked.
“See? We can’t get in,” the guard said. “We should leave!”
Blade’s right arm tightened, his massive muscles rippling, as he applied his prodigious strength to the lock. He grit his teeth, concentrating on the door, and he almost missed the guard’s attack. A glimmer of flashing light alerted him at the last instant.
The guard had drawn a knife from concealment, and he made a growling noise deep in his throat as he stabbed the sharp knife up and in, going for the giant’s chest. He believed he’d caught the giant completely unawares, so he was all the more surprised when his first blow missed, and was amazed when the giant swung the machine-gun barrel toward him but didn’t squeeze the trigger. The guard realized the giant wouldn’t shoot because the shots would bring troops on the run. He waved the knife in the air. “I’m going to carve you up into little pieces for what you did to my knee!” he stated confidently. He failed to notice the giant’s right hand as it inched under his bulky uniform shirt.
“You talk too much,” the giant said.
“Do I?” the guard rejoined, and slashed his knife at the giant’s face.
Blade easily evaded the knife, drawing his face out of range, and then stepped in close and swept the right Bowie out and up, the 15-inch blade burying itself to the hilt in the stupefied guard’s throat below the chin.
The guard stiffened and dropped his knife, gurgling as his blood poured from his neck. He gasped and futilely endeavored to withdraw the Bowie, but the giant’s steely arm held the blade fast. He opened his mouth to speak, but only a rivulet of blood ushered forth. His eyelids fluttered, and he expired.
Blade wrenched the Bowie free, his hand and forearm caked with dripping crimson.
The guard pitched to the floor.
Blade wiped the Bowie clean on the guard’s pant leg, then slid the big knife into its sheath. He quickly slung the Commando over his right shoulder, then applied both of his hands to the doorknob. Straining his arms to the utmost, he simultaneously pushed and twisted. For half a minute nothing transpired. And then the inner jamb rent with a splintering crunch, and the door swung open, the doorknob snapping off in his hands.
The siren was still wailing in the distance.
Blade entered the KGB office. There were doors to his left and right.
Against the right wall was a desk; against the left wall a file cabinet. He moved to the cabinet and tried the top drawer.
The damn thing was locked.
Blade returned to the hallway and found the guard’s knife. It had a relatively thick six-inch blade. He re-entered the office, crossed to the file cabinet, and gripped the top drawer with his right hand while holding the knife, blade pointed downward, in his left. He exerted pressure on the drawer, and was rewarded by a quarter inch gap appearing at the top of the drawer. He inserted the knife blade all the way to the handle, and started prying on the drawer with the knife while pulling on the handle with his right hand. A minute elapsed. Two. The drawer came open with a resounding metallic pop. He paused and listened.
The corridor was quiet.
Blade rummaged through the dozens of folders in the top drawer. They were all labeled, some in Russian, some in English. None of them appeared to have any connection with the Vikings. He leaned over and tugged on the second drawer, delighted when it slid right open. A hasty search was fruitless. He knelt and opened the third, final, drawer.
And there they were.
Three manilla files, each headed with the word VIKINGS. He scooped them out and flipped through the pages. Some of the contents were in Russian, some in English. He wondered why. He knew the Russians were bilingual. They had to be. Many of their troopers were conscripted, brainwashed Americans. Many of the bureaucrats were native citizens as well, and perhaps the conquered Americans found it too difficult to learn Russian fluently. Perhaps the reports in the files were duplicated, one in Russian, one in English. Whatever the case, Blade determined, now was not the time to reflect on the issue. He extracted the files, unbuttoned his shirt, and tucked them over his abdomen. Hurriedly buttoning the shirt, he rose and started for the door.
That was when the brainstorm hit.
Blade halted, went to the desk, and tried several of its drawers. None of them were locked. He discovered a fingernail file, a brush, a mirror in the second one he opened. In the third he found a pack of matches. Smiling, he walked to the KGB files and opened all three drawers. He lit a match, then touched the flame to the files. A folder sparked, then burst into flame.
He swiftly repeated the procedure with each drawer. The room was filled with smoke by the time he stood, dropped the matches into the top drawer, and ran into the corridor.
The KGB was in for a nasty surprise.
Blade jogged toward the stairwell. He had the information the Freedom Federation needed. But it wouldn’t, be of any use if he didn’t make it out of the Ministry alive. He flung the stairwell door open, stepped onto the landing.
“Freeze!” someone bellowed from overhead.
Ulade glanced up.
A Russian soldier was leaning over the railing half a flight above, his AK-47 trained on the Warrior.
Chapter Seventeen
“Where do you think your friends went?” Libby asked.
“I don’t know,” Bertha admitted.
“Maybe they split on you,” pudgy Eddy suggested.
“And left the SEAL here?” Bertha rejoined.
They were standing next to the transport. The sun was just cresting the eastern horizon. None of the Claws had been able to sleep after the incident with the nocturnal Hunter. Shortly before daybreak, Cole had recommended finding Bertha’s friends. Libby and Eddy came along. The rest were told to remain in the cabin.
“They’ll be back,” Cole said.
“If they don’t get racked,” Eddy commented.
Bertha glanced at Pudgy. “Boy! Ain’t you the cheery one!”
“What the hell do I have to be happy about?” Eddy responded.
“How about getting out of there, for one thing,” Libby remarked.
“I’ll believe it when I see it,” was Eddy’s retort.
Bertha leaned against the SEAL. The doors were locked, and only Blade had a key. There was nothing she could do, nowhere she could go, until Blade and Sundance returned. But who knew how long that could take?
They must have departed for Phi
ladelphia last night! She was slightly miffed they had gone on without her. But she knew the Big Guy pretty well, knew he wouldn’t allow anything to interfere with the mission.
Usually. There had been that time in Thief River Falls.
“So what do we do now?” Libby inquired. She, like Cole and Eddy, carried an AK-47.
“We wait for my buddies,” Bertha stated.
“How long? A day? A week?” Eddy asked.
Cole glared at Eddy. “Shut up,” he snapped.
Eddy did.
Bertha studied Cole. The Claw leader had been abnormally silent on the trek from the log cabin. What was he thinking about? The prospect of living at the home? Of delivering the Claws from a savage existence of survival of the fittest?
“We could leave one of us here,” Libby proposed, “and the rest of us could wait at the cabin.” She paused. “I don’t like leaving the younger ones alone.”
“They can take care of themselves,” Eddy said.
Cole stared in the general direction of their hideout. “Libby, you can stay here with Bertha. Eddy and I will go back.”
“Fine by me,” Libby stated.
“Hey!” Eddy said. “Do you guys hear something?”
Bertha suddenly did, and an icy sensation crept over her skin.
Gunshots. Coming from the…
“The cabin!” Cole shouted, and was off, racing at breakneck speed.
Libby and Eddy took off after him.
Bertha clutched her M-16 and followed. The three Claws were able to traverse the terrain at an uncanny speed. Years of practice had endowed them with exceptionally fleet feet and remarkable skill at negotiating obstacles in their path. She was able to keep Libby and Eddy in sight, but couldn’t gain on them. Her forehead began hurting again. She’d examined the wound during the night. There was a ragged two-inch gash along her hairline,, but otherwise she seemed to be fine. She doubted she had a concussion. Her head had sustained tremendous blows in the past. Hickok liked to say it was the hardest head he knew of. But what did he know?
Liberty Run Page 15