Capital Run

by David Robbins

  Even the serum has drawbacks. It is not infallible, and has adverse side effects. You say I am treating him politely. Hasn’t it occurred to you there is a reason for this? I am judging the man, evaluating his character. By pretending to be friendly, I might win his confidence. I could learn his weaknesses. He might unwittingly reveal an exploitable factor we can use to our advantage. Didn’t you see the look on his face when he mentioned the name of his vehicle? He didn’t intend to tell us, but it slipped out. Do you comprehend?”

  Lieutenant Voroshilov nodded sheepishly.

  “I can turn him over to the KGB at any time,” General Malenkov went on. “What’s the rush? This is a most extraordinary case. I recognized its importance the moment I saw the report on this SEAL. Why do you think I took personal charge of the case? Why did I order this man to be brought here? We must proceed slowly. This calls for finesse, not brute force.” He thoughtfully stared at the tiled floor. “Our own vehicles are in disrepair.

  We don’t have enough spare parts to go around. Our helicopter fleet has been greatly reduced, and we dare not use our jets because they are too old and unreliable. Yet this SEAL appears to be in perfect shape. We must learn more about it and the people who own it. Do they have any more?

  Where did it really come from? I don’t believe Hickok’s story for a second.

  We must be patient, lieutenant. Haste only breeds incompetence.”

  Unnoticed by the picture window, Hickok surreptitiously peered at his captors. The general and the lieutenant were having a heart-to-heart about something, and they both had their backs to him. The third soldier, the one with the pistol, had relaxed his guard and was listening to the two officers.

  This might be his big chance!

  The wooden stand with his Pythons was to the left of the officers. The armed soldier was to their right.

  How could he get to his Colts without being shot?

  Hickok scanned the room. To his right was the row of medical equipment. He spotted a shelf near the edge of the window. On the shelf were shiny instruments: a forked object, one with a small circular mirror on its tip, a metal disk, and others. One of them appeared to be a thin knife.

  The general and the lieutenant were talking away.

  Hickok casually ambled toward the shelf, his hands clasped in front of him, his back to the room, feigning interest in the White House.

  The Russians didn’t seem to notice.

  Hickok reached the end of the window and calmly glanced behind him, a smile on his lips.

  General Malenkov and Lieutenant Voroshilov were still jabbering. The third soldier idly glanced at the gunman, then back at the officers.

  Hickok nonchalantly leaned his right hand on the shelf while gazing out the window. Slowly, expecting to be challenged at any moment, he inched his fingers to the handle of the silver knife. He covered the handle with his palm, then slowly closed his hand around the knife.

  Malenkov was expounding on some subject to Voroshilov.

  Hickok mentally counted to ten, and then eased his right hand from the shelf and lowered it by his side.

  None of the Russians had noticed.

  Hickok held the knife close to his leg.

  “I must leave now,” General Malenkov said in English to the gunman. “I will return in an hour and escort you to the commissary.”

  “The what?” Hickok asked.

  “The commissary,” General Malenkov said. “You will be able to eat.”

  “Thanks,” Hickok stated. “I’m so hungry I could eat a horse.”

  “I will treat you to some,” Malenkov commented. “It’s a dish.”

  “What’s in it?”

  The general licked his lips. “It’s delicious. Borscht contains beets and sour cream.”

  “I can hardly wait,” Hickok said deadpan.

  General Malenkov smiled. “See you in an hour.” He walked to the door with Lieutenant Voroshilov in tow. At the door he halted and looked at the soldier with the pistol. “If he tries to escape,” the general ordered in Russian, “shoot him in the groin. I want him alive.”

  The soldier nodded and saluted.

  Hickok waved as the general and the lieutenant left the room. He grinned at the soldier and pointed at the White House. “They sure don’t make ’em like that anymore, do they?”

  The soldier didn’t respond. He was a stocky man with dark hair and a square chin. The pistol was held steady in his right hand, aimed at the gunman.

  “Don’t you savvy English?” Hickok inquired.

  The soldier remained immobile.

  “What’s the matter? Can’t you palaver without permission?” Hickok asked.

  The soldier’s face creased in perplexity.

  “So you can speak English,” Hickok said.

  “Please,” the soldier remarked, “what is ‘palaver’?”

  “It means to shoot the breeze,” Hickok explained. “Sling the bull. You know. Idle chitchat.”

  The soldier seemed even more confused. “I know English, yes. But I do not know many of the words you use.”

  Hickok took a few steps toward the soldier, acting innocent. He grinned. “That’s because I’m partial to Old West lingo I picked up in books in our library.”

  “Does everyone where you are from talk like you do?” the soldier asked.

  “Nope,” Hickok acknowledged. “I’m the only one.”

  “Most strange,” the soldier commented.

  Hickok nodded in agreement and moved several feet closer to the soldier. “That’s what my friends say too.”

  “Then why do you do it?” the soldier queried.

  “I reckon my momma must of dropped me on my noggin when I was six months old,” Hickok said. He took two more steps nearer to the soldier.

  “You will stay where you are,” the guard warned.

  Hickok shrugged. “Whatever you say, pard. But I’ve got a question for you.”

  “A question?”

  “Yeah. Do you mind if I ask it?” Hickok inquired.

  “What is your question?” the soldier wanted to know.

  “I don’t reckon there’s any chance of you letting me walk out that door, is there?” Hickok ventured to request.

  The soldier laughed. “You are not serious, yes?”

  “Deadly serious,” Hickok gravely informed him.

  The soldier shook his head. “Nyet. I can not allow you to leave this room.”

  “What would you do if I tried?” Hickok asked.

  “I would shoot you,” the soldier soberly responded.

  Hickok sighed. “And I don’t suppose there’s nothin’ I could say or do that would change your mind?”

  “I will shoot you,” the soldier reiterated.

  “Well, you can’t say I didn’t try,” Hickok said. He half turned, looking at the White House. “I can always spend my time counting the cracks in the walls.”

  The soldier shifted his attention to the decaying structure. “A most fitting fate for the decadent warmongers,” he stated, quoting from a course he’d taken in Imperialist Practices and Fallacies.

  “Speaking of fate,” Hickok said slowly. He suddenly whipped his lean body around, his right hand flashing up and out.

  The silver knife streaked across the intervening space and sliced into the soldier’s right eye. He shrieked and clutched at the hilt, but the blood spurting from his ravaged eyeball made the handle too slippery to clasp.

  His trigger finger tightened on the trigger of his pistol, but before he could pull it he started to tremble uncontrollably. Spasms racked his body. His facial muscles quivered as he arched his back and staggered into the metal table.

  Hickok knew the man was in his death throes.

  The soldier’s fingers involuntarily relaxed, straightening, and the pistol dropped to the floor. He gasped and sprawled onto the table, on his stomach, blood dribbling from the corners of his mouth, his nostrils, and his punctured eye. His good eye locked on the gunman, and with a whining wheeze he expire
d.

  Hickok walked to the wooden stand and retrieved his Pythons. He stared at the gleaming pearl-handled Colts, feeling complete again. What had they done with his Henry? he wondered. He hoped they’d overlooked it in the dark and it was still in the woods near the SEAL.

  The SEAL.

  How the blazes was he going to return to St. Louis? He needed to come up with one humdinger of an idea.

  Voices, speaking in Russian, came through the closed wooden door.

  It was time to hit the road.

  Hickok quickly checked the pythons, and it was well he did. Someone had unloaded them while he was unconscious. He slipped the necessary cartridges from his gunbelt and reloaded both Colts.

  Now let them try and stop him!

  The gunman eased to the door and cautiously opened it. He found an amply lit corridor with brown floor tiles and white walls.

  None of the varmints were in sight.

  Hickok took a deep breath and stepped out of the medical room. He closed the door behind him and hurried to the left, searching for a place of concealment, somewhere he could get his bearings.

  A door directly ahead abruptly opened and a tall woman in a white smock emerged.

  Blast!

  The woman spotted the gunman, her face registering utter bewilderment. She recovered and said something in Russian.

  Hickok bounded forward.

  The woman was opening her mouth to scream when the gunman slammed the barrel of his right Colt across her jaw.

  The woman stumbled backward, bumping into the wall.

  Hickok slugged her again for good measure.

  She sagged to the floor in a disjointed heap.

  Hickok ran now, knowing he had to get out of the building before the alarm was given. He hated being cooped up inside. Once outdoors, the odds of eluding his captors were infinitely better. He reached a fork in the corridor and bore to the left again. He was thankful he was on the ground floor; at least he wouldn’t need to contend with finding the right stairs.

  Two men, both in military uniforms, one armed with a holstered pistol, another with a machine gun— an AK-47, if Hickok remembered the gun manuals in the Family library correctly—appeared at the end of the corridor. They reacted to the gunman’s presence instantly, the one with the pistol grabbing for his holster and the other soldier sweeping his AK-47 up.

  Hickok was 30 feet from them. He never broke his stride as he leveled the Colts and fired, both Pythons booming simultaneously.

  The two soldiers each took a slug between the eyes. The one with the pistol simply fell forward, but the trooper with the AK-47 tottered backwards, crashed into the left-hand wall, and dropped.

  Hickok slowed as he neared the soldiers. He holstered the Colts and leaned over the soldier with the AK-47. “I need this more than you,” he commented, scooping the gun into his arms and continuing to the end of the hallway.

  Bingo!

  Wide glass doors were on the other side of a spacious reception area. A woman at an oaken desk was frantically punching buttons on an instrument of some kind.

  Hickok was abreast of her desk before he recalled the name of the contraption she was using: a telephone. They had used them before the Big Blast for communications purposes.

  The woman started yelling into the receiver.

  Hickok gripped the barrel of the AK-47 and swung it like a club, striking the receptionist on the left side of her head.

  She slid from her chair to the floor, the telephone plopping alongside her.

  Move!

  Hickok ran to the glass doors. He paused, confused. The dang things didn’t have any doorknobs! How was he supposed to—

  The doors unexpectedly parted with a pronounced hiss.

  What the—

  Hickok raced outside. Never look a gift horse in the mouth! he always said. He scanned the scenery before him. From the position of the sun, he knew he was heading due south. In front, a park with trees and grass and couples strolling arm-in-arm and kids playing with puppies. To the right, a parking lot filled with vehicles. To the left, a sidewalk and a hedgerow.

  Which way?

  Hickok bore to the left, making for the hedge. He could hide and take a breather while he-Four soldiers pounded into view, coming his way, jogging around the hedgerow on the sidewalk.

  Someone in the park had seen the gunman and was shouting at the top of his lungs.

  In the parking lot, three troopers hopped from a jeep and raced toward him.

  Behind him, the glass doors hissed open, disgorging three more soldiers in hot pursuit.

  Hickok crouched and raised the AK-47.

  So much for subterfuge!

  Chapter Fourteen

  The blast of the Browning was practically deafening in the narrow confines of the hallway.

  The leading Leather Knight toppled forward, shot through the chest.

  Blade aimed at a second target, his finger tightening on the trigger.

  A hard object rammed into the small of the Warrior’s back.

  “Drop it!” a stern voice commanded. “Or you can kiss your navel good-bye!”

  Blade hesitated. How had one of them managed to get behind him?

  “I ain’t kidding, sucker!” snapped the speaker, a woman by the sound of her voice. “Drop it or I’ll blow you away for what you did to Terza!”

  Blade released the Browning and it clattered to the ground.

  The onrushing Leather Knights had slowed and were cautiously advancing toward the prisoner, their weapons trained and cocked.

  “Turn around, you son of a bitch!” ordered the woman behind the Warrior.

  Blade turned, his hands held over his head.

  She was a heavyset blonde with a scowl on her face. “The name’s Erika, prick! And I’m gonna make sure you never forget it!”

  “With a face like yours,” Blade told her, “I doubt I ever will.”

  Erika’s fleshy features reddened. “I’m gonna enjoy wasting you!” She held a Ruger Security-Six revolver in her left hand.

  Blade studied the “dead end.” The central portion of the wall was actually a concealed door. Beyond Erika’s squat form was a spacious chamber basking in the light from ten lanterns. Other Knights were in the chamber, standing, staring at the doorway.

  Erika glanced at the mob in the corridor. “You did a good job. We’ll take him now.” She paused. “What about the other two? Lex and her lover boy?”

  “We didn’t see them,” admitted a stud.

  “Go look for them,” Erika said. “Search every nook and cranny. We want them found! They have to pay for what they did!”

  The Leather Knights wheeled and ran down the hall. Two of them stopped and knelt alongside the man Blade had shot.

  Erika poked Blade in the ribs with the Ruger Security-Six. “One false move and you’re history!” she warned. She backed through the doorway, beckoning with the revolver for him to follow.

  Blade entered the chamber, his arms in the air.

  There were 11 Leather Knights in the room. Like the other sections displaying evidence of recent construction, this chamber was built of brick and the floor was mere dirt. Unlike the holding chamber with the balcony, this one had a large pit in the middle of the room. The Leather Knights ringed the pit, all of them armed. Two of them stood ten feet from the door, and they riveted baleful glares on the Warrior as he appeared.

  “So happy you could join us,” said Terza dryly. She wore her black leather jacket and pants. Her Llama Super Comanche V’s were belted around her waist. “We’re havin’ a little party and you’re the guest of honor.” She seemed to experience difficulty in speaking, and her jaw was slightly swollen. Her pale blue eyes glittered as she gazed at Blade.

  Next to her, Cardew’s face reflected his sheer hatred. His right cheek was puffy and his right eye a narrow slit covered by a discolored, distended eyelid. Both of his lips were split and twice their normal size. A wooden splint had been applied to his left knee, and he had improvised a woode
n crutch to support himself.

  “I didn’t expect to see you up and around so soon,” Blade said to the stud. “I guess you have more guts than I gave you credit for. Too bad they’re all between your ears.”

  Cardew went livid.

  Terza motioned for the Warrior to come closer.

  Blade lowered his arms and advanced to within a foot of the Leather Knight leader.

  “You’re a fine one to talk about Cardew,” Terza said. “You aren’t exactly the brightest man I ever met.” She snickered. “But then, what else can you expect from a lousy man?”

  “Not much,” Erika chimed in.

  Terza sneered at Blade. “You blew it, handsome. You had your big chance and you plain blew it.” She lowered her voice so only Blade, Cardew, and Erika could overhear her remarks. “I wanted you, tiger. And like I told you before, I don’t get the hots for a man all that often. Who knows? If you’d been any good, I might have spared your ass. But as it is—”

  Blade snickered. “I don’t think I missed much.”

  Terza’s right hand gripped her right Comanche.

  “You’re the vainest woman I’ve ever met,” Blade went on. “You think all you have to do is snap your fingers and any man in the world will do anything for the… honor… of bedding you.” He paused. “You’re wrong, Terza. You don’t have the right to force a man to have sex with you. Sex isn’t some mechanical function we perform for fleeting physical gratification. Sex should be an expression of our deepest love, our tenderest feelings. You denigrate it to an animalistic level. To you, sex is on the same par with eating or sleeping or any other purely physical sensation. Why don’t you try exalting sex for once? Why don’t you find someone to love, and express your love as meaningfully sexually as you know how. You never know,” he concluded. “You might learn something.”

  “You dare talk to me like this?” Terza demanded.