Miami Run

by David Robbins

  A portly man with a shotgun abruptly jumped up from concealment behind the front desk, his appearance accompanied by the instantaneous, simultaneous discharge of a pair of pearl-handled .357 Magnums. He dropped from sight.

  Hickok reached the glass doors and stood to the right, his Pythons trained on the lobby.

  No one else seemed disposed to dispute the Warriors.

  Blade grasped Barbish’s left shoulder and propelled the Dealer outside.

  They’d made it!

  Or had they?

  A pair of Narc patrol cars, their sirens wailing, their lights flashing, took the nearest intersection to the south at 50 miles an hour and roared toward the Oasis.

  Chapter Nine

  Blade was fuming. His simple plan had gone awry with potentially disastrous consequences. The last thing he’d wanted to do was draw the Narcs into the conflict. The Narcs were, after all, the legal arm of the law in Miami, even if they were allied with the Dragons and the drug trade.

  But now, as he watched the two patrol cars screech to a halt at the base of the concrete steps leading into the Oasis, he knew he could no longer afford the luxury of minimizing conflicts with the Dragons or the Narcs.

  Two officers piled from each cruiser. All four were armed with revolvers. They started to train their weapons on the giant at the top of the stairs. “Freeze!” one of them bellowed. “You’re under arrest!”

  Blade fired from the right hip, sweeping the Paratrooper in a semicircle.

  A pair of Narcs were stitched across their chests and flung to the tarmacadam.

  The pedestrians on the sidewalk between the concrete steps and Collins Avenue, many of whom had stopped to stare at the Narc cruisers, panicked. Screaming and shouting, they frantically endeavored to remove themselves from the line of fire. Some were trampled in the process. The flow of traffic on Collins was disrupted by drivers slamming on their brakes. Horns blared. Bedlam ensued.

  Hickok and Rikki came through the glass doors.

  The surviving pair of Narcs took cover in the shelter of their patrol car.

  One of them jumped up and fired a hurried shot. He missed.

  Hickok didn’t. His right Python blasted, the slug boring through the Narc’s skull and knocking the officer backwards.

  “On me!” Blade barked, running to the south, his left hand clamped on Barbish’s arm.

  Hickok jogged after them.

  The last Narc tried to shoot the gunman in the back, rising and placing his gun hand on the roof of the cruiser to steady his aim. He glimpsed another man on the concrete steps to his left, a man in black, and perceived that he’d miscalculated. Drastically.

  Rikki-Tikki-Tavi fired the M-16 from a distance of less than 20 feet.

  The final Narc twisted and fell, his head riddled.

  Rikki took off.

  The people crowding the sidewalk were scrambling to get out of the path of the Warriors. Many ran into the avenue, causing cars to brake abruptly, adding to the mass confusion. More sirens pierced the night, drawing ever closer to the Oasis.

  Blade slowed, waiting for Hickok and Rikki to catch up. He swept the Paratrooper back and forth, clearing the sidewalk as everyone in front of him moved aside. Footsteps pounded behind him.

  “Where we headin’, pard?” Hickok asked, his eyes on Collins Avenue.

  He saw a car rear-end another.

  “We’ve got to get out of Miami,” Blade stated.

  Rikki raced up to them. “Clear to our rear,” he declared.

  Blade nodded and pressed forward, peering to the south. How far was it? A quarter of a mile? Less? Would it still be there, or had the Narcs found it?

  “You’ve done it now, prick!” Barbish commented.

  Blade ignored the Dealer, scanning the cars parked adjacent to the curb. Where was it?

  “You’ve killed Narcs,” Barbish said. “No one kills a Narc and gets away with it! They have a fraternal spirit. Do something to any one of them, and you wind up with every one of them on your case.” He snorted. “They’ll hunt you down.”

  Blade increased his pace, concerned by the growling volume of sirens.

  Most of the Narcs in the city must be converging on the Oasis!

  “I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes!” Barbish remarked.

  “Can I plug this varmint?” Hickok asked. “His prattle is startin’ to get to me.”

  “We need him,” Blade said.

  “Can I shoot him when we’re done with him?”

  “Be my guest,” Blade offered.

  “Thanks, pard.”

  Barbish clammed up.

  Blade spied several Narc patrol cars speeding toward them from the south. He could see their lights flaring, and he judged the cruisers were less than two blocks off. And he’d also noticed something else. The farther south the Warriors proceeded from the Oasis, the fewer frightened pedestrians they encountered. The actual witnesses to the fight with the Narcs were lingering in the vicinity of the Oasis. None had dared follow the Warriors. The people directly ahead had no way of knowing the Warriors were the reason for the turmoil. Blade forced himself to walk at a normal rate. He threaded through a crowd watching the approaching cruisers.

  “Why’d you slow down, pard?” Hickok queried.

  “Act innocent,” Blade said.

  “What?”

  “The Pythons.”

  Hickok looked at his Colts, at the crowd, then at the fast-coming patrol cars. He grinned and twirled the Pythons into their holsters.

  Rikki slung the M-16 over his left shoulder.

  The Narc vehicles were under a block off.

  Hickok clasped his hands behind his back and started whistling a random tune.

  Blade lowered the Paratrooper alongside his right leg. His left hand closed in a vise on the Dealer’s arm.

  “You’re hurting me!” Barbish hissed.

  The patrol cars raced north on Collins Avenue.

  Blade speeded up again with the Dealer struggling to match his lengthy stride. The avenue was well lit by the streetlights, and he knew he’d have no difficulty recognizing the car when he saw it. Provided it was there. As he covered more and more ground, traversing four more blocks, he seriously doubted he would locate the vehicle. But a few minutes later, as he was crossing an intersection, he discerned the golden finish on the car in question and smiled.

  Hickok’s keen eyes saw the vehicle too. “Isn’t that the buggy—” he began.

  “It is,” Blade verified.

  “Are you thinkin’ what I think you’re thinkin’?” Hickok questioned.

  “I am,” Blade confirmed.

  “Can I drive?” Hickok asked excitedly.

  “We’ll see,” Blade said. He neared the car cautiously, puzzled. Someone, either on Collins Avenue or on the sidewalk, had to have seen him dispatch the Genie and Hugo. And if someone did, then logic dictated that that person would report the deaths to the Narcs. The Narcs would send a patrol car to check the story. But there was no sign of the Narcs in the immediate vicinity. The big gold and chrome vehicle was exactly as he’d left it: parked at the curb, with all the doors closed. None of the passersby were paying any excessive attention to it.

  Was it possible no one had seen the Genie and Hugo die?

  Or had there been a witness, but the witness had preferred to remain silent? Was it natural for a citizen in Miami to automatically report a crime? Did the populace trust and rely upon the Narcs, or did they resort to contacting the police only under extreme circumstances?

  He didn’t know.

  And he wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

  Blade walked up to the rear door on the passenger side and opened it.

  “Inside,” he directed the Dealer.

  Barbish bent over at the waist and started to climb in. His body tensed and he gasped when he observed the pair of corpses. “What the hell!” he blurted.

  Blade prodded the Dealer with the Paratrooper. “Inside! We’ll dispose of them later.�
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  Barbish sat down on the driver’s side. He was forced to rest his legs on the bodies.

  “You drive,” Blade told the gunman. “Rikki, you get in front. I’ll keep our friend company.” He slid in and slammed the door.

  “Who are these guys?” Barbish asked, nodding at the corpses.

  “They dealt in drugs,” Blade responded acidly.

  “Pushers?” Barbish said, aghast.

  Hickok and Rikki entered the car.

  The gunman studied the instrument panel for a moment. “Where the blazes is the key?”

  Blade glanced at the Dealer. “Search Hugo.”

  “Who?”

  Blade tapped the bodyguard’s bald pate. “Hugo. Search his pockets. He was carrying the keys.”

  Barbish scrunched up his nose. “You want me to touch him?”

  “Unless you’re adept at telekinesis,” Blade quipped.

  “Tele-what?”

  “Find the car keys,” Blade directed. . Barbish leaned over the bodies and reached his arms under the Genie. He started and jerked his right arm up, his hand coated with blood.

  “Squeamish son of a gun, isn’t he?” Hickok remarked.

  “Keep looking,” Blade ordered.

  Barbish hesitated, then applied himself to the task once again. He ran his fingers over the black’s body, feeling for pockets. Locating a pants pocket, he plunged his left hand inside, awash with relief as his fingers closed on a key ring. About to extract the keys, his right hand bumped against a hard object attached to the black’s belt above the hip. He traced the outline of the object and suppressed a surge of elation at his discovery: a derringer. “I can’t seem to find any keys,” he remarked casually. His torso was bent over the corpses, screening his arms and hands from the bastards holding him. Here was his chance to gain the upper hand! He could get the drop on them! The thought made him tingle! He owed these sons of bitches! How he owed them! He would personally officiate at their torture.

  “You haven’t found them yet?” Blade asked skeptically.

  Barbish shook his head. “No. Not…” he said, then pretended to grope the corpse. “Wait! Here they are!” His right hand eased the derringer from its small leather holster, and he grinned triumpantly as he straightened, bringing the derringer up. Expecting to take his captors unawares, he was all the more shocked to behold a Paratrooper, M-16, and a pair of Colt Python revolvers trained on his head.

  “Drop the derringer,” Blade commanded.

  “And do it quick,” Hickok added. “My trigger fingers are a mite itchy.”

  Barbish allowed the derringer to fall to the seat.

  Hickok made a smacking noise. “Tisk! Tisk! Didn’t your Ma ever teach you any manners?” He holstered his Magnums.

  Blade picked up the derringer, examined it, then placed the gun in his left rear pocket. “The keys. Now!”

  Barbish frowned as he reached his left hand down to the appropriate pocket again and withdrew the key ring. He held the ring aloft. “Here,” he said bitterly.

  “Thanks,” Hickok said, taking the keys in his right hand and turning.

  “Can you drive this thing?” Blade asked.

  “Piece of cake,” the gunman responded. “It’s an automatic, just like the SEAL.”

  Blade nodded. The SEAL was the impervious, vanlike vehicle constructed by the Family’s Founder prior to World War Three as a prototype. Solar powered, outfitted with deadly armaments, and capable of traversing any terrain, the SEAL was employed by the Warriors on most of their trips into the Outlands or elsewhere. The Solar-Energized, Amphibious or Land Vehicle was unlike any other in existence.

  Hickok inspected the key ring, found one he felt would fit, and inserted it in the ignition. He twisted the key and the car’s engine rumbled to life.

  “Which way are we headin’?” he asked.

  Blade looked at the Dealer. “You heard the man.”

  “You can either drive north until we reach Dade Boulevard,” Barbish stated, “and then take the Venetian Causeway across Biscayne Bay to Miami, or you can make a U-turn and go south and take the General MacArthur Causeway.”

  “How many Causeways are there?” Blade inquired.

  “Four,” Barbish replied. “The Kennedy is fartherest north, then the Tuttle, the Venetian, and the MacArthur.”

  Blade recalled the Narc mentioning the first two. Of course, the Warriors had been in northwest Miami at the time, then drifted to the south, eventually taking the Venetian Causeway by bus.

  “Which way should I go?” Hickok queried.

  Blade debated for a moment. If they went north toward the Venetian again, they would have to pass the Oasis Resort Hotel. The hotel was undoubtedly swarming with Narcs and Dragons, and he didn’t relish the idea of driving past and risking detection. “Make a U-turn,” he instructed.

  “We’ll take the General MacArthur Causeway.”

  Hickok shifted into Drive, turned the steering wheel sharply to the left, and tromped on the gas.

  “Take it slow!” Blade said, but his advice came a second tardy.

  The car barreled out of the parking space and shot across Collins Avenue, its tires screeching. Oncoming traffic was thrown into confusion; brakes squealed, drivers shouted obscenities, and vehicles slewed to abrupt stops.

  “What a bunch of lousy drivers!” Hickok remarked, grinning as he wheeled the gold car south on Collins.

  “Don’t attract attention,” Blade declared.

  “Too late,” Rikki mentioned, gazing out the rear window.

  Blade glanced over his left shoulder, his eyes narrowing as he spotted a Narc cruiser bearing down on them with its lights and siren on.

  Hickok looked into the rearview mirror. “Are they after us?”

  Barbish unexpectedly laughed. “Oh! Did I forget to tell you?”

  “Tell us what?” Blade responded.

  “That U-turns are illegal on Collins Avenue,” Barbish said with relish.

  “Too much traffic, you know.”

  Blade’s mouth curled downwards. “You told us to make a U-turn on purpose, hoping it would attract one of the patrol cars.”

  “Who? Me?” Barbish said, the picture of innocence.

  “What do I do?” Hickok asked. “Stop or keep going?”

  The cruiser was a block to their rear, moving fast.

  “If we pull over,” Rikki noted, “they will see the bodies.”

  “Not to mention Barbish,” Blade said.

  “Do we outrun the coyotes?” Hickok questioned eagerly.

  “You can’t outrun a Narc car,” Barbish informed them. “Their vehicles have high-performance engines. They’re souped up. You wouldn’t get two blocks.”

  Blade felt his frustration mounting. He wanted to get out of Miami Beach swiftly, but they were being thwarted at every turn.

  The Narc cruiser roared toward them.

  “Roll down your window,” Blade directed the Dealer.

  Barbish balked. “Why?”

  Blade rammed the Paratrooper into the Dealer’s ribs. “Do it!”

  Barbish grunted, then hastily complied.

  “Lean back,” Blade snapped. He rested the tip of the Paratrooper barrel on the door, his finger on the trigger.

  With a harsh blare of its sirens, its lights spinning, the Narc vehicle pulled abreast of their car. A Narc on the passenger side had his window down, and he waved at them to veer to the curb.

  Blade fired instead, his initial burst catching the Narc in the head and flinging him backwards. He kept firing as the Narc vehicle started to slow, his rounds punching into the patrol car’s windshield, shattering the glass and riddling the driver.

  The Narc cruiser angled to the left, into the opposite lane, narrowly missing a station wagon. Its speed still over 60, the patrol car plowed into a red sedan parked at the curb, the impact thrusting the sedan onto the sidewalk. Both vehicles flattened a number of pedestrians.

  Blade looked back to see a fireball envelop the Narc cruiser. />
  “You bastards!” Barbish said.

  “You’re the one who tried to get us caught,” Blade mentioned. “Try it again and I’ll shoot you in the knee. Consider this your last warning.”

  Barbish started to say something, but thought better of the idea. If his abductors wanted to go to his Director’s estate, fine. He would take them.

  Once there, though, they were in for an unpleasant surprise. He suppressed an impulse to smile. There was no sense in giving away his ace in the hole.

  One thing was for sure.

  He would piss on their graves!

  Chapter Ten

  “So where is it?”

  “It’s just up ahead.”

  “That’s what you said a mile ago,” Blade noted.

  “Cut me some slack!” Barbish retorted. “The cutoff isn’t easy to see in broad daylight, let alone at night! Just look for a dirt road on the left. The road leads south to Paolucci’s estate.”

  The gold car was heading west on Highway 41, its headlights illuminating the trees and other vegetation lining both sides. Traffic during the hours preceding the dawn was sparse.

  “Any sign of a turnoff?” Blade asked Hickok.

  The gunman shook his head. “Not yet, pard.” He was driving at 30 miles an hour, hunched over the steering wheel, his gaze riveted to the left side of the highway.

  Blade stared at the Dealer, wondering if the man was leading them on a wild-goose chase. He doubted Barbish would be that stupid. Perhaps the cutoff was genuinely hard to spot at night. In any event, he—

  “Blast!” Hickok muttered, applying the brakes. “Missed it.”

  Blade looked out the rear window, spying a break in the vegetation, a lighter patch of gravel.

  Hickok executed a tight U-turn and drove to the turnoff, then braked.

  The gravel road receded into the distance without any trace of a light or indication of habitation.

  “I don’t see an estate,” Blade remarked.

  “We have about ten miles to go,” Barbish said. “Arlo lives in the middle of nowhere, on forty acres surrounded by swamp. He likes his privacy.”

  “Keep driving,” Blade instructed the gunman.