A loud shout sounded behind him.
Hickok looked over his right shoulder to see the pack of mercenaries rounding the northwest corner of the house. They were hard in pursuit, and several of them yelled with excitement as they spied their quarry.
Blast!
He could forget the key.
Hickok spun and ran to the gate, sliding the right Python in its holster.
He didn’t slow or stop. Instead, he took a leap and grabbed the middle bars, holding on with all of his strength, his right shoulder twitching in excruciating torture. He resisted the waves of pain and climbed higher, hand over hand, using his left arm to bear most of his weight and shimmying upward with his legs.
The chatter of automatic fire greeted his maneuver.
Hickok heard slugs thud into the brick wall, and a few rounds pinged off the metal bars. His neck muscles bulged, his face becoming crimson, as he scaled the gate to the top horizontal bar.
Something tugged at his left leg.
Hickok draped his left arm over the top bar, girded his shoulders, and surged up and over the heavy bar. For a moment he hung suspended by his left arm alone, his right too racked with torment to use.
A stinging sensation lanced his right cheek.
He dropped to the gravel road, landing and almost losing his balance.
But he recovered and headed for the vegetation to the north, his sore right shoulder impeding his speed.
A moment later, the mercenaries pounded up to the gate and cut loose at the twisting, dodging figure in buckskins making for the shelter of the trees.
“Get the son of a bitch!”
Chapter Fifteen
In terms of experience and expertise, Rikki-Tikki-Tavi was acknowledged by the Family as one of the more deadly Warriors. Rikki practiced his martial arts skills daily. He would spend hours honing his ability to throw shuriken into logs positioned upright as makeshift targets. He continuously worked at increasing his mastery of the katana, his favorite weapon. Calloused and hardened by constant striking of hard surfaces, his hands and feet were employed in unarmed contests with other Warriors, friendly affairs with a lethal undertone. Only two Warriors could hold their own against Rikki in hand-to-hand combat: Blade and Yama.
Devoted to attaining the spiritual state of a perfected swordmaster, Rikki honed his reflexes ceaselessly. He recognized the critical importance of sharpening his reflexes to a razor readiness. When on a run, if he slacked off for just a second, it could mean the difference between life and death.
Warriors had to guard against being taken by surprise. Their reflexes must be equal to the unexpected developments of any given moment. Yet despite this fundamental knowledge, Rikki knew the impossibility of maintaining a perpetual state of hypersensitivity to imminent danger.
Invariably, inadvertently, when a Warrior least expected it, his guard would falter for a crucial interval. This happened to every Warrior at one time or another.
And now it happened to Rikki.
The martial artist was listening to his prisoner describe the interior of the compound, when from the north erupted the crack of gunfire. Rikki should have kept his eyes on the mercenary. He knew to do otherwise was a major blunder. He had trained and trained for just such a contingency.
But the gunshots sounded familiar despite the distance. Countless times he had heard Hickok fire the Pythons, and eventually, after years of familiarity, his ears could register the subtle difference between a Colt Python revolver and other firearms. So when he heard the gunshots, and when he realized that Hickok could be doing the firing, he carelessly, automatically, looked up, gazing to the north.
In that moment Sergeant Gehret struck.
The mercenary had babbled to save his life, supplying the details the man in black requested. Gradually, the intense pangs in his side and jaw had subsided to a tolerable level. His arms at his sides, he had meekly complied with the Warrior’s demands for information. But he was still, first and foremost, a seasoned, professional soldier, a mercenary of outstanding ability. He was not a man to permit an opportunity to pass untaken. And when he saw the Warrior glance to the north, he reacted with all the speed and efficiency at his command. He drove his right fist into the Warrior’s groin.
Rikki-Tikki-Tavi doubled over, gasping, his genitals afire. Any normal man would have clutched his privates and been oblivious to all else. But Rikki was not normal; his self control, his inner discipline were supreme.
Instead of allowing the agony to control him, he controlled it. Instead of wheezing for air, at the mercy of his foe, he threw himself backwards to put distance between them, tottering, every iota of his concentration devoted to regaining domination of his body.
Sergeant Gehret pushed to his feet and closed on the Warrior, performing a side thrust kick to his opponent’s midsection.
Rikki stepped to the right, evading the kick, his fluidity reduced to a mere shuffle.
Eager to press the initiative, Gehret delivered a sweep kick at the Warrior’s legs.
The blow was telegraphed by the mercenary’s stance and muscle movement, and Rikki skipped out of range. His legs were responding better to his mental commands.
Gehret made a mistake of his own. He stepped back and assumed a fighting stance, and then he violated the cardinal rule of martial-combat: He spoke. “I’m going to stomp you into the ground, little man!”
Rikki said nothing. He tensed his muscles, gauging his recovery, waiting.
“I’ve got to hand it to you,” Gehret said. “You’re good. But I’m better.”
So saying, he attempted to connect with a front rising kick to the Warrior’s head.
Rikki-Tikki-Tavi was not so easily taken. His left forearm blocked the blow and he rotated, whipping his left elbow in nearly a full circle, adding the momentum of the swing to his inherent power. His elbow caught the mercenary on the nose and crushed the cartilage, flattening the nostrils.
Gehret tottered backwards, blood pouring from his nose.
Eager to aid Hickok and Blade, Rikki wanted to end the fight promptly.
He flicked his left foot in a side kick, his heel jamming into the mercenary’s right kneecap.
Gehret stiffened and cried out as his kneecap was shattered. He hobbled to the left and tripped over a log, going down on his left side at the crest of a four-foot-high drop off, the eroded vestige of a low mound.
Rikki pressed his advantage, moving to the mercenary’s right, seeking an opening.
The realization that he was hopelessly outclassed goaded Gehret to a desperate measure. He scrambled onto his good knee, his hands in front of his torso in a defensive posture. An unorthodox ploy was called for, a strategem the Warrior wouldn’t expect. But what? What was the one tactic the man in black would never anticipate? He riveted his eyes on the Warrior as the martial artist circled him, and an insane idea gave him a straw at which to clutch. He glanced at a stretch of sandy earth below the drop-off. The ground appeared slightly soggy and ideal for his purpose.
Rikki neared the edge of the drop-off to his enemy’s right.
It could work. Gehret told himself. He shifted his body to keep the Warrior in front of him, then used his uninjured knee as a crutch and retreated a yard.
The Warrior stepped along the rim of the drop-off, his back to the sandy patch below.
Gehret waited until the man in black was at the midpoint of the rim, then put his scheme into operation. He heaved erect and started to turn, pretending to flee, hoping the Warrior would take the bait.
Rikki, believing the mercenary was foolishly striving to get away, took a stride after his foe and lowered his guard slightly.
Which was precisely the reaction Gehret was counting on. He spun on his left leg and dived, his arms outstretched, tackling the Warrior, gripping the man in black about the ankles and propelling them both toward the rim.
And over the edge.
Gehret had planned it this way. He wanted them to fall to the ground below with him on top, p
inning the Warrior beneath him. But he had failed to account for the Warrior’s reflexes.
Rikki-Tikki-Tavi flipped his body to the right in midair, and both men landed on their sides. Rikki was surprised to feel the earth yield to the impact, to feel the dirt give out under his body. The soft ground absorbed the force of the drop, and a moist, sticky substance clung to his right ear and cheek. Although he was puzzled, he knew better than to take his eyes from the mercenary. And so it was that he observed a remarkable occurrence.
As his left shoulder sank into the sandy turf, Gehret’s eyes showed stark fear. He twisted and tried to push up, but his arms sank to the elbows in the mushy soil. “No!” he cried.
Bewildered by the sight of the mercenary sinking, Rikki remained motionless, trying to comprehend what he was seeing.
Gehret endeavored to sit up, but the motion only contributed to his rate of submersion. His arms disappeared to the shoulders, his legs to his knees. Frantic, he wrenched on his arms, his blood-stained face contorted in horror. He was sinking even faster. “No!” he shouted, looking at the Warrior with an expression of pathetic despair. “Help me!” he yelled. “It’s quicksand!”
At last Rikki understood.
Even as the damp sand touched his nose.
Chapter Sixteen
“Don’t move, señor!”
Blade had risen as he spied Hickok exiting the infirmary, but he stopped, his body poised to run.
El Gato was covering him with the M-16. “Stay right where you are, Blade.” He waved his right arm at the infirmary. “Get Hickok!”
The ten mercenaries took off in pursuit of the gunfighter.
Blade reluctantly sat down, watching the tableau unfold. He saw Hickok shoot three guards, and then the gunman wheeled and ran to the north.
Where was Hickok heading? Blade thought of the front gate and smiled.
“What is so humorous about the death of one of your fellow Warriors?”
Paolucci asked.
“Hickojc isn’t dead yet.”
“He will be soon,” Paolucci vowed.
Blade listened to the gunshots coming from the north side of the house.
He could distinguish between the boom of Hickok’s revolvers and the lighter, more metallic chatter of the mercenaries’ automatic weapons.
“And for that matter, so will you,” Paolucci said.
Distracted by the noise of the running gun battle, Blade wasn’t certain he’d heard correctly. “What?” he asked belatedly.
“Your demise is at hand.”
With a conscious effort, Blade faced the Director. “What do you have in mind? A firing squad?”
Paolucci smiled. “Nothing so prosaic.”
“You’re going to feed me to the alligators?”
“Now there’s an idea!” Paolucci stated. “But, sorry to say, no. To tell you the truth, the manner of your death is not my decision to make.”
“Then whose is it?”
“Guess.”
Boom. Boom.
Hickok was still alive and kicking! Blade focused on the Director, reflecting. Insight struck him seconds later. “The Masters want to attend to my death personally?”
Paolucci nodded.
“Why am I receiving special treatment?” Blade queried. “Or do the Masters dispose of all of your enemies?”
“The Masters only involve themselves in the exceptional cases,” the Director said. “You’re receiving quite an honor.”
“How so?”
“The Masters will sacrifice you.”
“They make sacrifices?”
“Yes.”
Blade tensed as the automatic gunfire attained a crescendo. He envisioned Hickok being hit by a storm of slugs, and he shook his head to dispel the image.
Paolucci misinterpreted the movement. “You don’t believe me? I’m offended. I have no reason to lie to you. And I know whereof I speak, because I have personally attended fourteen sacrifices.”
“You stood by and watched the Masters sacrifice humans?” Blade asked in disgust. Out of the corner of his right eye he noticed El Gato frowning.
“Most of the sacrifices were Dealers gone bad,” Paolucci detailed. “The rest were troublemakers, people who couldn’t appreciate the essential social service provided by the Dragons.”
“In other words, they were against the Dragons and everything you stand for. They opposed your drug-dealing.”
“They were fools.”
“You’re the fool, if you think you can continue to control the people of Miami with drugs,” Blade said.
Paolucci did a double take, genuine amazement flickering across his features. “My compliments. Your perception is remarkable.”
“What’s so remarkable about the obvious?”
“You’re wrong, though,” the Director said. “The Dragons have controlled southern Florida for sixty-five years. We will control this area, and much more, long after your bones are bleached white by the sun.”
“You think so?”
“I know so,” Paolucci asserted. “Your problem is that you fail to understand the nature of the human condition. Most people are sheep, content to be led by anyone with the strength to assume command. All the average person cares about are the basics. Where is the next meal coming from? Where will the money come from to put clothes on their backs and keep a roof over their heads? And there’s one more consideration.” He paused. “What can help them forget all their cares and woes? What can alleviate the pain, if only for a little while? What can give them the illusion of being on top of the world, when in reality they’re in the gutter?” He smiled. “That’s where the Dragons come in. By feeding this need to feel happy in a world of suffering and sickness, by fostering their illusions, we supply an essential social service. And therein lies the source of our power.”
“You’re sick in the head,” Blade stated. “And your philosophy is perverted.”
Paolucci shrugged. “Perverted or not, the Dragons do control Miami and the rest of southern Florida. And soon we will extend our control to other areas.”
“Not if the Family can help it.”
The Director smirked. “But the Family can’t.”
Blade stared into Paolucci’s eyes. “Sooner or later, someone will come along and lead the people in a revolt against your manipulation. I know there have already been a lot who have moved away from Miami, rather than live under the influence of a drug-dominated culture. Not everyone is gullible enough to stupidly believe that pleasure is the only pursuit in life that matters. There are those who believe in higher values, in spiritual values of love and faith—”
Slapping the table in mirth, the Director laughed uproariously. “Love and faith? You don’t actually believe that nonsense?”
Blade’s eyes became flinty.
“You’re too idealistic, my friend,” Paolucci declared patronizingly. “The world is not governed by love and faith. It’s dominated by greed, lust, and power. Nothing else counts.”
A sole mercenary was approaching the table at a trot.
Blade gazed at the guard apprehensively, worried about Hickok.
“Report!” El Gato barked.
The mercenary halted and saluted. “Hickok escaped.”
“How?”
“Over the gate.”
“And our casualties?” Cat questioned.
The mercenary averted his eyes. “Eight dead.”
“Eight!” El Gato snapped. “One man killed eight of our men!”
The mercenary did not respond.
“Where are the others?” Cat queried angrily.
“Hickok ran into the woods to the north,” the mercenary answered.
“Corporal Kingsley is leading a search sweep right this minute.”
“Tell Kingsley to track Hickok down,” El Gato stated, “or not to show his face in the command again. Understand?”
The mercenary nodded.
“Why are you still here?” Cat demanded.
After a brisk salute, the m
ercenary pivoted and raced away.
“Now where were we?” Paolucci asked, leaning back in his chair. “Oh, yes. You were indulging in whimsy.”
Blade said nothing.
The Director looked at El Gato. “Do you know what we have here?”
“No, señor.”
“What we have, Cat, is a throwback to an earlier age, an age when so-called decent types believed in basic values like the importance of the home and family life.” Paolucci chuckled. “Blade is archaic and doesn’t even know it. He’s out of step with the times. And he would have been out of step with the society existing before the war.”
“How do you figure?” Blade was prompted to ask.
“Study history,” Paolucci said. “Take note of the conditions just before World War Three. Crime was rampant, social diseases proliferated, corruption in government was commonplace, and the average turkey on the street was either an addict, a couch potato, or a vain mental midget.”
“I don’t share your low opinion of them,” Blade stated.
“Then you’re denying reality again,” the Director said. “I’ll cite one example I read about in a library in Miami. Did you know that the educational system was in complete disarray? That the students achieved lower and lower grades on aptitude tests each year? The students just didn’t care. And who can blame them? When they had a choice between studying a stuffy old book and partying with their friends, between acquiring knowledge or living it up, the book would lose every time.”
“What’s your point?”
Paolucci smiled condescendingly. “My point, Warrior, is that no one gave a damn about the values you honor. No one cared then, and no one cares now. Oh, there are a few misguided souls around. But Miami is living proof of my point. If people are given a choice between their own selfish interests and the common good, they will pick their selfish pursuits every time.”
Miami Run Page 15