As he spun, out of the corner of his right eye he detected a shadow materializing in the doorway above. He tried to reverse his spin, but something heavy slammed into his right shoulder and knocked him from his feet, upending him, and he somer-saulted out of control onto the hard floor below, landing on his left side. The jarring impact racked his ribs with an intense spasm of excruciating pain, doubling him over and causing him to inadvertently release the Wilkinson. Through the haze of agony he heard something clatter onto the floor, then the patter of rushing feet. He places his right hand on the floor and tried to push erect, surprised at the degree of pain he felt, surmising he must have jammed his ribs on the carbine’s stock.
The Wilkinson!
Yama reached his knees, but someone else beat him to the weapon.
“Don’t move!” the brunette ordered. She was standing near the stairs, the Wilkinson clenched firmly in her slim hands, her green eyes ablaze with hatred. Dirt and grime streaked her pear-shaped face. Her brown blouse had been torn on the left side from the bottom hem almost to her arm. Mud spots dotted her jeans and her brown leather shoes. Her disheveled hair hung to her shoulder blades. Within inches of her feet lay a large, overturned toolbox.
Yama froze, straining his ears to catch the sound of gunshots, but all he heard was her heavy breathing.
“I’ve got you, you murdering son of a bitch!” she snapped. “And now I’m going to make you pay!”
“I’m not who you think I am,” Yama informed her.
“Shut your face!” she growled, and took a menacing stride toward him.
“Don’t tempt me to pull this trigger, because by God I will!”
“I believe you,” Yama said, his mind racing. How could he get out of this fix? His friends might be in desperate need of assistance. He had to disarm her, and swiftly. His ribs were already beginning to feel better. If only he could draw her closer. “What’s your name?”
“Why the hell should you care?” the brunette responded bitterly. “All you’re interested in is seeing me dead.”
“That’s not true.”
Her face became a livid red. “Liar!” she exploded. “All of you Technics are rotten, filthy liars!”
Yama looked her in the eyes. “I’m not a Technic.”
An acidic, mocking laugh burst from her lips. “Sure you’re not. I suppose you’re a farmer!”
“I’m a Warrior.”
She cocked her head and scrutinized him closely.
“Do I look like a Technic?” Yama asked her. “Am I wearing the kind of clothes a Technic would wear? You saw the van I came here in. Is that the kind of vehicle the Technics use?”
The corners of her eyes crinkled, betraying her incipient doubt. “If you’re not a Technic, why were you chasing me?”
“The man who heads the Warriors wants to talk to you.”
“I’ll bet he does,” she said sarcastically, then glanced at the revolver and pistol. “All right, bastard. Place your guns on the floor and do it very slowly.”
“You’re making a mistake,” Yama advised her.
“No, you made the mistake, you and the rest of your Technic buddies, when you had my dad, mom, and brother murdered! But those things didn’t get me. My dad told me to run, told me he would hold them off, and my brother shoved me into the woods. I tried to go back, but it was all over in—” she stated, and her voice broke as tears moistened her eyes.
Taking advantage of the opportunity, Yama began to rise.
“Don’t!” she screamed, waving the Wilkinson wildly. “Stay put or else!”
Yama sank down and sighed.
“I’m going to alert the whole countryside to what you’re up to,” the brunette declared. “Somehow, some way, you’ll be stopped. Those things will be wiped out.”
“What things?”
“Don’t play innocent with me,” she admonished him. “You know what things I’m talking about. Those poor people that the Mad Scientist changed into… the walking dead.”
“These walking dead killed your family?”
“You know they did!” the brunette responded angrily. “Now do as I told you. Put your guns on the floor.”
Yama hesitated. He wanted to rejoin Blade and Samson, and he wouldn’t be able to leave until he gained the upper hand. Jumping her was an option, and although he felt confident he could reach her before she shot him, he opted to try a different tack. “No,” he replied.
“What?” she asked, startled.
“I’m not putting my guns on the floor. I’m going to stand up, slowly, and leave.”
“You’ll do no such thing.”
“I can’t stay here any longer,” Yama said. “My friends are in trouble and I must go to them.”
“I’ll shoot.”
“Have you ever shot anyone before?”
Uncertainty crept into her countenance and she shook her head. “But there’s always a first time.”
“Believe me, you don’t want to kill another person if you can possibly avoid it. Killing changes you, marks you for life, sets you apart from almost everyone else.”
She started at him, obviously bewildered. “Strange words coming from a Technic.”
“I’m not a Technic,” Yama reiterated, and straightened, holding his arms out from his sides to demonstrate his peaceful intent.
“Don’t!”
“You can come with me if you desire,” Yama said.
Her green eyes flashed. “You’re not going anywhere, damn you.”
Taking a calculated gamble, the Warrior took a step backwards. “I mean you no harm.”
“I’m warning you,” she said, pointing the Wilkinson at his midriff.
“You can keep the carbine if you want,” Yama commented, and took another step.
“Please don’t force me to shoot you,” she said, her voice wavering.
“I don’t believe you’ll fire.”
“You’re wrong,” she assured him.
“Am I?” Yama countered, then tensed when a metallic crash arose from downstairs.
The brunette started in alarm and gazed past him at the stairway to the ground floor. “What was that?” she whispered.
“How should I know?” Yama said.
“Don’t talk so loud,” she cautioned. “It could be them.”
“Who?”
“The things,” she said, and licked her lips. “They used to only come out at night,but now they hunt in the daytime too.”
“Let’s go see,” Yama suggested.
“Don’t be crazy,” she stated, her forehead creasing, gazing at him in transparent confusion.
Yama listened to more noise, to clanging and banging and loud pounding, and he deduced there must be someone throwing pots and pans around in the kitchen. “I’ll be back in a bit,” he said, and took a pace.
“No!” the brunette exclaimed, coming closer, the Wilkinson dipping half a foot.
“Make up your mind, would you? First you’re all set to blow me away, and now you’re afraid I’ll be killed. Which do you want?”
She uttered a strangled whine indicative of the turbulent state of her mind, her lips compressing. “I don’t know!” she hissed. “But don’t go downstairs.”
“I have to,” Yama stated, and turned to leave.
“Please!” she blurted out, stepping after him, her left arm reaching out to grab his wrist.
Which was the opening for which he’d been waiting. Yama whirled, his right hand streaking to the Wilkinson, and wrenched the weapon from her grasp.
She turned into a statue, too frightened to twitch a finger, her wide eyes on the carbine, her breath caught in her throat.
“Stay put while I investigate,” Yama directed.
The racket in the kitchen had grown progressively louder, as if there were more than one person involved in producing the clamor.
“Aren’t you going to shoot me?” she queried tremulously.
“I have this standard policy. I never shoot bunny rabbits and damsels in dis
tress. Now if you’ll excuse me,” Yama said, but before he could move the din downstairs suddenly ceased.
“Dear God!” the brunette breathed, staring at the stairs.
Yama heard it too.
The pounding of heavy boots on the steps.
Chapter Nine
Blade placed his left arm on the window, drew the .44 Magnum, nestled the barrel under his arm pointing outward, and cocked the hammer. He looked into the side mirror, watching the oncoming jeep, and saw the driver slant the vehicle toward his side of the SEAL. “Slip out your door,” he ordered Samson. “Cue on me.”
“May the Lord guide your hands,” the Nazarite said. He cracked the passenger door, then slid to the ground.
Plastering a friendly smile on his face, Blade glanced down as the jeep coasted to a stop alongside the transport.
A tall man sporting silver insignia on his lapels stared suspiciously at the Warrior. Lying in his lap was one of the distinctive assault rifles specifically manufactured by the Technics for their troops, a Dakon II. The entire weapon, including the folding stock and the 20-inch barrel, was black to reduce reflection. A short silencer suppressed each shot, and a 30-shot magazine provided ample rounds. Mounted above the ejection chamber was an elaborate scope, and atop the scope at the front end projected a four-inch tube capable of generating a red beam of light, a targeting laser used to pinpoint foes with astounding accuracy. A button on top of the scope activated the Laser Sighting Mode. There were four other buttons, located on the stock on the right side, and a small digital display above them. The digital readout kept track of the number of rounds expended and would light up when the first button was pressed.
The second button put the Dakon in full automatic, the third semiautomatic, and the fourth ejected spent magazines.
Blade knew the weapon well. He had used one extensively during his last run-in with the Technics. “Hi there,” he greeted the officer. “Can I help you?”
“Hello,” the Technic said, his brown eyes roving over the SEAL. “I’m Lieutenant Mitchell, First Corps, Technic Army. Who might you be?”
Neither he nor his fellow Technics wore helmets.
“Bomba,” Blade fibbed, thinking of a series of books he’s enjoyed in his younger years.
“Strange name,” Lieutenant Mitchell commented, still studying the transport. “Where are you from? I have the weirdest feeling that I should know you, and there’s something vaguely familiar about your van.”
“I’m from Shangri-la.”
“Never heard of it.”
“But I’ve heard of the Technics,” Blade said. “I didn’t know I’d strayed into your territory. I thought the Technics are based down dear Chicago.”
“We are. But we call Chicago Technic City.”
“I think I like the old name better.”
“Did I ask you, mister?” Mitchell responded, his brow knit in contemplation.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you,” Blade stated, continuing to beam good-naturedly.
“What are you doing here?” Lieutenant Mitchell inquired arrogantly.
“Excuse me, but I don’t see why I should answer your questions when I’m not even in your territory.”
“You’ll answer them or else,” the officer informed the giant. “You’re in the vicinity of a top-secret Technic installation, and I’m required to verify the intentions of everyone in this sector.”
Blade glanced at the two Technics seated in the rear of the jeep. Both held Dakon II’s. “Really? There’s a Technic instal-lation hereabouts?
Where is it? What kind of installation is it?”
“Our facility is located in Green Bay, and you would be smart to avoid the city at all costs,” Lieutenant Mitchell said.
“What are you doing there?” Blade probed.
“Do you really expect me to reveal classified information?”
“No, I guess not,” Blade responded. “But maybe you can tell me one thing.”
“Which is?”
“I came across several bodies near a wagon earlier. The people had been torn apart. Do you happen to know what killed them?”
“We saw them too,” Mitchell mentioned. “And no, I don’t know how they died.”
“A horrible way to go.”
“I agree,” Mitchell stated, sounding sincere. He straight-ened and tried to peer past the Warrior. “Are you all alone?”
“Yep.”
“It’s dangerous to travel in the Outlands alone.”
“I know.”
“Have you seen anyone else in this area?”
“No,” Blade said. “I’d stopped to eat some jerky when I saw you driving down the road. Why?”
“You haven’t seen anyone at all?” Mitchell inquired.
“Not a soul.”
Lieutenant Mitchell exchanged glances with the driver, then smiled at the giant. “Would you mind if we searched your vehicle?”
Blade pretended to be shocked by the request. “What?”
“I can’t permit you to proceed until I’ve checked your vehicle. We’re looking for a fugitive.”
“And you believe this fugitive might be in my van?”
“There’s always the possibility.”
“I’m the only one in here.”
“I need to be certain,” Mitchell said.
“Are you calling me a liar?” Blade asked.
“Of course not. It’s just my job.”
“Because I am,” Blade stated.
“What?”
Blade leaned toward them and lowered his voice in a conspiratorial whisper. “I am, you see.”
Lieutenant Mitchell missed the connection. “You’re what?” he snapped.
“A liar.”
The officer rested his left hand on his Dakon II. “Oh? What did you lie about?”
“Everything.”
“Do tell.”
“Even my name. It isn’t Bomba.”
Mitchell shifted, studying the giant’s features, mystified by the admission and uncertain of where the conversation might be leading.
“What is your real name?”
Blade grinned. “I’ll give you a clue.”
“I don’t want a damn clue. I want your name.”
“Where were you three years ago?”
“Three years ago? What difference does it make?”
“Humor me,” Blade said. “Think back. What were you doing three years ago this month?”
“I was an instructor at our Training Academy, teaching—” Mitchell began, and amazement set in. He scrutinized the transport, stunned, as if he couldn’t believe his own eyes. “You!”
“Me,” Blade said, and shot him. The .44 Magnum thundered, the bullet boring into Lieutenant Mitchell’s forehead and slamming him against the driver. Blade dropped onto his right side, knowing Sampson would cut loose, and the burping of the Bushmaster proved him to be right. He waited for the firing to stop, all of five seconds, and popped back up.
The Technics had been unable to squeeze off a single round. Samson had crept to the back of the jeep while the officer conversed with Blade, then risen when the Magnum boomed and poured half of his magazine into their backs. They were sprawled in grotesque positions, their uniforms dotted with red holes.
“Nice job,” Blade remarked.
“I dislike shooting anyone in the back, but I couldn’t ask them to turn around, could I?” Samson replied.
“You did just fine,” Blade assured him.
The jeep abruptly moved slowly forward as the driver’s limp foot slipped from the brake pedal.
“What do I do?” Samson asked. “I’ve never driven a vehicle before.”
Blade grabbed the door handle, about to vault out and stop the creeping jeep, when he happened to glance in the side mirror and discovered three more Technic vehicles racing toward the SEAL. They were less than 90 yards away. “Get in! Quick!” he commanded.
Samson looked over his left shoulder, then dashed around the front of the van to the
passenger side. “Do we stand and fight?” he asked as he climbed inside.
“No,” Blade replied. “They might have grenades. We’ll make them come after us, then give them a little surprise.” He gunned the engine and took off, accelerating rapidly, his eyes on the mirror.
“What about Yama?”
“He’ll wait for us if he returns while we’re gone. He knows we wouldn’t leave without a good reason.”
“I’m surprised he isn’t back already.”
“So am I,” Blade admitted. The speedometer indicated 40 miles an hour and climbing.
“They’re gaining on us,” Samson commented.
“Perfect,” Blade said, and smiled grimly. He saw one of the Technics in the lead jeep talking into a radio. The sight angered him. Now the Technics in Green Bay would know the SEAL was in the area. Now the Mad Scientist, or whoever the blazes he was, would be expecting them.
Typical.
Just once, he mentally noted, he’d like for a mission to unfold without a hitch. Something always went wrong. Always. Whether he was on a run for the Family or on an assignment for the Freedom Force, the sequence of events never proceeded exactly as he planned. If a mission ever did go smoothly, he might not be able to stand the shock. The thought made him grin.
“Enjoying yourself?” Samson inquired.
“Are you kidding?” Blade responded. “Who wouldn’t have fun on one of our missions? We get to travel hundreds, sometimes thousands of miles from the ones we love the most. We go up against every wacko who comes down the pike. And we have to watch our back every minute of every day while we’re away.” He paused. “Who wouldn’t enjoy himself.”
“Forget I asked.”
Blade transferred the .44 Magnum to his left hand and extended his arm backwards out the open window, pointing the barrel in the general direction of the three jeeps, not really expecting to hit any of the Technics but hoping to slow them down. He squeezed off a shot and the Technic drivers, predictably, reduced speed.
A curve appeared several hundred yards to the east.
“Do you want me to try and nail them?” Samson queried.
“Save your ammo,” Blade advised, withdrawing his arm and sliding the Dan Wesson into its holster. He intended to round the curve, brake, and execute a sharp U-turn. When the Technics came into view, he’d cut loose with the 50-caliber machine guns.
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