Thief River Falls Run Read online

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  A ruthless killing machine and the leader of the Alpha Triad, Blade must lead his team of professional warriors on a mission to retrieve medical supplies from the Twin Cities.

  * * *

  David RobbinsChapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Copyright

  * * *

  David Robbins

  THIEF RIVER FALLS RUN

  To Joshua,

  for all the happiness

  Chapter One

  The buckskin-clad gunman crouched and spun, his hands dropping to his pearl-handled revolvers, one in a leather holster on each hip, his long blond locks waving in the wind, his keen blue eyes scanning the field below him, searching for the source of the noise he had just heard.

  Someone had coughed.

  A full moon illuminated the field, kept cleared of all brush, trees, and other vegetation to prevent any foes, human or otherwise, from covertly assaulting the thirty-acre plot called the Home by those who lived within the encircling brick walls. The Family, as they designated themselves, took extraordinary precautions to insure its safety: the twenty-foot-high walls were topped with barbed wire and a rampart for patrolling purposes, a wide moat was channeled around the base of the wall, within the compound; and the entire Home was continually guarded by an elite corps of skilled, thoroughly trained fighters known as Warriors.

  “Hickok, did you hear that?” whispered a small, wiry man as he scurried along the rampart in the gunman’s direction.

  “Sure did, pard,” acknowledged Hickok, nodding.

  The second man stopped at Hickok’s side. “Came from the edge of the field,” he stated. His brown eyes studied the forest, dimly visible as a looming dark mass, one hundred and fifty yards distant. “Near the trees.

  We were fortunate the wind carried the sound this far. Any orders?”

  Hickok mentally pondered the situation. Should they investigate the cough now, or leave it until daylight? What would Blade do at a time like this?

  The Warriors were divided into four sections, or Triads, comprised of three members each. Designated the Alpha, Beta, Gamma, and Omega Triads, they were entrusted with the defense of the Home and the protection of the Family. While each Triad had an appointed head, all of the Warriors were under the leadership of the Alpha Triad, and each of the twelve Warriors was specifically responsible to Blade, the chief of Alpha Triad and the commander of all Family Warriors.

  Blast! Hickok thoughtfully stroked his blond mustache, debating on a course of action. Blade was recuperating from an infection his body had developed, a reaction to the dozens of cuts and slashes inflicted by a deadly wolverine during their battle with the Trolls. He was probably asleep at this late hour, dreaming of his beloved Jenny. Lucky him!

  “Should we alert Geronimo?” the other man asked, running his right hand through his black hair, relieved as the breeze picked up, cooling his sweaty brow. The July night was warm and muggy. “Nope,” Hickok laconically responded. “Would take too long, Rikki. Geronimo is way over on the east wall.”

  The Alpha Triad consisted of Blade, Geronimo, and Hickok. With Blade recovering from the infection, another Warrior had volunteered to take his place on guard duty. Rikki-Tikki-Tavi, the Beta Triad leader, clutched a long black scabbard in his left hand. He pointed it at the distant woods.

  “I’ll go myself, if you like.”

  “I’m going,” Hickok announced, making his decision. “Alone.”

  “I should go along.” Rikki-Tikki-Tavi offered.

  “I’m going alone,” Hickok repeated, carefully moving along the rampart until he was in the center of the western wall, directly above a closed drawbridge.

  Rikki followed on his heels. “Could be a trap,” he said, voicing his concern. “Could be some more scavengers,” he noted, referring to an attack by a roving band of marauders several years before, an assault the Family successfully repelled.

  “Could be,” Hickok agreed, glancing down. Imbedded in the concrete at his moccasined feet was a thick steel ring. Attached to the ring, coiled in a large pile on the rampart, was a stout rope.

  “You’ll need a backup,” Rikki contended.

  “No, thanks,” Hickok declined. He lifted the rope. At this one point, the barbed wire was deliberately spaced to permit one person to pass over the edge of the rampart.

  “You don’t know who or what is out there,” Rikki stated, his tone reflecting his annoyance.

  “Doesn’t matter,” Hickok informed him.

  “It’s against standard Warrior procedure,” Rikki added.

  Hickok shrugged, peered over the top of the wall, and tossed the rope down the wall.

  “You’re taking a needless risk.” Rikki wouldn’t let the matter drop. “You could be killed.”

  Hickok paused in the act of climbing over the side. He stared into Rikki’s dark eyes. “I don’t care, pard. I just don’t care.” He pushed off.

  Rikki-Tikki-Tavi knelt and watched his friend slowly lower himself to the ground in front of the drawbridge. So! What Blade and Geronimo had said about Hickok was true. With the death of the woman he loved, at the hands of the Trolls, Hickok was displaying signs of outright recklessness with regard to his personal safety. The Family’s supreme gunman seemed normal otherwise, but Blade believed Hickok was a simmering volcano waiting for the right catalyst to trigger an eruption. Rikki vividly recalled the tormented expression on Hickok’s face when they had buried the woman. Joan, her name had been, and rumor had it she was Hickok’s first true love.

  Hickok reached the bare earth below the drawbridge and waved once to Rikki before jogging across the field in the direction of the cough. He knew he should present as small a target as possible to potential ambushers, but his suppressed grief negated his extensive Warrior training and he ran upright, exposed, almost hoping he would see the flash of a firearm and feel the impact of a slug ripping through his body.

  The wind increased, the natural elements working in his favor. The breeze was blowing the sounds he made toward the Home, and away from whoever was lurking in the forest at the end of the field.

  A sudden thought brought Hickok up short. What if it were Trolls?

  Many had escaped, and they’d want revenge on the Family. Involuntarily, he gripped his revolvers, his cherished Colt Pythons.

  Someone coughed again.

  May the Spirit smile on me, Hickok prayed. He lowered his body, running in a half-crouch, moving cautiously now, a grim smile on his face.

  Whoever was out there was due west, a bit to his right. Please let it be Trolls! He owed them. He owed them real bad.

  Hickok slowed as he neared the trees, listening, his senses primed. The leaves were rustling in the wind, some of the branches creaking and rubbing against one another. Good. Perfect cover. He tensed, expecting a shot, and darted into the woods, stopping behind the first large tree he reached. Surely they had seen him coming. He leaned against the trunk, waiting.

  Nothing.

  What was going on here?

  The coughing abruptly started up, a veritable spasm, a series of wheezing gasps and choking groans.

  Sounds like the dude is sick, Hickok reasoned. He estima
ted the distance at fifteen to twenty yards. The brush was thick, providing ample concealment. He lowered his body to the earth and began crawling.

  A twig snapped behind him.

  Hickok froze. Blast his stupidity! He should have expected there would be more than one. Had they seen him?

  “Did you get a fix on that?” a gruff voice whispered.

  Hickok twisted, craning his neck, confident he was hidden in the tall grass.

  There were three of them. Big men. Armed with rifles. Two to his left, one to his right, the nearest ten yards away.

  “I know I heard it,” a second man replied in a hushed voice.

  Were they talking about him? Hickok wondered.

  The coughing started up again.

  “There!” the first man exclaimed. All three wore green uniforms.

  The three men stalked their prey, passing Hickok, intent on their target.

  What the blazes was going on here? They were after the cougher. Why?

  Who were they? Even in the subdued light, Hickok could see they were well dressed, their clothes appearing new and somehow different from the homemade attire the Family wore. Each man held a polished rifle and wore an automatic pistol strapped to his waist. Who are these guys?

  Hickok asked himself.

  Only one thing to do.

  Hickok waited until they were a safe distance ahead, then pursued them, crawling through the grass and skirting any bushes or trees in his path. They were proceeding very deliberately, actually inching forward now, and he easily kept them in sight.

  The poor slob with the nasty cough wheezed once more.

  Hickok saw the three men quickly rush ahead, beyond his vision. He heard the commotion of a brief struggle, then a solid blow landing.

  “Got you!” someone declared enthusiastically.

  Hickok rose, keeping stooped over, and hastened forward until he reached a tree about six yards from a small clearing. The men were standing over another person, prone on the ground, grinning and smiling.

  “You really gave us a run for our money,” the gruff voice said. “I’ve got to hand it to you.”

  “Answer him,” snapped the tallest of the men, kicking the body in the side, eliciting a moan from the unfortunate victim.

  “Yeah, bitch!” teased the third man. “We can’t hear you!”

  Bitch? Hickok edged around the tree.

  “Stand up, woman!” the gruff voice ordered. “I have some questions for you!”

  Hickok’s view of the woman was blocked by the legs of the men. He heard her sob and mumble something.

  “Can’t hear you, squaw,” the gruff voice stated, “and I need to know where the little one is.”

  Little one? Squaw?

  “If you don’t start talking,” the tallest uniform snarled, “I’m going to break your bones one by one.” He brutally kicked the woman one more time.

  Enough was enough.

  Hickok took two steps forward, his thumbs casually hooked in his gunbelt.

  “Stand up, damn you!” the gruff voice commanded.

  “Excuse me, gentlemen…” Hickok said quietly.

  The three men whirled, startled, momentarily off guard.

  “…I reckon it’s useless to point out how atrocious your manners are.”

  Hickok grinned at them.

  The uniforms overcame their initial shock, bringing their rifles into play.

  “Waste him!” the gruff voice bellowed.

  Hickok drew, his hands a blur, the Pythons out and leveled faster than the eye could blink, held low, near his waist, the .357’s booming and bucking, his aim unerring.

  The gruff voice clutched at his face as a bullet penetrated his forehead and exploded through the back of his head.

  The third uniform was caught in the right eye. He screamed while he fell, his rifle clattering beside him.

  As the Family’s firearms expert and deadliest gunfighter, Hickok taught firearms use and safety to novice Warriors and the small children.

  Everyone in the Family was required to become familiar with guns; their lives could depend on the knowledge. Most of them did not utilize firearms in their daily activities, so they were asked to take annual refresher courses. In a world where survival of the fittest was the cardinal rule, the Family needed to be prepared for any eventuality, including a mass assault on its Home. At the classes he conducted, Hickok stressed his fundamental law of marksmanship. “Go for the head,” he invariably told them.

  “Anywhere else and they can still come at you. Get their brain and you put them completely out of commission.” He did allow several exceptions. “If you don’t have time to aim for the head and you’re not a great shot,” he had instructed one class, “if the head shot is obstructed in some way, or it’s personal, then shoot anywhere you think will be effective.” In all his years as a Warrior, Hickok could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times he had not gone for the head. Most of them were for personal reasons.

  Like now.

  The tallest uniform had his rifle to his shoulder when the first shot splintered his left knee. He shrieked and dropped his gun, staggering when the second bullet burst his right kneecap, blood and bone spraying his leg.

  His eyes focused on the blond gunman as he stumbled to the ground, silently pleading to be spared.

  “You shouldn’t have kicked her, pard,” Hickok stated sternly. “I noticed you enjoy inflicting pain. How do you feel now, when the shoe is on the other foot?”

  “Please…” the man begged.

  “Sorry, pard,” Hickok said harshly, “but I can’t abide people who like hurting others. There’s enough anguish in this warped world as it is.”

  “Please…” the tall uniform repeated.

  Both Pythons blasted the man into eternity.

  Hickok twirled his Colts and slid them into their respective holsters.

  “Well, what have we here?” He knelt next to the woman, studying her.

  She was lying on her left side, curled up, her arms held close to her chest. Her clothes were finely crafted homemade buckskins, embroidered on the back with a colorful representation of a rainbow. Luxuriant black hair descended to the small of her back. Her eyes were closed, and she was breathing heavily, almost gasping.

  “You don’t sound too good, sister,” Hickok commented. He placed his right hand on her forehead.

  The woman was burning up.

  “Take your filthy hand off her!” someone shouted in a high, thin voice.

  The patter of feet running came from behind him.

  Hickok twisted, his left Python already clear, the hammer drawn back, his finger tightening on the trigger. Only his superb self-control enabled him to turn the barrel aside at the last possible instant, the shot plowing into the ground.

  The young girl kept coming. An exact copy of the older woman, about ten years of age, she furiously swung her tiny fists at the gunman as she closed in, tears streaking her contorted face.

  “Leave my mommy alone!” she yelled.

  Hickok felt several of her blows land as he bolstered his left Colt and grabbed for her wrists.

  “Why won’t you leave us alone?” the girl wailed.

  Hickok was able to grip both her wrists. She fought on, a veritable wildcat, tossing and kicking him in the legs.

  “Whoa there, girl! Calm down! I’m not going to hurt you or your mom.”

  “Liar!” the girl disputed him. “You’re just like the others! You want to kill us!” She managed to place a particularly effective kick on his right shin.

  “Ouch! Will you cut it out? Stop for just a second.”

  The girl was slowing down, winded, her emotional momentum exhausted.

  “That’s more like it.” Hickok slowly stood, retaining his hold on her wrists. His shin was throbbing. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he reaffirmed.

  Sniffling, the girl looked up at him. “How can I trust you?” she asked weakly.

  “Didn’t I just kill the men who were aft
er your mom and you?”

  She stopped crying and glanced at the dead men. “I saw you do it,” she said softly.

  Hickok flinched, wishing she hadn’t. “So don’t you think it means I’m on your side?”

  “Maybe,” she reluctantly admitted. “Mom says we can’t trust anyone, though.”

  Hickok opted to change the subject and forestall another attack on his shins. “Your mom seems to be sick.”

  The girl stared at her mother and nodded. “She is, mister. Has been for weeks. We couldn’t stop, though. She said the bad men would catch up with us.”

  “If I release you,” Hickok said, “will you promise not to kick me again?”

  “Okay.”

  Hickok gingerly freed her hands. “I know some people who can help your mother,” he informed her.

  “Where are they?” she questioned.

  Hickok found himself admiring her frank and fearless attitude. “Over there.” He pointed at the Home, partially visible through the trees.

  “We saw it earlier,” the girl mentioned. “Mom said we couldn’t get too close because bad people might live there.”

  “Only good people live there,” Hickok assured her. “My people. We’re called the Family. Some of our people are Healers. They can help your mom.”

  “You’d do that for us?” she asked incredulously.

  “Of course. A pard of mine, named Joshua, says all of us are children of the Creator. That makes us all brothers and sisters. It means we’re supposed to help each other.”

  “I don’t know…” she said doubtfully. “I better ask mom.” She dropped to her knees and leaned over her mother. “Mom? Mom? Can you hear me?

  This man says he can help us? What do I do?”

  The woman only groaned.

  “Looks like your mom is in no shape to make a decision,” Hickok observed. “It’s up to you.”

  “I don’t know…” The girl bit her lower lip, her brow furrowed.

  “What’s your name?” Hickok asked her.

  “I’m Star. Who are you?”

  Hickok extended his right hand. “Folks call me Hickok.”

  Star stared at his hand. “What’s that for?”