Anaheim Run Page 11

  “Over this way!” someone shouted.

  There wasn’t any time to waste! Hickok slid his Colts into their holsters, clamped his hands on the grips to insure he didn’t lose them, and dropped into the lake feet first. He held his body rigid as the cool water closed about him, keeping his eyes open, and he waited until his descent had ceased before kicking his way back to the surface.

  The lake was quiet and peaceful.

  Hickok released his Pythons and started swimming toward the island in even, powerful strokes.

  “He’s heading for the lake!” yelled someone in the trees near the shore.

  The assassins were almost to the lake! Hickok swam faster, feeling a clammy sensation as his drenched buckskins clung to him, slightly impeding his progress.

  There was a run-down building on the southwest tip of the island.

  Between the building and the shore, fringing the bank in a verdant cloak, was a ring of dense vegetation.

  Hickok marveled at California’s prolific plant life. Even in January, which was one of the coldest months of the year back in Minnesota, much of the flora was green and healthy. If he could just reach that bank before the assassins appeared! He looked over his right shoulder as he swam, elated to discover the Gild members hadn’t caught up with him yet.

  Move!

  The Warrior churned the water, his legs and arms pumping, as he rapidly closed the gap to the island. He thought he glimpsed a shadowy form skulking near the building, but when he forced his full attention no one was there.

  Must be a case of nerves.

  Hickok’s moccasins struck bottom when he was eight feet from the bank. He plunged ahead, checking to insure his Pythons were in their holsters, and paddled behind the protective shelter of a clump of overhanging bushes.

  Voices rose from the direction of the dock.

  Hickok twisted in the water, peering through a crack in the vegetation.

  Kraken and the others were standing on the dock.

  Hickok waited to see if they were going to come after him. They were gazing at the island, but they weren’t acting as if they’d seen him. In fact, they were smiling and joking together. Now what was that all about? he wondered. A twig snapped behind him.

  Chapter Ten

  “The jackass fell for it!” Leftwich said, laughing.

  “What a bloody twit!” Charley concurred with a snicker.

  Kraken gazed at the pair disdainfully. “We were lucky,” he declared somberly.

  “Why so grim, guv?” Charley asked. “Your plan worked, didn’t it?”

  “Yeah,” Leftwich added. “I’ve got to hand it to you! When you said we could force him to swim to the island, I figured you were nuts.”

  Kraken stared at Leftwich until the latter averted his eyes. “I do not make precipitous judgments,” he stated testily. “The Warrior had three options. Stand and fight. Try to circle around us. Or keep going until he found a place to hide. By staying on his trail, but not pressing him too closely, and by making enough noise to rouse the dead, we provoked him into doing exactly what I wanted.”

  “But how did you know he wouldn’t stand and fight or try to sneak around us?” Leftwich queried.

  “Elementary,” Kraken answered condescendingly. “If he’d wanted to stand and fight, he would have done so when he took us by surprise at the meeting, when he had the advantage. And he wouldn’t risk trying to return to the hotel until he’s certain we’re no longer after him.” He paused, deliberating. “I suspect he wants to warn the Federation delegates about us.”

  “And you’re positive this bloke is a Warrior?” Charley questioned.

  “I recognized him from the file our employer supplied,” Kraken said.

  “He’s one of the top Warriors, the one who shot Neborak. He probably followed that imbecile here!”

  “You mean Hickok?” Leftwich asked in amazement.

  “None other,” Kraken confirmed. “And you would have recognized him too, if you’d done your homework.”

  “It all happened so fast,” Leftwich remarked.

  “A lame excuse, if ever I’ve heard one,” Kraken commented.

  “Why didn’t we just snuff this Hickok ourselves?” Charley inquired.

  “Why give him to them?”

  “I can’t afford to lose anyone else,” Kraken said. “There are only six of us left to complete the mission.” Kraken frowned. “I must have a talk with Farino, and for his sake I hope he has an adequate explanation for his failure to observe Hickok’s approach.”

  “Have a heart, mate,” Charley said. “Farino can’t be watchin’ in every direction at once. He must have been keepin’ his eyes on the island, like you ordered. After all, we don’t want another run-in with those chaps, do we?”

  Kraken studied the island. “No,” he agreed. “We must keep them confined to the island until we’re done here.”

  “Should we use the radio and call for assistance?” Leftwich queried.

  “No,” Kraken replied. “We only use the radio in a dire emergency. I doubt the Free State security forces possess sophisticated monitoring equipment, but we won’t take the chance.”

  “Should I go relieve Farino?” Charley asked.

  “Let him stay on the roof for another hour,” Kraken said.

  The fourth Gild member on the dock, the mutant Nightshade, the silent one, stepped up to Kraken and tapped the Gild leader on the right elbow.

  “What is it, brother?” Kraken inquired.

  Nightshade pointed at the island, then worked his hands in a series of swift gestures.

  “What did he say?” Leftwich probed.

  “Nightshade wants to know if we should leave someone near the dock,” Kraken said, translating the sign language. “In case the Warrior swims back.”

  “That’s a good idea,” Charley said. “Should we?”

  “I don’t have the manpower to spare,” Kraken stated. “But after you relieve Farino on the roof, make damn certain you watch the island closely.” Kraken noticed Charley was staring at Nightshade with a peculiar expression. “Is something wrong, Charley?”

  “No, guv,” Charley responded. “I was just wonderin’ what it was like, you know?”

  Nightshade’s yellow orbs narrowed.

  “Nightshade doesn’t like to be reminded of his misfortune,” Kraken mentioned.

  Charley grinned at the mutant. “No offense meant, mate. I was thinkin’ about how terrible it would be to have my tongue cut out.”

  “Nightshade lost his tongue because he was careless,” Kraken stated callously. “He barely escaped from the Dragons with his life.”

  “The Dragons!” Leftwich exclaimed. “They cut out his tongue?”

  Kraken nodded. “Nightshade botched an assignment. He was sent to terminate the head of the Dragons, but he was caught.”

  “Who are these Dragons?”

  Leftwich grimaced. “The freakiest bunch of bloodthirsty mutants you’d ever want to meet! I hate them!” He involuntarily shuddered.

  Nightshade’s right hand unexpectedly flicked out and closed on the front of Leftwich’s fatigue shirt. He hardly seemed to strain as he hoisted his fellow assassin into the air.

  “Hey! Let go of me!” Leftwich cried, dropping his Darter. “I didn’t mean you!”

  Kraken placed his right hand on Nightshade’s left shoulder. “Release him, brother. He was not referring to you. Leftwich hates the Dragons, not mutants in general.”

  Nightshade unceremoniously dumped Leftwich on the dock.

  Leftwich sprawled onto his buttocks, glaring up at the mutant. “You had no call to do that, dammit!”

  “Nightshade is understandably touchy on the subject of mutants,” Kraken commented.

  “I don’t give a shit!” Leftwich snapped bitterly, rising. “We’re brothers in the Gild, aren’t we? He shouldn’t have done it!”

  Nightshade’s hands performed more sign language.

  “He apologizes for his temper,” Kraken told Leftwich.r />
  “That’s better!” Leftwich said indignantly.

  “Now don’t you have an errand to run?” Kraken queried.

  “An errand?” Leftwich repeated, puzzled.

  “Emery,” Kraken reminded him.

  “Oh!” Leftwich retrieved his Darter. “On my way. I’ll tell him to lay low until he hears from you.” He ran off.

  “So what’s our next move?” Charley asked Kraken.

  “Governor Melnick is hosting a formal affair tomorrow evening for the Freedom Federation delegates,” Kraken said. “He’s expected to announce the Free State of California has decided to join the Federation. All of the leaders will be in one place at one time. We’ll hit them then.”

  “It won’t be easy,” Charley observed. “Security will be exceptionally tight. Why not hit them before tomorrow night? Don’t they have some meetings scheduled before then?”

  “They do,” Kraken disclosed. “But the conference meetings are being held in a smaller room where they’re easier to protect. By waiting until tomorrow night, we kill two birds with one stone. First, the formal dinner is being held in a large chamber, increasing our odds of success.”

  “And secondly?” Charley questioned.

  Kraken smiled. “If we don’t make any hits until tomorrow night, they might relax their guard a bit. They’ll become complacent, wondering why there haven’t been any more attempts. Our job will be that much easier.”

  “How is it, guv, you know so much about their itinerary?” Charley idly inquired.

  “I have my source,” Kraken said.

  “Our employer?” Charley asked.

  Kraken nodded. “Our employer has an undercover agent at the summit.”

  “It sounds to me like you have every angle covered,” Charley said, complimenting the chief assassin.

  “I always do,” Kraken said. He looked at the island. “Let’s head on back.

  We won’t need to concern ourselves over the Warrior after tonight.”

  “Why not?” Charley queried.

  Kraken smiled. “Because by tomorrow morning the famous Hickok will be dead.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Hickok turned, his hands dropping to his Colts, scanning the wall of vegetation shrouding the bank.

  Nothing.

  The gunfighter faced the lake, watching the Gild members. He saw Leftwich leave, and shortly thereafter the others departed. His scheme had worked! Now all he had to do was wait a spell, then swim to the other side and make his way to the hotel to warn Blade. It would be a piece of cake!

  He decided to find a warmer spot to wait and clambered onto the bank.

  The brush was dense, and he had to force a path through a thicket and cross a grassy knoll before he discovered an ideal place to rest, a small clearing in a stand of trees. He sat with his soaked back against one of the tree trunks and surveyed his surroundings.

  The dilapidated building was in partial view through the trees, about 30 yards to the north.

  Hickok sighed, thinking of his beloved wife Sherry and their son Ringo, both expectantly awaiting his return to the Home. He missed them intensely, and he was beginning to understand the reason Blade disliked extended trips away from the compound and the Family. Gallivanting all over the countryside was all right for a single guy, but a married gent needed to consider the impact on those dearest to him.

  A bird suddenly whistled to the east.

  Only it wasn’t a bird.

  Hickok leaped to his feet, his blue eyes scrutinizing the landscape. He knew a fake bird whistle when he heard one, and that imitation had been downright pitiful! The gunman listened for the whistle to be repeated or answered from elsewhere in the woods, but all was quiet. He frowned, annoyed by a nagging feeling of being watched. Was it possible the island was inhabited? Had he really seen someone near the building as he was swimming the lake?

  There was one way to find out.

  The Warrior moved toward the structure, alert for an ambush, his hands near his Pythons.

  There was the soft padding of feet from the forest to the northwest.

  Hickok halted, debating his next move. He could return to the lake and swim for the dock, but the Gild assassins might still be in the area. He could stay put, but the notion of being a sitting duck was distinctly unappealing. Or he could mosey on over to the building and have a look-see.

  Another “bird” whistled to the northwest.

  Hickok thoughtfully stroked his moustache. Whoever these hombres were, they knew he was there. They must have observed him crossing the water. He didn’t want trouble, but if push came to shove he was prepared to show them the business end of a .357 Magnum.

  A bush rustled off to the right.

  Hickok hooked his thumbs in his belt and ambled in the direction of the building, his saturated moccasins squishing with every step. No one appeared and he reached the end of the trees unmolested. The structure was ten yards away, a veritable mess; the front door was gone, all of the windows were busted out, and the walls were on the verge of collapsing.

  He glanced to the right, discovering the large boat he’d seen before, and the sight of the vessel brought a photograph to mind, a picture he’d found in one of the books in the Family library. The photo had been of a steamboat.

  More bird whistles broke out in the woods.

  Hickok walked toward the steamboat along a well-defined path. The boat was 20 yards or so from the building, adjacent to a tumbledown wooden dock. From the sound of the birdbrains in the forest, he gathered there was a whole flock of the featherless varmints. And if they were out to get him, the boat would be the best spot to make a stand. They would have to cross the dock to reach him, giving him a clear shot.

  The steamboat was listing, leaning to one side, inclining toward the dock, as if there might be a hole under the waterline on the island side of the vessel. A gap of four feet separated the boat from the dock.

  Hickok reached the dock and stopped. Many of the planks were missing or cracked. He risked falling through the rotted wood if he tried to reach the steamboat, but there was no other choice.

  A stooped-over figure dashed between two trees off to the right.

  They were getting set to make their move! Hickok moved onto the disintegrating dock, his nerves tingling, advancing slowly. He wondered if he’d made the right decision, if he should chuck the notion and make his stand on the bank. But he was denied the opportunity.

  “Get him!” a deep male voice bellowed, and eight forms charged from cover, five men and three women brandishing various weapons.

  Hickok spun, his Colts sweeping up and out, cocking the hammers as he cleared leather, and just as he was about to squeeze the triggers, before he could drop a single foe, he was defeated by a weather-beaten, crumbling board. The plank underfoot gave way with a rending crash, and the Warrior plummeted toward the lapping waters below. He thrust his arms horizontal to his falling body, catching himself by his elbows, painfully jarring his arms and shoulders, his Pythons held fast in his straining hands. His lower torso and legs dangled below the dock.

  “Don’t move, you son of a bitch!” someone commanded.

  Hickok looked up to find the barrel of a Ruger rifle a finger’s width from his nose. The man holding the rifle was a big man with wide shoulders, a barrel of a chest, a tangled mass of black hair, and dark eyes.

  His clothing consisted of torn, faded jeans and a crudely constructed deer-hide shirt. Sandals adorned his filthy feet. Hickok mustered his friendliest smile. “Howdy, neighbor!”

  The big man blinked several times, his dark eyes narrowing suspiciously. “I ain’t your neighbor, bastard!”

  Hickok perceived he was as good as dead if he didn’t do some real fancy talking, and quickly. “I have this pard with the handle of Joshua. He lives at my Home, and he’s the most spiritual person I know. Josh says all of us are neighbors because we all share the same planet. So I reckon we are neighbors, if you get my drift.”

  The big man leaned down to
peer into the Warrior’s face.

  Hickok nearly gagged when the man’s putrid breath assailed his nostrils.

  “You’re out of your gourd, mister,” the man declared.

  Hickok grinned, struggling to keep from falling further into the hole. He doubted the cavity was broad enough to permit his shoulders to slip through, but he didn’t want to become wedged in more tightly than he already was. “I’d be right grateful if you’d see fit to get me out of this hole.”

  The big man nodded. “We’ll get you out, mister. We don’t want to lose you now.” He wagged the rifle barrel. “But first you drop them pretty handguns of yours. Nice and easy!”

  Hickok hesitated, reluctant to part with his Colts.

  “You do it or I’ll blow your face off!” the big man threatened.

  “I like a man who knows how to motivate folks,” Hickok commented wryly. He released the Pythons, laying them on the dock.

  The big man straightened. “You might not be as dumb as you look. Tab! Come here!”

  A young man joined the big one. The newcomer was a thinner, smaller version of the man with the Ruger. He sported a ragged scar on his right cheek, and was wearing tattered brown trousers with a short black jacket and an outlandish yellow bow tie. A slightly rusted hatchet was in his left hand. “Yeah, Pax?”

  “Get this moron’s guns,” Pax directed.

  Tab crouched, warily reaching out and grabbing first one Colt, then the other. He rose, holding them in his right hand. “Wow! These are something else! Can I have one?”

  “Maybe,” Pax said.

  “Those irons are mine,” Hickok stated contentiously.

  Tab smirked. “Not any more they ain’t, mister!”

  “You won’t be needing them,” Pax commented, chuckling. “Jack! Phil! Get this turkey on his feet!”

  Two men came forward and brutally hoisted the Warrior from the hole, careful to insure they didn’t suffer a similar fate. They rudely shoved him several paces forward onto the bank.

  Hickok examined his captors. All eight were on the grungy side, wearing an odd assortment of strange, soiled clothing. The one called Jack was a beetle-browed hulk wearing a faded pink shirt with ruffles down the front, black pants with his knees protruding through irregular holes, and a weird black hat made conspicuous by the yellow skull and crossbones on the front flap. Another man crowned his head with a black cap resembling a set of enormous rodent ears. The three women were dressed equally as bizarrely. One of them was attired in a red and white polka-dot dress and white gloves, while another covered her feet with furry imitation dog paws. “Are you folks tryin’ to start a new fashion trend?” he quipped.