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  Then again, the creature might not even be a spider and might not be poisonous, in which case he was standing there like an idiot running in mental circles and worrying over nothing. He gritted his teeth, clenched his fists, and went into action.

  Hickok whipped his fists up and around, his arms arcing at the thing with all the swiftness of a striking rattlesnake, yet as quick as he was, he wasn’t quick enough. His fists were midway to his head when he felt an intense stinging sensation an inch or so above his hairline. The mutant started to rise, using its legs to push itself erect. Hickok brought his fists down with all the force in his sinews, smashing whatever-it-was to a pulp, plastering his hair with its flattened, gory form. His loathing compelled him to pound the creature again and again, until he was certain it was dead, until his head ached. He relaxed and leaned against the right-hand wall, expelling a long breath.

  He’d done it!

  But the critter had nailed him.

  He straightened and took a stride forward. A liquid substance trickled past his ears and onto his neck. Feeling nauseous, he hurried, eager to catch up to Blade and Geronimo. The stinging on his scalp was spreading rapidly and growing worse.

  Blast!

  Hickok reached up and used his fingers as scoops, wiping his hands back and forth, trying to remove the mashed, pasty residue from his blond hair. His hands became sticky, and he detected the scent of a putrid odor.

  The shooting outside seemed to have ceased.

  He abruptly felt extremely hot, as if his body temperature had elevated five degrees, and his head was now burning terribly. His eyes were having difficulty focusing.

  Was that a ribbon of light up ahead?

  Blade had mentioned seeing a light.

  The thought of Blade and Geronimo pushed him onward. The dummies needed him. He couldn’t fail them now when the chips were down.

  Ooooh, his aching noggin!

  Hickok noticed a strange tingling in his limbs, and his movements were becoming sluggish. He shook his head, striving to concentrate on reaching the light, but his body was refusing to cooperate. A peculiar lethargy engulfed him and he halted, weaving, flushed and disoriented.

  What a pitiful way to buy the farm.

  Bumped off by a measly spider.

  The gunman mustered his flagging strength and tottered toward the light, and for a few seconds he believed he would make it. Then his knees buckled and he sagged to the dusty floor, doubling over, his whole body on fire, and his consciousness plunged into the flames of oblivion.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “You are impressed, are you not?”

  “I’m impressed,” Blade grudgingly admitted.

  General Ari Stoljarov smirked. “We depleted our Treasury to construct this facility, a small price to pay for the capability to conquer the world.”

  “What loony bin did they find you in?” Geronimo quipped.

  The Butcher halted and glared at Geronimo. “Have a care, Warrior. I could have your life snuffed out like that.” He snapped his fingers.

  “I’m shaking in my boots,” Geronimo responded, and his eyes suddenly widened. “You know who we are?”

  “Of course, simpleton,” General Stoljarov said contemptuously.

  Blade’s lips compressed as he stared at the towering edifices around him. They were 30 yards inside the massive front gate, walking along a wide avenue amply lit by intermittent streetlights. The ten troopers comprising the general’s personal guard ringed them with AK-47’s at the ready. Geronimo and he had been frisked and their weapons confiscated by one of the soldiers. Although they were not bound, they were powerless to resist.

  “It would take more than a Soviet uniform to disguise the likes of you, Blade, or you, Geronimo,” General Stoljarov went on. “Our file on the two of you is quite extensive. After all, your accursed Family has been a thorn in our side for years. You have thwarted our plans repeatedly.”

  “We’ve tried,” Blade said with a smile.

  “Enjoy your arrogance while you can,” General Stoljarov said. “I will take great delight in teaching both of you the meaning of humility.”

  “We’ve been threatened by experts,” Blade replied, intentionally sounding bored. “You’re just one more power-monger in our eyes.”

  “Power-monger?”

  “The term the Elders apply to anyone who craves power, anyone who tries to impose their will on others, anyone who thinks everyone else should live by their dictates.”

  General Stoljarov made a snorting noise. “Your definition could apply to every living person.”

  “Not everyone has the potential inside them to become a power-monger,” Blade said. “Only those who presume to recast the world in their own biased image.”

  The general’s brown eyes locked on the giant. “For once the stories weren’t exaggerated.”

  “General?”

  General Stoljarov motioned for them to proceed. “As I indicated, I have read your dossier. I have also attended Defense Ministry meetings devoted to discussions of the most expedient methods of liquidating the Warriors and exterminating the Family, preferably both in one fell swoop.” He paused. “I believe you’re familiar with the name Malenkov?”

  “General Malenkov,” Blade said. “He captured Hickok once, sent a special squad to the Home to kidnap a Family member, and had a spy infiltrate the Freedom Federation. I’ve never had the displeasure of meeting the man personally, but yes, I’m familiar with General Malenkov.”

  “Comrade Malenkov and I are close friends,” General Stoljarov disclosed.

  “Figures,” Geronimo stated. “Snakes in the grass tend to breed together.”

  The Butcher glared at Geronimo for a moment. “I mentioned General Malenkov because he will be very glad to see the two of you.”

  “He’s here?” Blade asked.

  “No. But I intend to contact him shortly and advise him of your apprehension. I am positive he will drop everything and fly here immediately.”

  “Is Malenkov your superior officer?” Blade inquired.

  “Comrade Malenkov is a man of prominence in the North American Central Committee, and he is largely responsible for administering our occupational forces. He is a three-star general. I, unfortunately, have but one star.”

  “So you plan to get some brownie points by informing General Malenkov that you lucked out and caught us,” Geronimo said, baiting the Butcher. “Taking us prisoner will look real good on your service record, and might help you get your second star. Not that you’d deserve it.”

  “Luck was not a factor in your capture!” General Stoljarov snapped.

  “Have you forgotten your run-in with two of our helicopters? Every Soviet unit in Illinois, Indiana, Ohio, Pennsylvania, and New York was placed on alert after your unique vehicle was discovered so close to our lines.”

  “You didn’t have to go to so much trouble over us,” Geronimo said. “But we appreciate the thought.”

  Stoljarov ignored him. “When one of our routine patrols failed to report in from Dunlap this afternoon as scheduled, every soldier in the city was instructed to be on the watch for men answering your descriptions.” He laughed. “Of course, I did not expect you to blunder into our arms so easily. How convenient of you to expose yourselves outside the front gate to the Laser Research Facility.”

  “Is that what this dump is called?” Geronimo queried.

  With surprising celerity and savagery, the Butcher stepped close to Geronimo and backhanded the Warrior across the mouth.

  Geronimo’s head lashed to the right and he stumbled and nearly went down. He caught himself and straightened, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. “Is that the best you can do?” he asked.

  “I can do much better, I assure you. Much, much better,” General Stoljarov said.

  Blade moved between Geronimo and the general. “You’re a brave man when you’re backed up by ten AK-47’s. How are you at one-on-one?”

  Stoljarov sneered. “I hope Comrade Mal
enkov will permit me to demonstrate my prowess.”

  “Don’t use him as an excuse,” Blade said. “I’m ready whenever you are.”

  General Stoljarov draped his hands behind his back, his eyes riveted on the giant’s, betraying no trace of fear. “At the proper time, Warrior, you will get your wish.” He wheeled and walked onward.

  Blade looked at Geronimo as they followed. “Are you all right?”

  Geronimo rubbed his chin and nodded. “Fine. But be careful,” he replied softly. “That sucker is strong.”

  “So am I.”

  General Stoljarov slowed, waiting for them to reach his left side. “I trust there will not be any further slurs directed at my facility?”

  “Your facility?” Blade repeated.

  “I am the commander in charge of the Laser Research Facility.”

  General Stoljarov divulged. He gestured proudly with his right arm. “All that you see is under my jurisdiction. I am in charge of the citadel destined to alter the course of human history. The most magnificent weapon ever conceived is at my disposal.”

  “I don’t suppose you’d care to tell me about it?”

  Stoljarov grinned. “At the proper time, Warrior,” he reiterated, and stared fondly at the silver spire.

  “What purpose does the spire serve?”

  “You are looking at the ultimate achievement in technology,” General Stoljarov boasted. “Our scientists have created the perfect instrument of destruction.”

  “The only perfect weapon is a disciplined master of the fighting arts,” Blade declared.

  “Spare me your puerile philosophy,” Stoljarov stated. “Can a master of the fighting arts stand in Cincinnati and shoot down a jet in, say, Denver?” His eyes sparkled as he spoke.

  Blade scrutinized the ominous silver spire, focusing on the immense opague crystal globe. “Then you are responsible for destroying the 757,” he said, awed by the implications. Oddly enough, despite the fact he’d suspected the Soviets were to blame ever since the meeting with President Toland, and although Fedorov had all but confirmed his suspicions, the verification by General Stoljarov staggered his emotions. Never in a million years would he have believed the Soviets capable of such a feat.

  “Among other things,” Stoljarov commented enigmatically.

  They were passing between two similar buildings, square monoliths rearing 20 stories above the ground.

  “Seems to me that your L.R.F. is a big waste of time and expense,” Geronimo remarked.

  “You think so?” Stoljarov responded.

  “I know so. You managed to shoot down the Federation’s 757. Big deal. The destruction of one jet doesn’t justify the cost of this project,” Geronimo said with a tinge of sarcasm.

  “Do you take us for fools. Warrior? Our purpose in constructing this facility was not for the sole purpose of shooting down aircraft. We have far grander designs for the L.R.F.”

  “Like what?” Geronimo prompted.

  “Like bringing the Freedom Federation to its knees. Like reducing your Home to a pile of rubble. Like achieving the final triumph of Communism and the establishment of Russian domination world wide.”

  “All that with your dinky red light?”

  “Soon our dinky red light, as you facetiously call it, will be the terror of the planet.”

  “A friend of ours has an expression he uses every now and then,” Geronimo said. “It applies to you Russians.”

  “Which is?”

  “You’re getting too big for your britches.”

  General Stoljarov smiled scornfully. “How quaint.”

  “Your insane scheme will fail,” Blade mentioned. “You know that, don’t you?”

  “I know nothing of the sort,” Stoljarov answered.

  “The Freedom Federation will do whatever it takes to stop you.”

  “How? By sending more Warriors? Don’t make me laugh,” General Stoljarov said, and looked at the giant. “And speaking of Warriors, where is your companion?”

  “Our companion?” Blade responded.

  “Don’t play the innocent with me. There were four men in the jeep involved in the fender bender. The driver was slain. And there are a dozen witnesses who claim that three men fought with our guards and were seen running from the scene. I know the Warriors are divided into groupings called Triads, and our intelligence data lists the members of one such Triad, Alpha Triad, as yourself, Geronimo, and the pistoleer, the genius Hickok. Where is Hickok?”

  Blade and Geronimo exchanged glances.

  “Was that a joke?” Geronimo asked.

  “What?” General Stoljarov replied.

  “That crack about Hickok being a genius,” Geronimo clarified. “You were kidding us, right?”

  “General Malenkov himself told me that Hickok is not to be taken lightly,” Stoljarov said. “Hickok is extremely devious and clever. He outwitted our forces in Washington, D.C., and commandeered a helicopter. General Malenkov had Hickok in the palm of his hand, yet Hickok slipped through.”

  “Yeah, but—” Geronimo began.

  “General Malenkov says Hickok is all the more dangerous because of the act he puts on. He pretends to be a buffoon, to be dense and dumb, when all the time his mind is razor sharp. He fooled Comrade Malenkov once, but he will not trick us again.”

  “Amazing,” was all Geronimo could think of to say.

  “Where is he?” Stoljarov stated impatiently.

  “I don’t know anyone by that name,” Geronimo said.

  The Butcher exhaled noisily. “Very well. Indulge in your games for a few minutes longer. I don’t require your information anyway. My men are scouring Delhi Road for the pistoleer, and they will find him eventually.”

  They walked in silence for a minute.

  “Where are you taking us?” Blade inquired.

  “You’ve expressed such an interest in Lenin’s Needle, I thought I would conduct a guided tour.”

  “Why do you call it Lenin’s Needle?”

  “As a tribute to one of the greatest heroes of the Communist movement, the man who founded the Communist Party in Russia. He set the pattern for all future Communists to follow,” General Stoljarov said proudly.

  “Some pattern,” Blade remarked. “We studied the history of Russia in the Family school, as part of our understanding of the factors leading to the confrontation between the superpowers. Lenin set up a secret police force and killed everyone who disagreed with his views. He was just another power-monger, plain and simple.”

  “I would not expect you to comprehend Lenin’s contribution to humanity,” General Stoljarov stated.

  “I understand it, all right. Lenin’s contribution consisted of a totalitarian government determined to subjugate every other country.

  Lenin’s warped political philosophy indirectly led to World War Three.”

  General Stoljarov stopped in his tracks and shook his head in astonishment. “Now I’ve heard everything! To blame Comrade Lenin for World War Three is ridiculous. To be fair, you should also blame General George Washington.” He resumed walking.

  “Washington didn’t leave as his legacy a government devoted to the suppression of individual liberty.”

  “It is obvious we will never see eye to eye on political matters,” Stoljarov said.

  “Or anything else,” Blade added.

  They drew nearer to Lenin’s Needle, following the avenue as it looped around a row of deciduous trees.

  “I have a surprise for you,” General Stoljarov mentioned.

  “Can we pass?” Geronimo asked. “Any surprise of yours is bound to be hazardous to our health.”

  “You misjudge me, Geronimo,” the general said.

  “Then what’s this big surprise of yours?” Geronimo queried skeptically.

  The Butcher smirked at both of them. “Would you believe a firing squad?”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Somewhere, someone was talking to him. He could hear their voice, but the words were muffled and slurred, as
if they were trying to speak with a mouth full of marbles.

  Why was it so blamed hot?

  He became aware of a weight on his chest, and suddenly the memories returned in a rush: Cincinnati, the Russians, the vacant building, the spider, and being bitten! Another spider must be about to bite him! His eyes shot open and he grabbed at the form before him, his vision momentarily blurry.

  “Mister! It’s okay!”

  Hickok shook his head vigorously, clearing his mind and his eyesight simultaneously. He was on his back on the hall floor, his right hand gripping the left wrist of an elderly man attired in ragged clothing. The man held a flickering lighter aloft in his right hand, and his right knee rested on Hickok’s chest.

  “Please, mister! I mean you no harm!” the elderly man blurted. “Don’t hurt me!”

  “Who are you?” Hickok demanded.

  “Elmer. Elmer Howard,” the man said. His black pants were ripped at the knees and covered with dirt. A brown shirt with three buttons missing and crude patches on both elbows covered his frail torso.

  “What were you doing?”

  “I found you out cold and I was trying to revive you.”

  “How do I know you weren’t tryin’ to finish me off?” Hickok asked.

  “I’m no killer, mister.”

  Hickok studied the oldster’s face, noting the dozens of wrinkles, the honest green eyes, and the matted gray hair. “No, I reckon you’re not, Elmer. My name is Hickok.”

  “I saw you fighting the Commies,” Elmer commented. “You and your buddies.”

  “My pards!” Hickok exclaimed, and shoved to his feet. The hallway abruptly spun and tilted, and he clutched at the wall for support.

  “You’d best take it easy, Hickok,” Elmer advised. “The bite of a Brown is nothing to mess with.”

  “A Brown?”

  “That’s what we call the kind of spider that bit you.”

  “How’d you know I was bitten by a spider?” Hickok queried.

  Elmer nodded at Hickok’s head. “You have bits and pieces of spider plastered to your hair.”

  “I’m surprised I’m still breathin’,” Hickok remarked.