Miami Run Page 14

  Where the hell was the guy in black?

  Gehret paused on a low mound and surveyed the terrain. In front of him was a 15-foot incline covered with weeds, and then a sea of sawgrass.

  They were nearly to the southern edge of the estate; beyond was the reptile-infested swamp. Dawn was streaking the eastern horizon, the increasing sunlight lending the murky water a golden hue. He turned to the west, intending to head for the airboat dock.

  “Sarge!” one of his men exclaimed, pointing to the north, at a tree 20 yards distant.

  Gehret swiveled, doing a double take when he saw the cause of the man’s alarm.

  There he was!

  The son of a bitch was standing next to the tree, just watching them, an M-16 slung over his left shoulder, his hands empty!

  Gehret recovered from his amazement and raised his Uzi, his finger on the trigger.

  With startling swiftness, the man in black stepped behind the trunk and was screened from view.

  “Damn!” declared the first man.

  “He must be crazy!” said the second.

  Gehret motioned with his left arm. “Take him from both sides,” he commanded.

  Moving with practiced precision, the three mercenaries closed on the tree, their weapons at the ready.

  Gehret fixed his gaze on that tree. The nearest brush was five yards from the trunk! The guy had trapped himself! There was no way the man in black could reach the brush without being cut down. Gehret smiled in expectation.

  One of the other mercenaries was moving cautiously to the right, the second to the left.

  Sergeant Gehret halted a yard from the three-foot-wide trunk and crouched. He glanced at his men and nodded, and all three hurled themselves forward. Gehret rounded the trunk on the left and swiveled, prepared to blast away.

  But there was no one to blast.

  The Warrior was gone.

  “Where’d he go?” asked the private on the right.

  “I don’t know!” Gehret snapped. “Fan out. Find the bastard!” He watched them enter the undergrowth, his brow knit in puzzlement. No one could up and vanish. No one ordinary, that is. But Gehret had lived as a professional mercenary for two decades. Before being hired by the Dragons, he’d worked for seven years in the Far East. In Japan he’d encountered certain men capable of astounding feats, men known as Ninja. Oddly enough, the Oriental in black reminded him of those Ninja.

  In the brief glimpse he’d had, he’d recognized the same aura of supreme confidence in the man in black as he recollected observing in the Ninja.

  Was it possible? he started to think, when a strangled gurgle sounded from the vegetation to his left.

  “Anders?” Gehret said softly but urgently.

  There was no response.

  “Anders?”

  Still no answer.

  Gehret took a stride toward the undergrowth, looking to the right as he did so. “Wilson!” he hissed.

  “Yeah, Sarge?” came a reply from the other side of a dense thicket.

  “Get back here! On the double!”

  “On my way.”

  Gehret heard the muffled footfalls as Wilson started to obey, and an instant later there was a loud crash. Then silence.

  “Wilson?”

  Wilson did not reply.

  Discarding prudence, concerned for his men, Gehret plunged into the woods, weaving to minimize the target he posed, skirting the dense thicket. The morning light cast the vegetation in a deep green tint. His combat boots bumped an object in his path and he looked down, a chill washing over him.

  Private Wilson was on his back, his mouth open, his tongue protruding out the left corner. His head was almost severed from his shoulders; only a few inches of flesh and the spinal column had not been sliced clean through.

  Sergeant Gehret licked his lips. He’d seen this kind of handiwork before, and a word flashed into his mind unbidden, a word with supremely lethal connotations: katana.

  The Oriental had a katana.

  Gehret scanned the vegetation. He vaguely remembered seeing something long and thin slanted under the Warrior’s belt. The katana? He wanted to kick himself for underestimating the man in black. Now his men were dead, and El Gato would have his hide! He decided to head to the west and locate Corporate Stanz, and he took several steps. As he did, the short hairs on the nape of his neck tingled.

  No!

  Sergeant Gehret whirled, his Uzi tucked against his right side.

  The Warrior was a foot away in the Kokutsu-tachi, the back stance. His M-16 was still over his left shoulder, and his katana was angled over his left hip. As the mercenary turned, the Warrior slid in close, his left hand in the Nukite, the piercing hand, position, his right in the Shotei. A slash to his left hand deflected the Uzi barrel aside. He uttered a sharp kiai and drove his right hand in a palm heel thrust into the mercenary’s side, hemorrhaging the spleen underneath. Another Shotei blow to the sergeant’s chin snapped the soldier’s head back.

  Gehret saw pinwheeling lights explode before his eyes. Dazed, he tried to stagger backwards, to clear his head. But the Warrior wouldn’t let him.

  The man in black rammed his right elbow into the mercenary’s jaw.

  Gehret felt his teeth crunch together. His world spun and danced and he sagged forward.

  The Warrior yanked the Uzi free and tossed it aside. He stood above the mercenary as Gehret landed on his knees, struggling to focus.

  This couldn’t be happening!

  Gehret felt steely fingers lock on his throat. He gasped and grabbed the arm holding him.

  “You have captured my friends,” the man in black stated harshly. “Now you are going to tell me everything there is to know about Happy Acres.”

  To emphasize his point, he raised his right arm aloft, his fingers taut, ready to use a Crane strike to the eyes.

  Gehret blinked and gulped.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Dear Spirit!

  His shoulder hurt like the dickens!

  Hickok kept his eyes closed, listening to the conversation between the doctor and the nurse.

  “Will you operate?” the nurse asked.

  The doctor had removed the backpack, then used a scalpel to cut a line in the gunman’s buckskin shirt from the right shoulder to the neck. He’d peeled the strong, pliable leather down to expose the wound. Now, as he probed at the hole with his instruments, he voiced a contemplative, “Hmmmmm.”

  What the blazes did that mean? Hickok resisted an urge to cry out as the doctor’s probe hit a sensitive spot. He didn’t want the physician to know he was awake and he had been the whole time.

  So far his plan had worked to perfection.

  Sort of.

  When those coyotes had popped up from behind the blasted hedge, springing their ambush, he’d believed he and Blade were going to cash in their chips. But when the men hadn’t fired, in that split second when he’d realized they were about to be taken prisoner instead of perforated with dozens of rounds, he’d attempted to get through the doorway, hoping the varmints would hesitate just long enough.

  Wouldn’t you know it.

  The dipsticks hadn’t.

  The shot had knocked him for a loop. Surprisingly, the pain had been slight at first, then grew progressively worse. He’d retained consciousness all the while the two guards were lugging him to the infirmary and making snide comments about his level of intelligence.

  What did those cow patties know?

  “Most remarkable,” the doctor remarked.

  “What is?” the nurse prompted.

  “The wound isn’t life threatening,” the doctor said. “The bullet missed the clavicle, the subclavian artery, and the subclavian vein. Except for damange to the trapezius muscle—and the entry and exit holes, of course—this man is fine. Remarkable,” he repeated.

  “What should I tell the two outside?”

  “Tell them we’ll need to clean and bandage the shoulder,” the doctor directed. “It shouldn’t take more than five mi
nutes.”

  Hickok heard the nurse walk off.

  This was his chance.

  He opened his lids a fraction and studied his surroundings. The doctor was a man of 30 or so, attired in a white smock and gray trousers. As Hickok watched, the physician walked to a cabinet and opened the glass door. Medical instruments were everywhere, and the ten-by-twelve-foot room was spotlessly clean. A door was visible six feet from the foot of the metal table Hickok was on. Through the doorway he could see a smaller room, and on the far side was another door, this one to the outside. The nurse, an attractive redhead, was framed in the doorway. Beyond her were two men in camouflage uniforms, the same pair, evidently, who had carried him to the infirmary.

  The doctor began humming to himself.

  Hickok closed his eyes and debated his next move. His Henry was gone, but the dummies had neglected to take his Colts. Since Blade had managed to get himself captured, his first priority was to rescue the Big Guy.

  There was the sound of footsteps at the foot of the table.

  “What did they say?” the doctor inquired.

  “They said they’ll wait,” the nurse responded. “Mr. Paolucci wants to see him as soon as possible.”

  “Do they know who he is?”

  “They don’t know his name. But El Gato said something about expecting Warriors to attack Happy Acres. He must be a Warrior.”

  “What’s a Warrior?”

  “Beats me.”

  Hickok heard the swishing noise of running water.

  “You’d better wash up,” the doctor directed.

  The nurse shuffled to the right. “What do you think Mr. Paolucci will do to him?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine.”

  “They captured another one,” the nurse mentioned. “I saw him from the front door. He’s a big one.”

  “I hope I don’t go to all the trouble of bandaging this man,” the physician commented, “only to have the good Director execute him.”

  “Don’t talk like that,” the nurse cautioned. “Someone may hear you.”

  “I am not one of the Director’s hired flunkies,” the doctor said. “I’ll voice my opinion any time I desire.”

  “It’s dangerous to anger Mr. Paolucci.”

  “Paolucci is not God.”

  “At Happy Acres he’s the next best thing.”

  The water was turned off.

  “Prep the patient,” the doctor directed.

  Hickok breathed deeply, simulating unconsciousness. Soft, gentle fingers began washing the blood from his shoulder. Perfume stimulated his nostrils.

  “This guy is good looking,” the nurse remarked.

  “Behave yourself, Norma.”

  “I was just making an observation.”

  The doctor chuckled.

  Hickok’s nose started to itch.

  “So tell me,” the doctor said. “How’s things going between Sergeant Gehret and you?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about?”

  “Oh. That’s funny. You know how gossip spreads around the estate. Yesterday I treated someone who told me Gehret and you are an item.”

  “Who?”

  “You know I won’t tell you.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you’d punch their lights out.”

  The nurse laughed. “I would not!”

  Hickok’s nose twitched as the itching intensified.

  “I’m done,” the nurse announced.

  “Allow me,” the doctor stated.

  Not now! Hickok felt a growing impulse to sneeze and tried to suppress it.

  The physician began probing at the wound again. “Would you get the gauze?” he asked the nurse.

  “Certainly.”

  Hickok was unable to control the urge. The sneeze exploded from him, and as his head snapped forward he sat up and opened his eyes.

  The doctor, standing next to the table with a long, thin silver instrument in his right hand, took a step backwards, startled. To the left of the table, her hand on the knob of a white cabinet, the nurse shifted her hand to her widening mouth.

  Hickok pulled his left Python. “Howdy,” he said with a smile.

  “You’re awake!” the nurse blurted.

  “And rarin’ to go,” Hickok said, glancing at the doorway. He spied the guards through the outer door, both standing with their backs to the infirmary, talking. “Close this door,” he instructed them, nodding at the entrance to the room.

  Neither the doctor or the nurse moved.

  “You’d best hop to it,” Hickok suggested. “If those guards see me, there’s liable to be gunplay. You’d be caught in the cross fire.”

  “Close the door, Norma,” the doctor said.

  The nurse moved tentatively to the door and eased it shut.

  Hickok motioned with the Python at a far corner. “Why don’t you mosey on over there where I can keep my eyes on you, ma’am?”

  Norma complied hastily.

  “Now, Doc, you can bandage my shoulder,” Hickok directed.

  “I should administer anesthetic,” the physician remarked.

  “No anesthetic.”

  “It will cause some discomfort.”

  “No anesthetic.”

  The doctor shrugged. “As you wish.”

  Hickok bore the dressing of his wound stoically despite intermittent twinges of severe pain. He held the Python in his lap, his thumb on the hammer.

  “You know,” the physician commented as he wrapped up the bandaging, “there’s only one way out of the infirmary.”

  “No windows?”

  “There is a window in the waiting room,” the doctor disclosed. “On the north side.”

  Hickok smiled. “Thanks, Doc.”

  “This will suffice temporarily,” the doctor said, stepping back and examining his handiwork. “But you should avoid excessive activity.”

  “I’ll keep it in mind,” Hickok quipped. He slid to the left, placing his moccasins on the white-tiled floor. “I want you two to stay put until I’m out of here. You’ll stay a lot healthier if you do.”

  “We won’t budge,” the doctor promised.

  Hickok walked to the door and opened it a crack. Peeking through the narrow slit, he observed the guards still engaged in conversation and still facing away from the infirmary. This was a golden opportunity. He quickly opened the door, sidled into the waiting room, and quietly closed the door.

  Neither guard looked in his direction.

  The gunman moved to the north wall and examined the narrow window. The inner pane was already up; all that separated him from freedom was a screen. He touched the screen with his right hand, grimacing at the soreness. How would he get through the screen? Find a knife?

  A boot scuffled the floor to his rear.

  Hickok spun, the Colt tight in his left hand.

  One of the guards was a yard inside the waiting room, slack-jawed in amazement. A machine gun was cradled in his left arm.

  “Howdy,” Hickok said with a grin. “Are you here for your lobotomy?”

  Recovering from his initial shock, the mercenary pivoted and endeavored to level his weapon.

  Hickok’s left Colt boomed, the slug slamming into the guard’s forehead and knocking him backward. There was no time to lose. The gunman stepped hurriedly to the doorway, and there was the second mercenary, unslinging his M-16, about to enter. Hickok shot the man in the right eye, then dashed outside.

  Now what?

  The gunfighter glanced to the east, relief engulfing him at the sight of Blade seated at a white table. Unfortunately, his friend was ringed by ten or eleven mercenaries.

  Those mercenaries abruptly raced toward the infirmary.

  Hickok swiveled to the right, frowning as he beheld three guards exiting a barracks door. He thumbed the hammer three times, and with each shot a mercenary dropped. But more would be coming. It was time for Mama Hickok’s pride and joy to skedaddle. He turned to the left, to the north, spying the closed front gate
and a pair of guards. Another mercenary was on the brick wall to the west of the gate. All three were staring at him.

  So much for subterfuge.

  Hickok bolted toward the gate. With a clipped wing, and without the range provided by the Henry, the odds were stacked too high against him.

  His best bet was to reach the woods, then rescue Blade later.

  Easier said than done.

  Several of the mercenaries charging from the east opened up, their rounds narrowly missing the sprinting gunman.

  Hickok’s right shoulder was throbbing. He saw the pair at the gate run in his direction, and the mercenary on the wall was aiming a machine gun.

  When outnumbered, do the unexpected.

  The gunfighter stopped, extending and elevating his left arm, and fired once.

  With his arms flung wide, the sentry on the wall staggered to the inner rim and plummeted over the edge.

  Hickok resumed speeding toward the gate. The layout of the compound worked in his favor; he could make a beeline for the gate from the infirmary, but the mercenaries pursuing him were thwarted by having the house between themselves and the north wall. They had to run all the way around the Director’s huge residence. Now, with less than 30 yards to go, and with the pack of mercenaries obstructed by the intervening mansion, he pumped his legs for all he was worth.

  The pair of gate guards had halted ten feet from the gate and were sighting on the Warrior.

  Hickok threw himself to the left, to the ground, jarring his left side. The left Colt was empty, and reloading was out of the question.

  Would his right arm work?

  The gunfighter rolled to his knees as the gate guards fired. He grunted as he drew his right Python, his shoulder lancing with agonizing protest.

  Steady! he mentally warned himself.

  Slugs smacked into the turf in front of him.

  Hickok fired twice, each shot planted dead center, a slug tearing into each guard’s head and dropping them in their tracks.

  Move! his mind screamed.

  The gunman rose and darted for the gate, looking over his left shoulder.

  The pack had not yet appeared. He might make it after all. He holstered the left Python and studied the gate ahead. Six-foot-high metal bars, spaced at one-foot intervals, formed the core of the framework, braced by heavy bars at the top and the bottom. A heavy chain was looped around the central bars and secured by a large padlock. He slowed as he neared the pair of dead guards, intending to search their pockets for the key.