Liberty Run Read online

  Blade ducked from sight. Gaining entrance to the Ministry promised to be extremely difficult. Crossing the field unseen, if guards were posted on the wall, would be impossible. And sneaking in the front gate was a ludicrous notion.

  Or was it?

  Blade waited until the two guards passed and were 50 yards off, nearing the gate. He waved to Sundance, then followed the guards, staying behind the trees.

  The guards ambled at a leisurely pace.

  Sundance caught up with Blade. “What are you doing?” he whispered.

  “There’s no way we’ll get over that wall,” Blade responded. “Not with all the lights and the barbed wire and the guards.”

  “So how do we get inside?”

  “I’m working on that,” Blade informed him.

  The pair of patrolling guards reached the gate and halted, engaging the quartet of soldiers already there in conversation.

  Blade edged to within 20 yards of the front gate, then squatted in the shelter of a large oak.

  Sundance joined the head Warrior.

  The light on the eastern horizon was increasing.

  Blade scrutinized the wall, at a loss for an idea to penetrate the Ministry’s defenses.

  A muted rumble sounded from the northwest.

  Blade glanced over his left shoulder.

  A truck was slowly approaching the gate, still about 400 yards distant.

  Blade squinted, striving to identify the truck. He wasn’t worried about being observed by the truck’s occupants; the trees were plunged in murky shadows.

  The truck drove nearer.

  Blade perceived the truck wasn’t a military vehicle. It was white, with a small cab and a square body.

  The truck was 350 yards off.

  Blade glanced at the gate, then the truck.

  The truck reached the 300-yard mark.

  Blade turned to Sundance. “I don’t have time to explain. I want you to stay here, right here, until I signal you or return.”

  “What? Where are you going?” Sundance asked.

  “No time,” Blade stated, and rose. He ran to the rear, keeping in the darkest areas, racing parallel with the road. His plan was perilous, but if he succeeded, he would be inside the Ministry in a matter of minutes. But he had to reach the 100-yard mark before the white truck.

  The truck was 250 yards from the gate.

  Blade sprinted full out, his eyes glued to the inky section of road next to an enormous willow tree. If he could reach that spot before the truck, and if his estimation of the truck’s size was accurate, he could carry it off.

  If.

  The white truck was now 200 yards from the front gate.

  Blade almost stumbled over a root. He recovered and sped toward the willow.

  One hundred eighty yards.

  Bladfe wished there had been time to detail his intent to Sundance. He knew Sundance would chafe at being left behind, but both of them trying for the truck was unrealistic, increasing their risk of detection. And as the tallest, Blade stood the best chance of accomplishing the maneuver.

  One hundred sixty yards.

  Damn! His legs ached! Blade ignored the pain, pounding forward, breathing deeply.

  One hundred fifty yards.

  If he tripped again, he was lost.

  One hundred forty.

  Blade slowed, slinging the Commando over his right shoulder.

  One hundred thirty.

  Blade reached the cover of the willow and pressed against its rough trunk, the bark scraping his right cheek.

  One hundred twenty.

  He would only get one try. If he blew it, they could forget locating the Vikings in the Ministry. If the Vikings were even there.

  If again.

  One hundred ten.

  Blade tensed, watching the tires turn as the white truck neared the willow tree. He estimated the truck was moving at 30 miles an hour.

  The white truck reached the spreading willow, was abreast of the trunk for an instant, and then was past the willow, proceeding toward the gate.

  Blade was in motion as the truck came even with the willow. He darted around the trunk and dashed the five feet to the road, reaching the rear corner, his legs churning to keep pace, his arms outstretched, his fingers grasping for a purchase. For a second, the outcome was in doubt. And then his fingers closed on the corner, his nails gaining a slight hold on the metal, but it was enough for him to exert his tremendous strength, to tug on the corner, to pull his body that much closer to the rear panel of the vehicle, and there was a door handle in the center of the white panel. His left arm swung out, and he grabbed the handle and held on for dear life.

  The strain was incredible. His feet left the road, and for a moment he was hanging by one hand as his right was wrenched from the corner. He clawed at the handle with his right hand, gripping the cool metal, and used his added leverage to haul himself onto the rear fender.

  The truck was 80 yards from the iron gate.

  Blade glanced up. The roof was eight feet above his head. He steeled his leg muscles and leaped, his arms straight overhead, and his hands clasped the lip of the roof as his knees banged against the rear panel. He grimaced as he clung to the roof, knowing he must keep moving or he would falter and fall to the asphalt. His arms bulged, his neck muscles protruding, as he pulled himself up onto the roof.

  Fifty yards from the dull horizontal and vertical iron bars.

  Blade rolled to the middle of the roof. Two of his fingers were bleeding and his left knee was throbbing. But he’d done it!

  The small white truck was reducing its speed. There was a slight squeaking noise from the cab, from the driver’s side, as if the driver was rolling his window down.

  Only four guards were at the gate. The two on patrol, Blade reasoned, must have resumed their rounds.

  The truck came to a halt in front of the gate. “Hi, Tim,” said one of the guards. “You’re late.”

  “I had to wait for them to get their asses in gear at my last stop,” the driver, evidently the man named Tim, stated. “They couldn’t find a bag of dirty aprons from last night.”

  “There’s a note attached to my clipboard,” the guard said. “They want you to pick up a load from Penza Hall.”

  “All right,” the driver responded. “But I hope they have it all on the loading dock. I hate going into that place. It gives me the creeps.”

  “Just be thankful you’re not in there as a permanent resident,” the guard remarked, grinning.

  “Don’t even joke about a thing like that,” Tim said. “I’m not an enemy of the State.”

  The guard snickered. He motioned toward the gate. “Open it!” he ordered.

  The three other guards obeyed.

  Blade, lying as flat as possible on the roof, felt the truck vibrate as it passed the iron gate. He’d made it! He was inside the Ministry of Psychological Sciences!

  Now what?

  The white truck took a right, along a narrow, tree-lined road. Few people were abroad.

  Blade could hear the driver whistling as he drove. What was this Tim picking up at Penza Hall? And why was the driver so leery of the place?

  What was it Tim had said to the guard? “I’m not an enemy of the State.”

  Was Penza Hall a prison? Hardly likely, if the complex was devoted to the Psychological Sciences. Unless, Blade speculated, Penza Hall was devoted to psychological manipulations instead of simple physical incarceration. He recalled a portion of his Warrior course at the Home, a study of the psychological-warfare techniques employed by the superpowers and others before the Big Blast. The Russians, in particular, masters of mind manipulation, and at extracting important data from recalcitrant subjects. Perhaps Penza Hall was where such “extractions” were made. If so, then Penza Hall might be where the Vikings were being interrogated.

  The truck took a left, driving between two high buildings, each over ten stories in height.

  Blade peered up at the windows, hoping no one was gazing through t
hem at the road below.

  The white truck turned to the right, slowing.

  Blade rose on his elbows and scanned the road ahead. They were entering an expansive parking lot. Across the lot was a gigantic structure, only four stones high but encompassing at least five or six acres. Most of the windows in the edifice were dark; only three or four displayed any light. The truck was making for a loading dock stacked with crates and boxes. Two enormous doors, both closed, each large enough to accommodate a troop transport or a tractor-trailer, framed the wall behind the loading dock.

  The driver ceased whistling.

  Blade lowered his head, waiting with baited breath as the truck braked alongside the loading dock. He heard a door slam and risked a look.

  The driver, a lean individual in jeans and a blue jacket, was ascending the ramp to the loading dock, a tablet in his left hand. He walked to the right of the two immense doors, up to a small metal door. He reached up and pressed a button encased in the brown wall.

  Blade detected a faint ringing from within the building. He gazed at the structure, attempting to determine the material used in its construction.

  The brown wall appeared to be a form of stone, but he doubted stone was the material used. Was it a plastic designed to simulate the appearance of stone? Or was it a substance the Soviets had developed since the Big Blast?

  The small door suddenly opened, and a brawny soldier stood in the doorway. “Yes?” he demanded.

  The driver pointed toward his truck. “They told me at the gate you have a pickup.”

  The guard glanced at the white truck. “Sure do. Wait right here.” He started to turn, then paused. “On second thought, why don’t you come with me?”

  Tim fidgeted nervously. “Do I have to?”

  The guard grinned. “Afraid so. There’s about eight or nine bins. I’m not going to lug it all down here by myself.”

  Tim shrugged. “Then let’s hop to it.”

  The guard and the driver disappeared inside.

  Blade saw his chance. He rolled to the right and dropped from the roof, alighting on his hands and feet, his arches stinging from the impact.

  No one else was in sight.

  Blade stood and headed for the ramp. As he did, he noticed the sign on the side panel of the white truck: CENTRAL LAUNDRY. A laundry truck?

  The Ministry sent its soiled garments and whatever to another establishment to be cleaned? Why not clean them on the premises?

  Perhaps because doing so would entail a permanent cleaning staff at the Ministry, and such a staff would present a security problem. What was the old saying? Loose lips sink ships? Considering the security clamped on the Ministry, the higher-ups undoubtedly wanted to minimize the presence of non-essential personnel. He reached the ramp and raced up to the loading dock.

  A crack of light rimmed the small door.

  Blade jogged to the door and halted, unslinging the Commando. The door was slightly ajar! When the guard and driver had entered Penza Hall, they had failed to push the door closed! Maybe because they would be returning with their arms laden with laundry. He used his left hand to ease the door open.

  A gloomy, deserted hallway was on the other side.

  Blade ducked through the door and flattened against the left-hand wall.

  The hallway ended at a yellow door 20 yards away. Other doors lined the hallway, four on the left, three on the right.

  There was no time to lose! The guard and the driver might return at any moment!

  Blade reached the first door on the left. It was open, revealing a spacious chamber filled with stacks of wooden crates and cardboard boxes.

  The yellow door at the end of the hall started to swing open.

  Blade slid into the storage chamber and hid behind a stack of crates as the hallway filled with a peculiar squeaking.

  “…three more loads,” said the voice of the guard.

  “Thanks for doing this,” stated the driver. “Rostov always makes me go up and get it by myself.”

  “Rostov is a prick,” the guard stated.

  Blade heard the metal door open, and he padded to the doorway and risked a peek around the corner.

  The guard and the driver were pushing white bins overflowing with unclean clothing and linen. The squeaking was emanating from the tiny black wheels on the laundry bins. They passed outside, and the metal door eased almost shut.

  Blade turned to the left and sprinted down the hallway to the yellow door. The door opened onto a flight of stairs. He hesitated, glancing down.

  The stairs descended several levels below ground, as well as climbing to the stories above. Which way to go? The guard and the driver would be going up. So he went down, taking two steps at a stride, constantly surveying the levels below for any hint of activity. He halted on the first landing, pondering. If the Russians did hold the Vikings in Penza Hall, on which floor would the Vikings most likely be detained? Surely not on one of the upper floors, where windows were a tempting escape route.

  Underground would be best.

  Move! his mind shrieked.

  Blade hastened below. It was close to dawn, and the corridors would probably be crammed with workers once the day shift arrived. Finding the holding cells quickly was imperative. He decided to begin at the bottom and work his way up. The magnitude of his task bothered him. Penza Hall was enormous. He couldn’t possibly cover all of it before daylight. He reached the next landing, kept moving.

  Far above him a door scraped open.

  Someone else was using the stairs!

  Blade increased his pace. Three steps at a leap, he hurried to the lowest level.

  Footsteps sounded on the stairs above, echoing hollowly in the confines of the stairwell.

  Blade reached the bottom of the stairwell and found two yellow doors.

  He tried one knob, and was gratified when it twisted and the door jerked wide. Gratified until he saw what awaited him.

  A Russian soldier.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Sundance was annoyed. He resented being left behind, but he was too professional a Warrior to disobey his orders. So he waited, concealed in the weeds near the large oak, watching the four guards at the gate. He had covered them with the FN 50-63 when the white truck had stopped, but the guards hadn’t seen Blade. His respect for the Warrior chief had ballooned; only an idiot or a dedicated, courageous man would have attempted such a perilous strategem. The idiot because he wouldn’t know any better. The brave man because the mission was of paramount importance, and the danger was eclipsed by an exalted ideal, the ideal of serving others, of saving lives, of placing a priority on the welfare of the many and rendering any sacrifice necessary. And Blade wasn’t an idiot.

  The eastern sky was growing lighter and lighter.

  Sundance had caught a glimpse of Blade’s maneuver, and had marveled at the speed, strength, and daring displayed. He knew Blade viewed this run to Philadelphia as critical to the Family’s future. If an alliance could be forged with the Vikings, the Soviets would be defeated that much sooner. If the Vikings weren’t receptive to the idea, the Family faced the prospect of a prolonged conflict with the Russians. By finding the Vikings and liberating them, Blade might save untold millions from the totalitarian Communist regime, might restore sweet liberty to the land.

  There was a commotion to the right.

  Sundance craned his neck to see better.

  Two more guards were approaching the front gate, patrolling along the base of the wall. They had stopped, and were staring at the line of trees, AK-47’s in hand.

  Someone was shouting.

  The two guards began walking across the field toward the trees.

  What was happening? Sundance wondered.

  He found out.

  Captain Georgü Bakunin emerged from the woods, yelling in Russian, hurrying up to the two soldiers. They conversed for a few seconds, and Bakunin showed them something he drew from his pocket.

  The four gate guards were watching the trio.
/>   Sundance crawled to the base of the oak and stood, carefully avoiding exposing himself to the soldiers. He peered around the trunk.

  Bakunin and the pair of guards were jogging toward the front gate.

  Sundance stared at Bakunin, knowing the captain would alert the Ministry to the presence of the Warriors. They would conduct an extensive search of the grounds and the building, and they would increase their perimeter security, minimizing Blade’s chances of eascaping. The Warrior chief would be trapped inside.

  Bakunin and the two guards were 50 yards from the gate.

  What should he do? Sundance doubted Bakunin had told the two troopers about Blade and himself. They’d only exchanged a few words.

  Bakunin must have told them who he was, and produced confirming identification.

  Bakunin and the two soldiers were 40 yards from the iron gate.

  Sundance placed his finger on the trigger of the FN. If Bakunin was silenced before he could inform the Ministry officials, the Russians would never suspect Blade was inside. Particularly if a diversion was created outside.

  Bakunin and the two guards were running along the base of the wall.

  Sundance raised the FN to his shoulder. If he downed Bakunin, all hell would break loose! The Russians would come pouring out of the Ministry after him. But it he could hold them off for a while, he might give Blade the precious time necessary to locate the Vikings. He sighted on Bakunin, aiming for the head.

  Bakunin and the two patrol guards were 20 yards from the front gate, in a direct line with a large oak at the edge of the field, when the captain’s head exploded in a spray of blood and brains, spattering the wall, and he was lifted from his feet and smashed against the stone as the sound of a shot shattered the dawn air.

  The two guards with Bakunin spun toward the tree line, and both were rocked backward as powerful slugs ripped through their torsos and flung them to the ground, spurting crimson from their ruptured chests.

  Initially stunned by the carnage, the quartet of gate guards sprang into action. Three of them spread out, eyes riveted on the woods, seeking the sniper. The fourth ran toward a black button imbedded in the wall to the left of the gate. He was reaching for the button when a slug caught him in the back of the head, just above the neck, and his mouth and nose erupted outward in a shower of flesh and teeth. He tumbled onto his stomach and lay still.