New Orleans Run Page 3

  "I said that years ago, back when I didn't know any better," Lynx stated.

  "You still don't know any better."

  The cat-man ignored Ferret and looked at Gremlin again. "You see my point, don't you?"

  "What point, yes?"

  "About the real reason I wanted us to go on a run. It wasn't so much for me or us, but for the Family. Look at how nice they've been to us. They took us in after the Doktor died and allowed us to become full-fledged Family members. We eat three squares a day and have a roof over our heads when we want one. And they never ask for nothin' in return except that we pull our own weight as Warriors."

  "Very true, yes," Gremlin agreed.

  Lynx stared dejectedly at the grass. "So what if I wanted to do the right thing and go on our fair share of the missions. So what if I think we owe the Family for all the kindness they've shown us, I shouldn't have volunteered our Triad without first consulting you two."

  "You are a good hybrid, no?"

  "Now I'm the one who feels like he needs to puke," Ferret declared.

  "Go ahead. Make fun of me all you want to," Lynx said. "I deserve it."

  "You're a terrible martyr," Ferret commented.

  "Lynx does have a point, yes?" Gremlin pointed out, turning around.

  "Yeah. On the top of his head," Ferret replied.

  "Maybe we should do more to help the Family, no?"

  "We're doing enough as it is."

  "But Gremlin likes the Family. Gremlin wants to do more."

  "Don't tell me you're falling for his bull?" Ferret asked.

  "Lynx makes sense, yes?"

  "Lynx hasn't made sense since day one. Can't you see he's trying to manipulate us again? He's scamming us, Gremlin."

  The humanoid glanced at the cat-man. "Are you, yes?"

  "Would I jive you guys?" Lynx replied with an earnest expression. "Oh, sure, I might kid you every now and then. But what are friends for?"

  Gremlin nodded and stared at Ferret. "There. You see, yes?"

  "Did you happen to notice he didn't answer your question?"

  "Sure he did, yes?"

  "I give up!" Ferret declared in disgust. He walked to a nearby boulder and took a seat. "If the two of you want to go off and slay dragons, be my guest. But I'm staying right here at the Home."

  "What can one run hurt, yes?"

  "It can get us killed," Ferret reiterated irritably.

  Lynx came off the log in a rush and moved over to the boulder. "Not if we stick together and cover each other's backs like always. We're the best Triad in the Family and here's our chance to prove it."

  "You two go prove it."

  "Does this mean you'll let us go off by ourselves to get racked?"

  Ferret glanced up. "That's a low blow, even for you."

  "Don't be such a party-pooper. Come with us."

  "No."

  "Please, Ferret," Gremlin chimed in. "For me, yes? We should always stick together, no?"

  A look of severe exasperation etched Ferret's face as he gazed from one to the other. They were as dear to him as life itself, his closest comrades, the brothers he'd never had. The mere notion of them being harmed was almost more than he could bear. Life without them would be empty and lonely. Under the circumstances, and even though he knew Lynx had outmaneuvered them again, his options were limited to just one. "All right," he capitulated wearily. "I'll go on the damn run to New Orleans."

  Lynx impulsively embraced Ferret, then spun in a circle and whooped at the top of his lungs. "Look out, world! Here we come!"

  "You did the right thing, yes," Gremlin assured Ferret.

  "Did I? I hope so," Ferret said. He didn't bother to add that, soon, they could all be pushing up daisies.

  Chapter Two

  He stood on the western rampart, his hands clasped loosely behind his broad back, a veritable giant of a man attired in a black leather vest, green fatigue pants, and combat boots. Dark hair crowned his handsome head.

  His brooding gray eyes stared absently at the cleared field to the west of the 20-foot-high brick wall on which he was perched. Around his slim waist were strapped a pair of matching Bowies snug in their brown sheathes. His bulging muscles radiated an aura of sheer power even when at rest. To a casual observer he might have appeared to be a statue, a bronzed superman sculpted by an artist who intended to invest the piece with the strength of a Hercules. Not one of those mighty sinews so much as quivered as the giant contemplated the personal problem he faced, a dilemma that could be summed up succinctly in two words.

  Not again!

  His impending departure for New Orleans in the morning had aggravated a raw emotional wound, had angered his wife, Jenny, and caused yet another spat related to his prolonged absences from the Home.

  Not that he could blame her. Or his son, Gabe, who had been upset to learn they wouldn't be going fishing tomorrow as he had promised. If only they could appreciate his position!

  What other choice did he have?

  He was, after all, the head Warrior. The safety of over a hundred lives and the guardianship of the 30-acre compound in which they all lived were ultimately his responsibility. And he would protect both with his dying breath, if need be.

  The Home and the Family. Both had come into existence shortly before the outbreak of World War Three, which had occurred 106 years ago. The Founder of the Home and the family, a wealthy, idealistic filmmaker named Kurt Carpenter, had wisely foreseen the impending Armageddon and taken steps to ensure his ideals survived his lifetime. Carpenter had expended a fortune to have the Home constructed, then instituted a social system designed to ensure individual liberty while maximizing human potential.

  The Founder had realized the necessity for a security unit and created the Warrior class, just as other group needs were met by the formation of other appropriate classes: the Tillers, the Weavers, the Healers, the Elders, and others. Each performed an important function, and none were considered superior to any others. Carpenter had despised inequality and hypocrisy in any form, and he had taken concrete steps to promote freedom for all while hopefully eliminating the rise of the vulture class, those who enjoyed lording it over their peers, those the Family dubbed vile power-mongers.

  Only one power-monger had arisen within the Family in its entire history, but the same could not be said of the outside world, where demented dictators and repressive city-states had arisen to fill the vacuum left by the collapse of the United States government.

  The giant frowned, thinking of all the enemies the Family had faced, all the foes who would gladly destroy the Home without so much as a second thought. There were the Technics, the Superiors, the Soviets, the Dragons, the Gild, the Peers, and many more. If not for the Warriors, the Family would have long since been eliminated. And one of the keys to the Warriors' success lay in their resolve to meet any and all threats head-on, to venture wherever, necessary to terminate menaces as the danger arose.

  "Why let the enemy come to them when they could take the fight to the enemy?"

  His question prompted a sigh from the top Warrior. As if his post at the Home wasn't enough of a reason for his constant absences, he also served as the leader of the Freedom Force, the elite strike team consisting of a volunteer from each of the seven factions comprising the Freedom Federation. The Family had found allies as well as enemies far beyond the brick walls, and six of those friendly factions had joined with the descendants of Carpenter's followers to form the Federation.

  So was it any wonder he spent so much time away from his loved ones?

  If the safety of the Home and Family was imperiled, he had to deal with the threat. If any Federation faction was attacked or came up against a danger they couldn't handle, he had to handle it. His responsibilities, sometimes, intimidated even him. But he wouldn't shirk them as long as breath remained in his body. He had pledged to perform his duties faithfully, and a man could be measured by the value of his word.

  Just two days ago he had arrived at the Home after spe
nding a week in Los Angeles, where the Force was based, planning to spend the next 14

  days with Jenny and Gabe and attending to routine business at the Home.

  How was he to know that only last night the man assigned to monitor the shortwave radio they had confiscated from the Russians would receive a distress call from, of all places, New Orleans? Ever since one of the other Warriors, his close friend Hickok, had picked up an SOS from Seattle almost two years ago, the Family had regularly monitored the shortwave band for emergency signals.

  Last night they'd hit pay dirt.

  Which figured!

  If perfect timing were gold, he'd be a pauper. Everything seemed to happen to him at the worst possible moment. He often suspected that the infamous Murphy hovered over his head simply waiting for the ideal opportunity to zap him.

  Such as now.

  Jenny and Gabe might not have objected so strenuously if the distress call had been received in another week or two—after they had had time to be together and savor the experience of being a family again. But coming so soon after his return to the compound from the Free State of California, the emergency request had thrown a monumental monkey wrench into his home life.

  So what else was new?

  Finally he moved, raising his arms to stretch as he inhaled the cool October air. His eyes strayed to the aircraft parked in the middle of the field beyond. The Hurricane, a jet endowed with vertical-takeoff-or-landing capability, was one of two such craft possessed by the California military. The VTOLs were the lifeblood of the Federation.

  They were utilized as a monthly courier service, carrying messages from one Federation faction to another. They transported Federation heads to summit meetings. They carried the Force on assignments. And, as with the one in the field, they conveyed the giant to and from the Home on a regular basis. Two days ago the Hurricane before him had brought him from L. A. The pilot had decided to stay over an extra day to conduct minor maintenance, and it was well he did. Because now the giant intended to have the VTOL fly him to New Orleans so he could investigate the call they had received.

  Along with the three hybrids.

  He saw someone step into view from behind the Hurricane, the Warrior guarding the aircraft, and he smiled and waved.

  The sentry, a wiry man wearing forest-green clothing that contrasted with his blond hair and jutting blond beard, carried a compound bow.

  Strapped to his back was a large quiver of arrows. "Yo, Blade!" he called out, and waved back.

  "Teucer!" Blade replied, lowering his arm.

  The bowman continued in a slow circuit of the jet, alertly scanning the treeline farther to the west.

  A good man, Blade thought to himself, and placed his hands on the hilts of his Bowies. All of the Warriors were good men or women or—

  "What the dickens are you doing up here all by your lonesome, pard?"

  The familiar voice brought a grin to the giant's face, and he pivoted to see his two fellow members of Alpha Triad ascending the wooden stairs to the rampart.

  In the lead, wearing buckskins, came another blond man, only this one was leaner than Teucer and sported a mustache but no beard. In a holster on either hip rode a Colt Python revolver. He had his thumbs hooked in his gunbelt and a typical nonchalant smile creasing his countenance.

  When he spoke again, he did so in his customary Old West fashion. "Are you expectin' a passel of mangy owlhoots to attack the Home?"

  "Not hardly, Hickok," Blade replied.

  The gunfighter stepped onto the rampart and strolled casually over to the giant. "We stopped by your homestead and your missus told us you'd moseyed this way."

  "One of these days this dummy will speak normal English and put the rest of us in total shock," commented the second man, a stocky Indian who favored green clothing and who had tucked a genuine tomahawk under his brown leather belt. Both his eyes and his hair were dark. His heritage was Blackfoot.

  "Don't you know it," Blade agreed, chuckling.

  Hickok glanced at their Indian companion. "Hardy-har-har. Who died and made you a language expert, Geronimo?"

  "It doesn't take an expert to know you're ninety-nine bricks shy of a hundred-brick load."

  "I didn't know you could count that high without takin' off your socks and shoes," Hickok quipped.

  Geronimo stopped and stared idly at the Hurricane. "At least it doesn't take me ten minutes to tie my moccasin laces in the morning."

  Blade, who knew their banter could continue for hours if not checked, decided to interrupt the two best friends he'd had since childhood. "To what do I owe this dubious honor?"

  "Dubious?" Hickok repeated. "Our comin' up here to palaver had nothin' to do with makin' knights."

  Blade had to think about that one for a few seconds before he understood. He grimaced and scrutinized both men. "Then why are you up here?"

  "Do you want to tell him or should I?" Hickok asked Geronimo.

  "Be my guest."

  "Fine," the gunman said. He faced the giant squarely and adopted a slightly miffed expression. "What's this we hear about you not takin' us to New Orleans?"

  "You heard correctly," Blade answered.

  "But we're a Triad, dag nab it! We're supposed to work as a team.

  We've been on more runs together than any of the other Warriors."

  "Which is precisely the reason I want to take others with me," Blade mentioned. "You know we have to give the rest of the Warriors a chance to see the outside world while honing their combat skills."

  "Maybe so," Hickok acknowledged, "but you seem to be going a mite overboard with this business. You didn't take us to Boston, you didn't take us to Green Bay, and now you're waltzin' off to New Orleans without us."

  "Boston?" Blade said. "You can't be serious, I was kidnapped and taken there against my will. How can you blame me for that?"

  The gunfighter pursed his lips. "Okay. Maybe you had a legitimate excuse. But what about Green Bay?"

  "The Technics were involved. I hoped to give Yama a chance to come to grips with his hatred for them."

  "If you ask me, pard, Yama hates those coyotes even more," Hickok noted.

  "I agree, "Geronimo chimed in. "The other day he asked me if I believed a single man could assault Technic City and survive."

  Blade tensed. "He what?"

  "That's right," Geronimo confirmed. "I told him the idea was crazy."

  "How did he react?"

  "Yama gave me this funny sort of smile," Geronimo disclosed.

  "Uh-oh," Hickok said.

  Blade shifted and surveyed the compound, searching for a sign of the Warrior in blue, the man universally regarded as the living equal of the Hindu King of Death from whom Yama had taken his name. As with every other Family member, Yama had gone through a special Naming ceremony on the occasion of his sixteenth birthday and selected the unusual appellation for his very own. There was no sign of the gray haired Warrior anywhere near the west wall. "I'll have to have a long talk with him after I get back."

  "Do you want us to keep our peepers on him while you're gone?" Hickok offered.

  "Yes, "Blade said. "Make certain he doesn't do anything foolish."

  "We'll try our best," Geronimo stated. "But if that guy decides to leave without authorization, it'll take more than the two of us to stop him."

  "Bull," Hickok declared. "It'll be a piece of cake."

  "How do you figure?" Geronimo rejoined. "Yama is almost as big and strong as Blade. He's as competent a martial artist as Rikki-Tikki-Tavi. He can shoot a revolver nearly as expertly as you. In fact, he's an expert with every weapon in our armory, unlike the rest of us, who have specialized in only one or two. How will you stop him?"

  "Easy." Hickok snickered. "We'll use my secret weapon."

  "Your breath?"

  "No, rocks-for-brains. I happen to have heard from a reliable source that Yama has a weakness no one knows about."

  "Who's your source?"

  "Yama's niece," Hickok revealed.
>
  Geronimo glanced at Blade, who shrugged to indicate he had no idea what the gunman was talking about, then back at Hickok. "What could Marian possibly know that the rest of us don't?"

  The gunfighter made a show of scanning their immediate vicinity, verifying no one was eavesdropping. Then he leaned forward and whispered conspiratorially. "Yama is ticklish."

  A look of utter astonishment froze Geronimo's features.

  "See? I knew you'd be impressed." Hickok gloated.

  "Only by your stupidity."

  "Did you know he's ticklish?"

  "That's not the point, mush-mind."

  "Then what is?" Hickok asked.

  Geronimo rolled his eyes skyward, then became serious. "Let me put it to you this way. Do you really expect to best Yama by tickling him?"

  "Yep. I've got it all figured out. Rikki, Samson, Spartacus, Ares, Sundance, and you will hold him down while I tickle him until he surrenders."

  "Wait a minute. Why do you get to do the tickling while the rest of us are in danger of having every bone in our body broken?"

  "Because it's my plan."

  "Has it ever occurred to you that the only reason Yama is ticklish when he's with his niece is because he relaxes enough in her presence to let down his guard? Has it occurred to you that Yama is well known for his self-control, and if we try to tickle him there's the distinct likelihood he won't want to be tickled?"

  "That's where Plan B comes in handy."

  "Plan B?"

  "Yep. If the tickling doesn't work, then Teucer, Shane, and Achilles will tie Yama up while the rest of you pin him down."

  "And what will you be doing while all this is going on?"

  "Supervising."

  "I see. The rest of us put our lives on the line, and you goof off as usual."

  "I don't goof off. Plannin' is hard work. And remember, when Blade is gone I'm in charge. I'm the brains of the outfit," Hickok said, and surreptitiously winked at the giant.

  "How can you be the brains when everyone knows you've had a lobotomy?" Geronimo asked.

  "Oh, yeah? And just why do you reckon the Big Guy picked me to be the head honcho while he's away?"