Nevada Run Page 4

  Geronimo had been napping with his head resting against the window.

  He came instantly awake, his alert brown eyes surveying the highway ahead for any sign of trouble. Powerfully built, he was stocky with black hair and rugged features. He wore a green shirt, green pants, and moccasins. An Arminius .357 Magnum was in a shoulder holster under his right arm and a tomahawk was lucked under his deer hide belt. “What is it, O Great White Idiot?”

  Blade, listening to their banter, smiled. Geronimo was rightfully proud of his Blackfoot heritage, and the Indian and the gunman constantly teased one another over their respective racial differences.

  “Boy! You sure get nasty when someone interrupts your beauty sleep!” Hickok cracked.

  “I’d rather wake up with my wife at my side instead of seeing your ugly puss,” Geronimo observed.

  “There’s nothin’ wrong with my face,” Hickok retorted indignantly.

  “Nothing a good head transplant wouldn’t cure,” Gieronimo commented.

  “Two points for Geronimo,” Blade interjected, laughing, glad their light-hearted joking was alleviating the tension of the mission.

  But not everyone riding in the SEAL agreed.

  A harsh feminine voice intruded on their conversation. “If you morons are through clowning around, why don’t we get down to business? How long before we reach Las Vegas?”

  Blade looked into the rear view mirror at the speaker. She sat directly behind him, her luxurious amber hair cascading past her shoulders. Her eyes were a vivid green, her features exceptionally lovely. She wore a black leather vest similar to his, but hers was cut low in the front, displaying her ample cleavage. Tight black leather pants and boots covered her shapely legs. Around her slim waist were strapped a pair of Caspian 45-caliber automatics. And projecting above her left shoulder was the hilt of the 24-inch machete she invariably carried in a custom-designed sheath on her back, slanted between her shoulder blades. The sheath was held fast by a wide black strip of leather looped across her chest.

  “Who are you callin’ morons, lady?” Hickok demanded.

  “If the shoe fits,” Helen responded. “And don’t call me lady. The name is Helen, and don’t you forget it!”

  “I know what your name is,” Hickok snapped. “And I can understand your being upset about Mindy. But that doesn’t give you call to go around insultin’ people.”

  Helen bristled. “I’ll insult you or any other man any time I damn well feel like it!”

  “You keep it up and you’ll be pickin’ your teeth up from the floor,” Hickok warned her. “The only ones who get to insult me on a regular basis are my missus and this crazy Injun. You’ve been belly-achin’ ever since we left the Home. You never have a nice word for anyone. All you do is gripe.

  Did you treat your ex-husband like this?”

  Helen’s face became livid with fury. Her hands moved to her Caspians.

  “Why, you…”

  “That’s enough!” Blade barked, slamming on the brakes and bringing the SEAL to a grinding halt. He swiveled in his seat, glaring at Helen. “I don’t ever want to see you threatening to pull your guns on a fellow Warrior again! You got that?”

  “But—” Helen began.

  “No buts about it!” Blade declared in annoyance. “Hickok’s right! You’ve been a monumental pain in the butt this whole trip. I’ve tried to make allowances for your behavior. You’ve complained because you didn’t think we were going fast enough, and you’ve complained because you didn’t agree with the route I’m taking, and you’ve groused every time we made a rest stop. You rarely talk unless you’re spoken to, and even then it’s some smart-mouth reply.” He paused. “I’ve given you the benefit of the doubt because of the turmoil you must be feeling over Mindy. But no more! I let you talk me into taking you along against my better judgment.

  Sure, Mindy’s your daughter and you have a right to help rescue her. But you also have a wicked temper and a short fuse, not exactly ideal traits for a Warrior.”

  Helen seemed stung by the rebuke. “If you felt that way about me, why’d you ever accept me as a Warrior?”

  “The decision wasn’t up to me,” Blade said. “You know the procedure for selecting a new Warrior. The candidate must be sponsored before the Elders by a Warrior of standing. Spartacus sponsored you. The Elders voted on whether to accept your candidacy or not, and they decided to appoint you as a Warrior.”

  “But you could have protested their decision,” Helen noted. “They would have listened to you.”

  “I didn’t think it was necessary,” Blade informed her. “Your good qualities outweigh your bad. There isn’t one Warrior who is perfect in every respect.”

  “Speak for yourself,” Hickok quipped.

  “To hear you talk, I didn’t think I had any good qualities,” Helen mentioned.

  “You do,” Blade assured her. “I’ve been following your progress ever since you were assigned to Omega Triad. You take orders well and you always do your best at whatever job you’re given. You relate well with the other Warriors in your Triad. You’re one of the best shots in the Family.

  And you believe in the ideals the Founder proclaimed. You have a lot of good qualities.”

  Helen visibly relaxed, her lips curling downward in self-reproach. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize I’ve been acting like a bitch. You were right. All I can think about is Mindy. She’s all I have left in this world. If anything happens to her…” she said, and let the sentence trail off.

  “We’ll get Mindy back,” Hickok told her. “Don’t fret none.”

  “For those who might be interested,” Geronimo spoke up, “I’ve calculated the distance to Las Vegas.”

  “Impossible,” Hickok said. “You couldn’t have.”

  “Why not?” Geronimo asked, puzzled.

  “Because I didn’t see you take off your moccasins,” Hickok commented with a mischievous grin. “And I know we’re more than ten miles away.”

  “Two points for Hickok,” Blade said, accelerating.

  For the first time since her daughter was kidnapped, Helen mustered a smile.

  Geronimo elected to ignore the barb. “We crossed what was once the state line not too long ago. We should be coming up soon on a small town called Contact. The map doesn’t say how many people lived there before the war. It could be deserted like so many others we’ve seen.”

  “How far is it from Contact to Las Vegas?” Blade inquired.

  “I estimate about four hundred and forty-six miles,” Geronimo divulged. “Because of the terrible shape the highway is in, we’ve only been able to average forty miles an hour. At our present rate, it will take us eleven hours to reach Vegas.” He consulted a watch on his left wrist. “It’s ten in the morning now. So we could reach Vegas tonight if we drive straight through. It would mean driving after sunset, though.”

  Blade reflected for a minute. As a rule, he did not drive after dark.

  Spotting an ambush or other threat was next to impossible once the sun went down. He preferred to do most of his driving during the daylight hours.

  “I vote we drive straight through,” Hickok suggested. “The sooner we reach Las Vegas, the better. Besides, we haven’t run into any trouble yet.

  Maybe our luck will hold until we reach Vegas.”

  “One thing I learned a long time ago,” Blade mentioned, “is never to push your luck.” He stared into the rear view mirror. “Helen, I know you probably won’t agree with my decision, but I’m not going to push the SEAL to reach Vegas tonight. We don’t want to waltz into a trap. They must be expecting us. So we’ll take it nice and slow. Is that okay by you?”

  “Whatever you say,” Helen stated. “You’re in charge.”

  “Hey! Look!” Geronimo exclaimed, leaning forward and pointing.

  Blade’s eyes narrowed as he saw the cluster of buildings approximately a quarter of a mile ahead.

  A freshly painted billboard abruptly appeared on the right:

  MA’
S DINER. STRAIGHT AHEAD. ALL YOU CAN EAT FOR $4.99.

  “What the blazes!” Hickok declared.

  “Who would open a diner in the middle of nowhere?” Geronimo asked.

  “We haven’t seen any other traffic since we left Wyoming,” Helen remarked. “And that was a military patrol from the Civilized Zone.”

  “Maybe they get traffic here from time to time,” Blade conjectured.

  “Why don’t we stop?” Hickok recommended. “I could use some home-cooked grub. Venison jerky gets a mite bland after a spell.”

  “I don’t know…” Blade said doubtfully.

  “Please, Blade,” Helen urged. “If the kidnappers came this way, the people here might have seen them. They might know if Mindy is still alive.” She paused. “Please.”

  Against his better judgment, Blade agreed. “Okay. We’ll stop and eat our midday meal early, but I want everyone to stay on their toes.”

  “You’re a worrywart, you know that?” Hickok declared. “This place is called Ma’s Diner. What harm can a little old lady do to four Warriors, for cryin’ out loud?” He snickered at the notion.

  “For once I agree with Hickok,” Geronimo said. “They wouldn’t bother to advertise if they weren’t serious about attracting customers.”

  “I hope you’re right,” Blade stated.

  “Quit your worryin’, pard,” Hickok advised. “What could go wrong?”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “Looks innocent enough to me,” Hickok mentioned.

  Blade kept his foot on the brake, still uncertain of the wisdom of stopping. The SEAL was idling on Highway 93 approximately 400 yards south of Contact. The town had appeared to be deserted, although several of the buildings had exhibited evidence of recent habitation; the doors and windows on three of the homes had been intact and clean, and one of the yards had sported a flower garden.

  “What are we waitin’ for?” Hickok queried impatiently.

  Blade sighed. To their right was a gravel drive leading to a newly painted white structure. MA’s DINER was painted in bold black letters on a wooden sign perched over the front entrance. Four vehicles were parked outside, prewar-model cars in surprisingly fine condition. “One of us must stay in the SEAL with the doors locked,” he mentioned.

  “I’ll do it,” Geronimo volunteered.

  Blade took a right, slowly approaching the diner, thankful the SEAL’s tinted plastic body enabled him to see out but prevented anyone from viewing the interior. If hostile eyes were peeking from the diner windows, they would be unable to ascertain how many were in the transport. He pulled into a parking spot between a vintage Ford on the left and a Chevy on the right, then turned off the engine.

  “Are we takin’ the long guns?” Hickok queried.

  “Of course,” Blade responded. “It doesn’t pay to get too overconfident.”

  Hickok glanced at Geronimo. “How about passin’ them up here, pard?”

  Geronimo turned in his seat. On top of the pile of provisions in the rear section were four different firearms. One was a Navy Arms Henry Carbine in 44-40 caliber, Hickok’s favorite rifle. Next to the Henry was Blade’s machine gun, a Commando Arms Carbine, a fully automatic 45-caliber firearm with a 90-shot magazine. Also on the pile was Helen’s weapon, an Armalite AR-180A Sporter Carbine. Geronimo handed each of the guns to the proper party, then took hold of his Browning BAR. All of the firearms the Warriors used came from the enormous armory the Founder had stocked in one of the concrete blocks at the Home.

  “Keep the doors locked,” Blade reiterated as he took hold of his door handle.

  “I will,” Geronimo promised. “What if you do run into trouble in there? If I hear gunfire, should I come on the run?”

  “You don’t budge from the SEAL no matter what,” Blade directed. “The transport might be virtually impervious, but I’m not taking any chances.

  You stay here and guard the SEAL.”

  “Okay,” Geronimo said reluctantly. “If I see anything suspicious while you’re inside, I’ll sound the horn.”

  “Good idea,” Blade stated. He looked at Hickok and Helen. “Are you two ready?”

  “I was born ready,” Hickok declared.

  Helen simply nodded.

  Blade opened the door. “I’m leaving the keys in the ignition,” he informed Geronimo. “If something does happen to us, you can drive off.”

  “I’m not going anywhere without you,” Geronimo said.

  Blade jumped out, waited for Helen to join him, then slammed the door.

  Hickok closed his door and ambled around the front of the SEAL. “Do you smell what I smell?” he asked them.

  The mouth-watering aroma of cooking food filled the dusty air.

  “Smells like steak,” Helen commented.

  “We’d best be on our guard,” Hickok said sarcastically. “These hombres could be fryin’ a steak just to trick us, to lure us into their trap!” He chuckled.

  “Keep it up,” Blade admonished, and led the way up to the front entrance.

  “I hear music,” Helen said.

  Blade heard it too. A man singing in a wailing, heart-wrenching style.

  He caught a few of the lyrics.

  “…your cheatin’ heart…”

  Blade grabbed the doorknob and pulled the brown wooden door wide open, then swiftly stepped inside, to the right of the doorway, flattening his broad back against the wall and leveling the Commando.

  “Howdy, stranger!” a woman called out. “Welcome to Ma’s!”

  Blade surveyed the diner. On the opposite side of the room was a counter running the length of the one-story building. Behind the yellow counter were two people, an elderly matron with gray hair, horn-rimmed glasses, and a jowly jaw, and a tall man with black hair and a toothpick in his mouth. Both of them wore white clothes, including an apron. There were ten tables in the diner. At a table to the right sat three men dressed in ragged jeans and flannel shirts, cups of coffee before them. And at another table to the left of the door was a short, obese man in a grimy blue suit and a woman with bright red lipstick coating her thick lips and too much rouge on her cheeks. She was wearing a red dress.

  None of them appeared to be armed.

  “Howdy!” the matron repeated. “Come on in! Ain’t no one here going to bite you!” She smiled in a friendly, sincere fashion.

  Hickok walked through the door as if he didn’t have a care in the world.

  He took a look around and grinned. “Yep. Definitely a trap.”

  “You won’t need that hardware, son,” the matron said, nodding at Blade’s Commando. “Our muffins don’t usually fight back.”

  Hickok laughed.

  Blade slowly lowered the Commando and advanced toward the counter.

  The men on the right and the couple on the left watched him for a moment, then suddenly shifted their attention to the doorway. Blade looked back.

  Helen had just entered the diner, her Carbine cradled in her arms. She scanned the room and followed Blade.

  “Howdy,” Hickok said, grinning at the couple to the left. “How’s the food here?”

  “Delicious,” the woman answered. “Try the steak. I recommend it highly.”

  “Thanks. Don’t mind if I do,” Hickok said, stepping toward the counter.

  Blade moved to within four feet of the matron. “Hello. We could use a bite to eat.”

  The matron beamed. “That’s what I’m here for. They don’t call me Ma for nothing. Tasty food and service with a smile. That’s what everyone gets at my place.”

  Blade angled his body so he could keep an eye on the three men and the couple. “How long has your place been open?”

  “Oh, about four years,” Ma said. “Give or take a month.”

  “You get much business here?” Blade casually inquired.

  “Enough,” Ma replied. “We don’t see much traffic heading north, but we do see a lot going toward Vegas. They’re the bulk of my trade.”

  Hickok reached the counter and rested t
he Henry on top. “Howdy, Ma. Nice place you’ve got here.”

  “Why, thank you, sonny,” Ma responded. “You sure are polite. What’s your name?”

  “The handle is Hickok,” the gunman stated.

  “And the big one?” Ma queried.

  “That’s Blade,” Hickok said. “Don’t mind him. His middle name is paranoia.”

  “And your beautiful companion?” Ma asked.

  “My name is Helen,” Helen said, answering for herself.

  “If you don’t mind my saying so, you’re pretty enough to be a Vegas chorus girl,” Ma mentioned appreciatively.

  “What’s a chorus girl?” Hickok questioned.

  Ma stared at the gunman. “You mean to say you don’t know what a chorus girl is? Where are you from? The moon?”

  “Nope,” Hickok replied.

  Ma’s eyes narrowed slightly. “I take it you’ve never been to Vegas. Anyone who’s been there knows what a chorus girl is.”

  “Have you been to Vegas?” Blade asked.

  “I was born there,” Ma said.

  Blade and Hickok exchanged fleeting glances.

  “Do tell,” the gunfighter stated. “Why don’t you fix us some vittles and join us at our table? We’d like to hear all about Las Vegas.”

  “I’d be delighted,” Ma said. “What would you like to eat?”

  “How about some steaks all around,” Hickok ordered. “And some milk for me, if you’ve got some.”

  “Milk?” Ma snorted. “Don’t you want something stronger?”

  “I never drink the hard stuff,” Hickok said. “A milk will be fine.”

  “Milk for all of us,” Blade interjected.

  “It’ll take about five minutes,” Ma said.

  “No problem,” Blade told her, then walked to a table near the counter where he could command a view of Ma and the tall man behind the counter as well as the customers. He placed the Commando on the table, slid into a chair, and folded his fingers over the trigger guard.

  Hickok deposited the Henry on the table, gripped the top of one of the wooden chairs and slid it to Blade’s right, then reversed the chair and sat down with his arms draped over the back.