Cincinnati Run Page 6

  Both dogs jogged to the west.

  Blade smiled and reached into his left front pocket for a stick of venison jerky. The Commando was on the grass behind him so the canines wouldn’t be spooked by the oily, metallic scent of his firearm. He squinted, focusing on the dark shapes bounding across the field separating the farmhouse from the rise.

  The dogs came on rapidly.

  Blade whistled the tune to “Old MacDonald” softly while breaking the stick of jerky into small pieces which he clasped in his left hand. He adopted an air of supreme nonchalance, not even bothering to watch the dogs. Any hint of hostility on his part, and the dogs would be on him tooth and nail. He wanted to lull them into a false sense of security, to convince them he was harmless.

  The padding of their feet reached his ears.

  He intentionally stayed on his knees. The dogs might be too wary to draw near if he straightened to his full seven-foot height. He whistled and waited, gazing at his thighs.

  A low growl heralded their arrival.

  Blade calmly looked up, discovering the pair 20 feet off, eying him balefully. Both were mixed breeds, mongrels. The large dog was brown, the smaller black and white. He placed a piece of jerky in his mouth and chewed noisily, smacking his lips and saying, “Ummmmm,” repeatedly.

  The dogs inched closer.

  He gazed at them and smiled.

  Both dogs snarled.

  Blade grinned and pretended to put another morsel of jerky into his mouth. He acted like it was the best meat he’d ever tasted.

  The brown dog took several steps closer.

  Here goes nothing, Blade told himself, and tossed a piece of venison at the large dog. The jerky landed a foot short.

  Predictably, the farm dogs retreated several yards, bristling and growling.

  Blade ignored them, continuing to champ and smack his lips. He held his arms at his sides to avoid frightening them. The seconds stretched into a minute. Two.

  The large dog moved cautiously forward, smelling the grass, until it found the scrap of venison. One hungry gulp and the jerky was gone.

  Blade smiled and whistled, casually flinging another piece midway between the big dog and himself.

  Torn between its appetite and its instinctive wariness, the dog looked from the Warrior to the jerky and back again. Appetite won.

  “Good boy,” Blade said softly. “Good boy.”

  The dog’s tail wagged.

  Blade threw a third chunk of venison out.

  Apparently not content to allow its companion to get all the food, the small dog darted forward and wolfed down the chunk.

  “You guys are starved,” Blade addressed them in a composed tone.

  “Here.” He pitched two pieces a yard from his legs.

  The dogs were on the meat in a flash. They swallowed without chewing, then stared at him, wanting more.

  “Good dogs,” Blade said. “Treat yourselves.” He dropped two morsels near his knees and tensed.

  They came nearer tentatively and ate the meat.

  Blade was down to his last two pieces, and he was ready to make his move. He could feel their fetid breath on his skin. Neither of the canines were displaying any aggression, but they could revert at a moment’s notice. He would have a split second to succeed; if he missed, there would not be a second chance.

  The small dog whined expectantly, craving additional venison.

  “Here you go,” Blade whispered, and let the last morsels fall next to his kneecaps. He placed his hands on his legs just above his knees. “Enjoy yourselves.”

  They hesitated, then stepped closer and snapped at the venison, lowering their muzzles to the grass and exposing the backs of their necks.

  Now!

  Blade’s hands flashed out, his steely fingers clamping on each dog behind the ears, his sinews bulging as he gripped the folds of their skin and heaved erect.

  Both dogs automatically tried to pull from his grasp, and as their front legs were hauled from the ground they endeavored to bite the arms holding them, snarling viciously, their fangs exposed.

  Blade whipped each hand outward, spinning the dogs away from his body. “Tie them before they bark!” he ordered.

  Hickok and Geronimo materialized in front of him. The small dog had gone unexpectedly limp, trembling with fear, and Geronimo easily looped a lace tightly around its mouth. Hickok, however, was having problems.

  The large dog growled, thrashed, and bit at the gunman’s hands.

  “Hold still, you mangy mutt!”

  “Hurry,” Blade stated.

  Hickok tried once more, and narrowly missed losing a finger to the dog’s wicked teeth. “So you want to play rough?” he said, and leaned over, inspecting the area between the dog’s rear legs.

  “What in the world are you doing?” Blade inquired.

  “I just wanted to see if this critter is a guy or a girl,” Hickok explained.

  “It’s a male.”

  “What difference does its sex make?” Geronimo asked.

  “Plenty,” the gunman replied, and slugged the dog in the jewels.

  The dog uttered a peculiar gurgling noise, whined, and sagged in Blade’s hands.

  Hickok grinned and secured the lace about the dog’s mouth. “There.”

  Blade felt the dog quivering in agony. “I don’t recall being taught that ploy in our Warrior classes.”

  “I picked it up from Lynx,” Hickok divulged.

  Blade smiled. Lynx was one of three mutant Warriors, all of whom were outcasts the Family had adopted. “It figures,” he said.

  “Lynx has a motto I kind of like,” Hickok elaborated. “He says it comes in handy in any kind of fight.”

  “What’s the motto?” Geronimo queried.

  “When in doubt, go for the gonads.”

  “I thought you always go for the head.”

  Hickok shrugged. “A fellow should always have a backup strategy,” he mentioned.

  Blade headed toward the farmhouse. “One of you bring my boots and the Commando.”

  “You take the boots,” Geronimo said to the gunman.

  “I’ll carry the long guns,” Hickok offered, and moved to the Colt AR-15.

  “I’ll carry them,” Geronimo proposed.

  Fifteen feet off, Blade halted and glanced over his right shoulder, a docile dog in each huge hand. “I don’t care which one brings the guns and which one brings the boots. Just do it.”

  “Goody,” Hickok said, and scooped up the weapons. He smirked at Geronimo and hurried after the giant.

  Geronimo retrieved the combat boots and caught up with them. “I owe you one, Nathan.”

  “What’d I do?” Hickok asked with all the innocence of a newborn baby.

  “I owe you,” Geronimo reiterated.

  The Warriors crossed the field to the edge of a wide lawn dotted with trees and shrubs. They stopped behind a short, squat pine tree. Geronimo promptly deposited the boots on the grass.

  “Hickok, I want you to check out the barn,” Blade commanded. “Look for some rope.”

  Hickok nodded, handed the SAR and Commando to Geronimo, and ran toward the barn.

  “Do you want me to cut the wires?” Geronimo queried.

  “Not yet,” Blade said. “Someone might try to call these people in the morning, and we wouldn’t want the caller to become suspicious and alert the authorities.”

  They waited for the gunman, listening to the breeze rustling the limbs.

  In the quiet hours preceding the dawn, the farm was tranquil, the picture of serenity.

  Geronimo stared at Blade.

  “Something wrong?” the giant whispered.

  “Why didn’t you kill the dogs?”

  “I told you. I don’t want to antagonize the people living here.”

  “Are you sure that’s the only reason?”

  “Why else?”

  “Oh, like maybe you didn’t want to upset me.”

  Blade looked at the farmhouse. “Ridiculous.”

>   “The easy way would have been to slit their throats with your Bowies,” Geronimo noted.

  “They weren’t a threat.”

  “They could have barked and given us away. Are you trying to avoid spilling blood for my benefit?”

  “Would I do that?”

  “Yes,” Geronimo answered. “You’re one of my best friends. You might try to go easy on the killing this trip, hoping I’ll forget all about the idea of resigning.”

  “I’m not that devious.”

  “Yes, you are. Hickok isn’t. He’ll stay on my case until I agree to remain a Warrior. But you’ll use your head. You’ll try psychology on me.”

  “You overestimate my ability.”

  “And you weren’t selected to be the head of the Warriors because of your stinky feet.”

  “What do you guys have against my feet?”

  “Don’t change the subject. I want to know your honest feelings. Would my quitting be a mistake, like Nathan claims?”

  Blade looked at Geronimo. “The decision must be yours.”

  “But how do you feel?”

  “Do you really want to step down?”

  Geronimo averted his eyes.

  “Do you?” Blade pressed him.

  “No.”

  “I didn’t think so. But you’ll resign for the sake of your family.”

  “My family’s happiness must come first.”

  “I agree.”

  “What would you do?”

  “Do you want an honest answer?”

  “I’d expect nothing less,” Geronimo said.

  Blade frowned, allowing his arms to droop. The small dog was whining, but the large one hadn’t so much as whimpered since Hickok’s lesson in behavior modification. “I haven’t told anyone else this. I’ve been thinking about resigning too.”

  Geronimo was shocked. “What?” he blurted.

  “As you know, I’m also the head of the Freedom Force based in Los Angeles. The strain on my family has been severe, what with my constant commuting between the Home and California. Even when I’m at the Home, I’m always being sent on missions to deal with the latest threat to our Family’s safety. I’d rather spend the time with Jenny and Gabe.”

  “And you’re seriously thinking about quitting?”

  “I am.”

  “What will Plato think?”

  “I love Plato like a father, but he isn’t married to Jenny. The decision is mine,” Blade stated.

  Geronimo abruptly glanced to the east. “Hickok is coming, but he’s not alone.”

  “He’s not?” Blade said, starting to turn, and as he did a chorus of bestial howls rent the night.

  Chapter Seven

  More damn dogs!

  Blade could see the gunman racing in their direction, his legs flying, while on Hickok’s trail came a baying pack of mongrel hounds, five all told. The two in his hands were just members of a pack! Now the people in the farmhouse were bound to wake up! Infuriated, he rammed the heads of the large and small dogs together, stunning them, and cast them to the grass. He whipped out his Bowies and faced the onrushing pack. “No guns,” he instructed Geronimo, who promptly lowered the SAR and the Commando and drew his tomahawk.

  A wide grin was plastered on Hickok’s countenance as he drew near.

  “Company’s comin’,” he announced, then slowed and gripped the Colt AR-15 by the barrel.

  The five farm dogs never slowed.

  Hickok took down the first dog, a huge beast, with a terrific swing of the AR-15, the stock crashing into the dog’s cranium and checking its leap at his legs.

  A pair of brutish canines swerved at Blade.

  The giant Warrior was ready, his legs braced, a Bowie in each hand. He did the unexpected, moving to meet them, his arms sweeping up and in as they launched themselves simultaneously. The Bowies arced in low, taking each dog in the chest, imbedding to their hilts. The dog on his left slumped over, but the one on the right voiced a plaintive howl before collapsing, its blood spilling over his hand. He glanced at Geronimo.

  A dog was dead on the grass at Geronimo’s feet, its head split open, and as Blade watched, a second dog was met in midair by the light axe used so extensively by Geronimo’s Blackfeet ancestors. The dog’s cranium was rent from forehead to nose, and the animal fell soundlessly.

  “I bumped into these critters near the barn,” Hickok explained.

  Blade swung his arms outwards, dislodging the dogs from his Bowies, and turned toward the house. Sure enough, a light had come on in a second-floor window. “I want these people alive if possible,” he advised, and nodded at the house.

  Hickok circled to the right, Geronimo the left with the SAR.

  Blade dashed up to the front porch, his socks making no noise on the grass, and bounded onto the steps.

  He was a stride from the wooden door when lights went on downstairs.

  With a leap he was to the right of the door, his back to the wall, the crimson-soaked Bowies ready.

  The doorknob twisted, and a second later an elderly woman in an ankle-length nightgown emerged onto the porch. “Daffodil?” she called.

  “Buttercup?”

  Blade stepped into the doorway, blocking her retreat. “I’m afraid your dogs were too loud for their own good,” he said softly.

  She spun, gazing in horror at his face, awed by his stature. Her right hand covered her mouth.

  “Don’t make a peep,” Blade warned.

  She didn’t.

  She swooned instead.

  Blade turned, finding a narrow hall and a series of doors. And two children ten feet away, in their cotton pajamas, gawking.

  “It’s a monster!” cried a little girl of about seven.

  “It’s a mutant!” stated her brother, who appeared to be two or three years older.

  “I’m a friend,” Blade said.

  They gaped at the dripping Bowies, screeched, and bolted, fleeing toward stairs at the far end of the hall.

  “Mommy!” wailed the girl.

  “It’s a mutant!” the boy reiterated in stark terror.

  Blade raced after them, overtaking the children at the base of the stairs.

  “Stop!” he commanded.

  With a thin leg on the bottom step, each child froze, the girl trembling, the boy gasping for air.

  “I won’t hurt you,” Blade assured them.

  “Damn straight you won’t, mister!” snapped a harsh feminine voice above him.

  Blade looked up.

  A woman in her thirties was standing on the seventh step, her attractive features set in grim lines, her brown hair in a bun, and a cocked double-barreled shotgun in her hands, pointed at the Warrior’s chest. She was wearing a blue robe. “One twitch and you’re dead!”

  “I mean you no harm,” Blade told her.

  “Sure you don’t, you son of a bitch!” She glanced at his Bowies, at the blood, and glared into his eyes. “You killed my Momma!”

  Blade threw himself to the right.

  The blast of the twin barrels was deafening in the confined hallway. The buckshot narrowly missed the children and blew a jagged hole the size of a watermelon in the wall on the opposite side. Both children screamed.

  Stepping into the open, Blade raised his right arm as if to throw the Bowie. “Freeze!” he barked.

  The woman had snapped the shotgun open and was fumbling in the left pocket in her robe for more shells. She stood still, her brown eyes wide with tears in the corners.

  “I didn’t kill your mother,” Blade said. “She fainted on the front porch.

  She should be fine.”

  “You’re lying!” the woman replied bitterly.

  The children were pale, holding hands, like frightened fawns confronted by a snarling cougar.

  “Why would I lie?” Blade retorted. “If I wanted to kill you, you’d already be dead. I mean you no harm.”

  She straightened slowly, the shotgun sagging, clearly bewildered.

  “You’re not going to kill us?�
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  “All we want is information,” Blade said.

  “We?”

  A door six feet behind Blade opened, and Hickok walked into the hallway, the AR-15 leveled. He took one look and grinned. “Howdy, folks.

  Sorry my pard here didn’t knock, but his manners need workin’ on.” He strolled over to Blade. “I came in through a window,” he said, and glanced at the woman. “You folks really should lock your place up tight at night.

  You never know what kind of varmints are runnin’ loose.”

  “There’s two of you!” she blurted.

  “Three,” stated a voice to her rear.

  The woman spun and nearly lost her balance.

  Geronimo stood five steps above her, the SAR trained on the small of her back. He smiled pleasantly. “You should consider trimming the limbs on the tree behind your house. One of them comes within inches of your bedroom window.”

  “Who the hell are you?” she demanded. “What the hell are you sons of bitches doing in our house?”

  “If you don’t mind my sayin’ so, ma’am,” Hickok said indignantly, “that’s no way for a lady to be talkin’ in front of the young’uns.”

  The woman’s face became beet red. “Why you…” she blurted.

  “You…you…”

  “The handle is Hickok, at your service,” the gunman stated, and bowed.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “First things first,” Blade declared, and looked at Hickok.

  “I want you to go get my Commando, and check on the mother. See if you can bring her around.”

  “On my way,” Hickok said, taking a stride and looking down at Blade’s feet. “I’ll also fetch your boots and laces. We don’t want to fluster these folks more than we already have.” He moved past the giant to the front door.

  The little girl stared at Blade’s feet. “Golly. Those are the biggest feet in the whole world.”

  “He must be part mutant,” her older brother speculated.

  Geronimo started laughing.

  The mother glanced from the Indian to the giant. “Lunatics! We’ve been invaded by lunatics!”

  “Where can we talk?” Blade asked. “I want all of us in the same room.”

  “There’s the living room,” she suggested.

  “Okay. We’ll go to the living room. But first, hand the shotgun to my friend,” Blade directed.