Anaheim Run Page 6

  Plato stopped, surveying the scene.

  Blade stood alongside Plato’s right arm, searching for the other members of the Freedom Federation. They were easy to spot, their attire causing them to stand out like the proverbial sore thumb.

  Twenty feet off to the right were the representatives of the Cavalry, the horsemen of the northern Plains, a protective association controlling the former state of South Dakota, dedicated to defending the ranchers, farmers, Indians, townspeople, and other occupants of their territory. All three Cavalrymen were dressed in their usual garb: buckskins. Their leader, Kilrane, was a handsome man with blue eyes and streaks of gray in his brown hair. He was a big man, and he wore a Mitchell Single Action revolver on his right hip. With him were his two closest associates, Boone and Hamlin. Boone was tall and lean, over six feet, with broad shoulders and a narrow waist. His brown hair was worn shoulder-length. Buckled around his waist were a matching pair of 44 Magnum Hombre single-action revolvers. Hamlin was a small man with a scruffy beard and a wispy moustache. A Winchester was slung over his back.

  Conversing with the Cavalrymen were the emissaries from the Clan.

  Hundreds of refugees from the Twin Cities had settled in a town called Halma, located six miles from the Family’s compound, and named themselves the Clan in imitation of the Family. Zahner was their leader, a man of average height with sharp blue eyes, fine brown hair, and a distinctive cleft in the middle of his upper lip. He was wearing a brown shirt and brown trousers. To his right was one of his two lieutenants, a huge black man known as Bear. A curly Afro served to enhance Bear’s impressive stature. He preferred to wear a fatigue jacket and fatigue pants. To Bear’s right was Zahner’s second lieutenant, a bearded man dressed all in black. Brother Timothy was the spiritual standard-bearer for the Clan.

  Blade stared straight ahead. The three envoys from the Flathead Indians were talking to several bureaucrats. Conspicuous by her youth and her stately bearing, seventeen-year-old Star was the head of her tribe. Her father, the former Chief, had perished in battle. Largely because of her unflagging efforts to inspire and reunite her tribe after a military setback, she was later chosen to lead them. Her lovely black hair hung to her waist, partially covering her beautiful brown leather dress adorned with intricate bead work. Attending her were her two counselors. Both were wearing their finest buckskins and robes. Red Cloud was the older of the counselors, in his forties, with a wisdom belying his years. Lone Bear was in his twenties, and Blade noticed his eyes seldom strayed from Star.

  Seated by themselves in the rear of the lobby, aloof from the proceedings, were the three Moles, the representatives from the subterranean city called the Mound located in northern Minnesota. Their leader, Wolfe, ruled them with an iron hand. While not a despot, Wolfe came the closest of all the Freedom Federation leaders to being a true tyrant. He was exceptionally tall and abnormally thin, with an unruly mane of red hair crowning his haughty countenance and complementing his intense blue eyes. The color purple was his favorite, and he wore a purple shirt and purple slacks. He was flanked by two flunkies.

  “I’d like to get their attention,” Plato absently commented.

  Hickok cupped his hands around his mouth and stepped forward.

  “Quiet!” he bellowed. “An hombre can’t hear himself think with all you yahoos yackin’ like a bunch of ninnies!”

  Every eye in the lobby focused on the emissaries from the Family.

  “You wanted their attention, you’ve got it,” Hickok said to Plato.

  There were cries of greeting from some of the Freedom Federation members, and the Cavalry, Flathead, and Clan representatives started forward.

  Plato held up his right hand, grimly surveying the crowd, bringing all motion to a standstill. “My friends, it is a great pleasure to see all of you once again! But I’m afraid our reunion must be tempered by the tragedy at the airport.”

  Several of the Federation members exchanged confused glances.

  Plato’s forehead creased. “Weren’t you informed?”

  Zahner, the head of the Clan, spoke for the rest. “Informed about what?”

  “About an hour and a half ago,” Plato detailed, “there was an assassination attempt on Governor Melnick and myself at the airport. Governor Melnick’s wife, Sharon, was slain.”

  Stunned expressions filled the lobby.

  “Enroute to Anaheim we were attacked again,” Plato continued.

  “Accordingly, I’m requesting an emergency session of the Freedom Federation Council to convene immediately. It is imperative we develop contingency plans and formulate a strategem to neutralize this threat to the summit.”

  Kilrane took several steps forward. “They have a conference room we can use.”

  “Then let’s repair to the conference room and conduct our meeting,” Plato suggested.

  “I’ll show you where it is,” Kilrane offered.

  Plato nodded and went to follow the Cavalry leader, but Blade grabbed his wrist.

  “Hold it,” Blade said. He released Plato and beckoned for the Federation members to gather around him.

  Star came up to Plato and gave him a hug. “I wouldn’t care if the world was coming to an end,” she stated affectionately. “You still get a hug and a kiss from me.” So saying, she pecked him on the right cheek.

  “I’m overjoyed to see you again,” Plato told her. During her twelfth year Star had resided at the Home, living with Plato and his wife, Nadine.

  “Listen up,” Blade addressed the clustered delegates. “I expect the Free State Army will post guards on the conference room doors, but we are not going to rely on them for our security. We must protect our leaders ourselves. We’ll post our own guards to supplement the soldiers.”

  “That’s a good idea,” Kilrane remarked.

  “Then we should pick one of us to serve as security chief for the Council,” Blade recommended.

  “That’s easy enough,” Kilrane stated. “You’re more qualified than anyone else.” He looked at the others. “Any objections to Blade being our security chief?”

  No one objected.

  “Okay, then,” Blade said. “While Plato, Kilrane, Zahner, Star, and Wolfe conduct their meeting, I want to get together with the rest of you right outside the conference room.” He glanced at Hickok. “All except for you.”

  “Me?” the gunman commented.

  Blade looked at Boone. “And you. I understand you’ve taken a tour of the hotel grounds.”

  Boone grinned. “That’s one way of putting it.”

  “I want Hickok and you to patrol outside the hotel,” Blade directed.

  “Keep your eyes peeled for anything suspicious.”

  “Will do, pard,” Hickok said.

  “Where is this conference room?” Blade asked Kilrane.

  The Cavalry leader pointed to the right. “Over there.”

  Blade looked up, scanning the right-hand side of the lobby, his gaze alighting on a solitary soldier standing at the very rear near an open door, a soldier with an M-16 pressed against his shoulder and aimed at the Federation delegates!

  The sniper was leering as he sighted his M-16.

  “Look out!” Blade shouted, diving, tackling Plato and bearing him to the carpet.

  The lobby was rent by the metallic chatter of an automatic rifle.

  Screams and yells punctuated the gunfire.

  Blade looked up in time to see one of Wolfe’s flunkies take a shot in the head and topple over. The hapless man had been standing in a direct line between Plato and the assassin. Everyone else was flattening or ducking for cover behind furniture. With two notable exceptions.

  Hickok and Boone had drawn and spun as the firing began, but lacking Blade’s height, they were unable to catch a clear glimpse of the sniper until the firing had stopped. They saw the assassin dart through the open door at the rear of the lobby and took off in pursuit, Hickok glancing back to insure Blade and Plato were unhurt.

  Blade leaped to his feet. The sni
per had simply sprayed his rounds in the general direction of the Federation delegates, and he had mowed down ten Free State citizens in the bargain. Crimson puddles dotted the blue carpet while groans of anguish wafted to the ceiling. Blade was relieved to discover Wolfe’s assistant was the only Federation casualty. “Let’s get to the conference room! Now!” he ordered.

  Plato slowly stood, scowling as he surveyed the littered bodies.

  Assistance was being rendered to the injured, while Wolfe was staring at his fallen flunkie with casual disinterest. “Most illogical,” Plato remarked.

  “What is?” Blade asked.

  “This attack,” Plato said. “We were the sniper’s target, yet he indiscriminately slaughtered innocent bystanders on the slim chance of slaying us. Why didn’t he bide his time until a more favorable opportunity arose?”

  “Who knows?” Blade responded, shrugging. “They’d already tried twice and failed. Maybe they’re getting desperate. Or maybe this sniper was impatient or an amateur. Or maybe they just wanted to scare the other Federation delegates into calling off the summit.” He scrutinized the lobby. “So much for Free State Army security! They should have warned the delegates about the airport attack.”

  “I’m positive Governor Melnick is too preoccupied at the moment over the untimely demise of his wife to have given any consideration to contacting the delegates. Then again, he may have surmised security here was adequate to counter any threat, and felt there was scant justification for alarming the Federation members.” Plato looked at the dead Mole.

  “Hindsight is invariably perfect.”

  Blade saw Kilrane waiting for them ten yards away. “Let’s get to the conference room,” he advised.

  “What about Nathan and Boone?” Plato inquired.

  “They can take care of themselves,” Blade replied.

  From afar, from the rear of the hotel, sounded the booming of a revolver.

  Chapter Five

  Hickok and Boone reached the doorway through which the sniper had disappeared and paused, Hickok to the right of the door, Boone to the left, while they peered past the jamb. They found a corridor leading to the rear of the hotel, an empty corridor, and they cautiously jogged toward another door at the end of the passage, alert for any movement. They reached a closed door in the center of the corridor on the left side and halted.

  Hickok, careful to keep his body to one side of the doorway, gripped the knob and tried to twist it, but the doorknob refused to budge. “Locked,” he whispered.

  “Do you think the son of a bitch is hiding in there?” Boone asked.

  “I doubt it,” Hickok responded. “If the varmint had any brains, he’s skedaddlin’ for the hills right about now. Come on.” He raced to the far door, Boone on his left side.

  The door was slightly ajar.

  Hickok hesitated, his intuition blaring. There was a small window in the upper half of the door, and through the glass could be seen lush green vegetation. The gardens Captain Di Nofrio had mentioned. Hickok doubted the security people would leave an exit unlocked while the summit was in progress. Which meant the assassin must have picked the lock to gain entry, and had probably fled through the same door.

  “What is it?” Boone queried.

  “Stay back,” Hickok warned. There was one way to tell if his supposition was correct. He backed up several paces, then charged the door, slamming his left shoulder against the wood, flinging the door wide and plunging to the right, landing on a swath of grass and rolling, coming up on his knees with his Pythons leveled even as the window in the door exploded in a tinkling shower of glass shards.

  Why hadn’t he heard a shot?

  Hickok rose and raced to a large tree ten feet off, crouching with his back to the trunk. There should have been a shot! But what if the sniper had discarded the M-16 and was using one of those mystery weapons, the same kind as the joker at the airport? Those lethal beauties didn’t make a sound. He peeked around the trunk, probing the profuse plant growth for the assassin.

  Just then Boone sprang through the doorway, bearing to the left, making for a hedgerow 50 feet away.

  The assassin suddenly appeared, preparing to fire, standing near a Bigleaf Maple twenty yards off, exposing only his eyes, nose, chin, and arms as he sighted on Boone.

  Hickok’s right Python blasted as he snapped off a shot, aiming for the sniper’s left arm because only a narrow strip of the man’s face was visible.

  The Warrior didn’t want to take a chance on missing with Boone’s life hanging in the balance, so he went for the largest observable part of the assassin’s anatomy. Hickok always preferred a head shot, where feasible, but adapted as circumstances dictated. Whenever the Warriors discussed their techniques, Hickok inevitably advocated the head shot as the ideal target in a life-or-death situation. As he’d stressed time and again, a slug in an enemy’s torso did not guarantee instant death; the foe might live long enough to get off a final, and potentially fatal, round. But a bullet to the brain, particularly if from a high-caliber firearm, usually snuffed an opponent on the spot. “No brain, no pain,” was Hickok’s motto. At the airport earlier he’d been forced to go for the chest because the sniper’s face had been partially hidden by his weapon, and predictably the sniper had survived. Now, as he went for this new assassin’s left arm, the Warrior was gratified to see the arm jerk to the right as the sniper grimaced and ducked from sight.

  Boone reached the hedgerow in safety.

  Hickok charged from cover, sprinting toward the Bigleaf Maple, weaving back and forth.

  Boone raced after the Warrior, trying to catch up.

  Hickok reached the tree and rushed around the trunk. Blotches of blood speckled the ground. He knew it! He’d hit the varmint! Hickok saw a trail of red spots leading from the Bigleaf Maple to a gravel-covered trail eight feet away. He was off in a flash, using the intermittent drops of blood as a guide, turning to the right on the gravel trail and almost tripping over a body sprawled in his path. The gunfighter glanced down, discovering a dead Free State soldier with his forehead blown out. He hurried on, sticking to the winding, circuitous trail, scarcely noticing the botanic wonders surrounding him. The footpath curved sharply to the left, and on the straight stretch beyond were four more deceased troopers.

  The assassin sure was a deadly S.O.B.

  The minutes dragged by, the frequency of the dots diminishing. Twice Hickok was compelled to backtrack after taking a fork in the trail and traveling 15 to 20 yards without finding a blot of blood. He chafed at the delays, knowing the sniper was getting away. His impatience overrode any inclination to wait for Boone.

  A turn to the right revealed three additional victims, soldiers contorted in the throes of death, all three shot in the head with the mystery weapon.

  Hickok was stepping over one of the troopers when he paused, his blue eyes narrowing. The left side of the trooper’s face was gone, and there was a small hole in the back of the man’s helmet. Whatever had killed the soldier had penetrated his metal helmet and burst out the side of his face.

  Or had it?

  Hickok had seen the effects of dum-dum bullets on countless occasions; he used hollow-point bullets in his Pythons. But the damage caused by the assassin’s weapon was far worse. The exit holes, if such they were, were larger, much larger. And it seemed as if the projectiles had exploded the faces of the assassin’s victims outward from within.

  What in the world could do such a thing?

  Hickok continued his pursuit, the path bearing in a northeasternly direction. The gardens abruptly ended at a brick wall. Yet another dead trooper was lying at the base of the wall. The gunfighter looked in both directions, spying a red streak on the wall six feet to his right. The assassin had escaped!

  What now?

  Hickok’s hesitation was fleeting. He could either return to the hotel and permit the scum to make a clean getaway, or he could stay after the skunk and hopefully nail him. Since Blade and Plato were all right, he wasn’t needed at t
he summit. The way he saw it, some sightseeing was in order.

  He twirled the Colts in their holsters, crouched, and leaped, extending his arms and grasping the lip of the eight-foot wall. His shoulders straining, he pulled himself up until he was on his stomach on top of the wall, studying the terrain ahead.

  A jumble of weeds, brush, and forest covered the countryside. A few tall, decayed structures were in sight to the northeast.

  Hickok recalled seeing the same structures when their jeep had exited the Santa Ana Freeway to travel to the hotel. What had Captain Di Nofrio mentioned about the place? It was an old amusement park, and hadn’t been in service since the war.

  Maybe someone was using it now.

  As he dropped to the ground, Hickok remembered Governor Melnick’s letter to Plato. Blade had let him see the correspondence, and the invitation to the summit had briefly referred to the amusement park. Each of the leaders in the Freedom Federation had received a similar letter.

  Whoa there! What were those!

  Hickok knelt and examined a set of bootprints in the soft earth near the wall. Crimson spots circled the prints. He stood and jogged to the northeast. The assassin’s bootprints were spaced close together, indicating he was walking, not running. The cow chip must think he’s safe, and no one is after him. Hickok grinned. He couldn’t wait to show the varmint how wrong the skunk was!

  The tracks led in the direction of the abandoned park. They traversed a field, then entered a dense forest. Fortunately, once in the woods, the assassin stuck to a well-used animal run.

  Hickok wanted to capture the assassin alive, if possible. There were too many unanswered questions for his liking. Why were the hit men trying to disrupt the summit? Where did they come from? And the biggie: Who had hired them?

  He knew the Russians had planted a spy in the Civilized Zone, in President Toland’s administration. Had the spy discovered the location of the summit? Were the Russians responsible for sending the hit squad?