Seattle Run Page 7

  Rikki spun, spying a bearded man with a compound bow on top of a three-story building to the rear. He elevated the HK-93 and got off a burst as the man was notching another shaft.

  The bearded bowman screamed and fell onto the roof.

  “Yama!” Rikki cried, moving to his companion’s side.

  Yama was breathing heavily and his face was pale. He mustered a feeble grin. “I’m not Death. I’m just stupid.”

  “We must get you out of here,” Rikki said.

  “You go find Blade and Hickok,” Yama suggested. “I’ll stay here and hold them off as long as I can.”

  “Now who is being ridiculous?” Rikki countered. He looped his left arm under Yama’s right and lifted.

  “You can’t carry me!” Yama objected. “Save yourself!”

  “I’m not leaving without you,” Rikki stated. He started toward the other side of the street, Yama shuffling to keep pace.

  “Be serious!” Yama protested, his tone strained. “You can’t lug me around Seattle!”

  “Can’t I?” Rikki rejoined, hoping to keep his friend talking, worried Yama might succumb to shock.

  Yama was doing his best to bear as much of his own weight as he could.

  Blood was seeping down the front of his uniform. He held onto the Wilkinson with his left hand. “No.”

  “Why not?” Rikki asked, stepping onto the far sidewalk and bearing to the south.

  Yama grimaced and gasped. “Because,” he panted, “I’m too heavy.

  You’re only five feet tall and you weigh, what, one hundred and forty?”

  Rikki nodded, scanning the street ahead for a hiding place.

  “Well, brother, I’m six eight and I weigh two hundred and thirty,” Yama noted. “You’re strong, but you can’t carry me forever.”

  “I won’t need to,” Rikki said.

  “What?”

  Rikki wagged the HK-93 barrel at a four-story brick structure 40 feet in front of them on the right side of the street. “We’ll take shelter there.”

  “Why there?” Yama queried, exhaling loudly.

  Rikki grinned. “Because I think I have to tinkle.”

  Yama snorted. “You’re getting worse than Hickok!”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment,” Rikki said.

  The two Warriors covered the 40 feet at a rapid walk, Yama forcing his legs to respond. But he was gritting his teeth, his blue eyes narrowed in pain, when they reached a short flight of cement steps leading to the building.

  “Let’s go,” Rikki said, slowly ascending.

  Yama held his left arm against his right. “How do we know it’s safe in there?”

  “We don’t,” Rikki admitted.

  “There could be someone in there,” Yama went on in an uncharacteristically talkative mood, as if the mere act of conversing somehow alleviated his torment and kept him from dwelling on the arrow in his back. “There could be rats. Or spiders. I’m not very fond of spiders.”

  “Nitpick. Nitpick,” Rikki quipped. “Everything has always got to be perfect with you.”

  Yama coughed, sagging against Rikki, then recovered slightly. “Sorry.”

  The twin front doors to the brick structure consisted of metal frames with the inner glass panes gone, the glass lying in bits and pieces on the steps outside the doors. Rikki’s black shoes crunched on the glass as he covered the last two steps. He didn’t bother opening the brown metal frames; he simply angled his body through the middle, through the space formerly filled by the panes.

  Yama managed to crane his neck and look behind them. “I see one of them,” he commented.

  Rikki hastily pulled Yama into the dusky hallway inside, drawing his friend away from the doorway until they were completely hidden in inky shadows.

  Yama abruptly doubled over, his legs buckling.

  “Yama?” Rikki queried anxiously, lowering the man in blue to the floor.

  “Can’t go… any… further,” Yama mumbled. “Feeling… weak.”

  “You stay here,” Rikki said. “I’ll check the street.” He hurried to the doorway, keeping his back flush with the left-hand wall, then peered outside.

  A crowd had gathered at the rear of the seven-story building. They were conversing and gesturing, apparently undecided on which direction to take.

  Rikki smiled. The one Yama had seen must not have observed them.

  They were safe for the moment.

  The crowd began moving, splitting in half, some heading to the north, the rest advancing to the south.

  Toward the brick building.

  Toward the Warriors.

  Chapter Seven

  No one was more surprised than Hickok when he sailed over the top railing. He tried to grab for the rail but missed, and he felt the musty air rushing past his face as he dropped like the proverbial rock.

  Why did these things always happen to him?

  He glimpsed the third-floor landing and he tried to grasp at the metal railing. His fingers closed on the center of the three horizontal rails, and for a fleeting instant he thought he would arrest his fall. His right hand couldn’t bear the burden of his weight, though, and his hold was torn loose by his momentum.

  He would only get one more chance.

  Then splat!

  Hickok acrobatically twisted in midair, extending his upper torso toward the landings, and when the second-floor landing materialized underneath him he was ready. Both hands closed on the top rail, gripping for all he was worth, and his body whipped around in a tight arch, slamming into the railing and knocking the breath out of him. He gasped and held on, his shoulder muscles feeling like they’d been torn in half. His senses swam and there was an acute ache in his abdomen.

  Dear Spirit!

  That was close!

  Hickok dangled from the railing for a minute, gathering his energy and his wits. He vaguely became aware of a commotion far overhead.

  Blade!

  Hickok struggled to pull himself up and over the railing, his arms quivering, his shoulders throbbing. The excruciating anguish threatened to overwhelm him, and for a second he felt like he would pass out. He shook his head to clear the cobwebs and succeeded in raising his head and shoulders above the top rail.

  His sweaty hands were beginning to slip!

  Hickok’s lips compressed together as he hauled himself up to his waist.

  He teetered on the brink, marshaling his strength, then swung his chest all the way over the top rail. Gravity did the rest, and he tumbled onto the landing, his left shoulder absorbing the brunt of the impact.

  Blazes!

  Hickok almost cried out, but didn’t. He inhaled deeply, listening to the sound of a gun battle outside.

  Rikki and Yama were in trouble.

  But Blade took priority. The giant was the head Warrior, second only to Plato in importance to the Family. Hickok decided to save Blade first, then help Rikki and Yama. If they needed help. Those two could handle practically anything or anyone.

  The commotion up above had ceased.

  Hickok went to roll onto his back, the movement racking his body with torment. He suppressed the discomfort and turned over.

  So far, so good.

  He propped his palms on the landing and attempted to push himself erect, bu.t his arms and shoulders wouldn’t cooperate. His shoulders felt like burning coals had been imbedded in his flesh, and he wondered if one arm or both had been wrenched from its socket.

  That would be all he needed!

  Hickok waited, chafing at the delay, knowing he would do more damage if he tried to rise prematurely. Just a minute more, he hoped, and he would be able to stand. But would he be able to use his Pythons?

  The gunfire outside had abated.

  Where were Yama and Rikki?

  Hickok cocked his head, perplexed by the sudden silence. Why didn’t he hear anything upstairs? The quiet upset him more than the sound of fighting. At least when he heard gunfire and a commotion, he knew his friends were alive and giving the enemy
heck.

  A minute dragged by. Two. Shots sounded farther away.

  Enough was enough!

  Come on, boy! Hickok goaded himself, grunting as he pressed his palms against the landing and shoved. His arms felt weak, but he was able to sit up. The exertion caused his shoulders to throb worse than before.

  Who was the dummy who said this run would be a piece of cake?

  He’d like to shoot the idiot!

  Hickok grinned at his own joke. He shifted, tucking his legs under him, then stood without employing his arms.

  Bingo!

  But now what?

  The gunman cautiously moved to the edge of the landing and looked upward. There was no one in sight. Where were their attackers? He slowly climbed the stairs, one at a time, as sensation returned to his arms.

  Could he draw his Colts yet?

  Hickok clenched and unclenched his hands, limbering his muscles, gauging the extent of flexibility in his hands. He placed his hands on the Pythons, feeling the cool grips against his skin. Pausing, he tried to whip the Colts free, but the best he could do was ease them from their holsters.

  He leveled the barrels and continued climbing, becoming doubly alert as he neared the fourth floor.

  This was where they’d been jumped.

  He peeked over the landing, surprised to discover it was vacant. Even his M-16 was gone.

  What about Blade?

  Hickok boldly walked to the doorway and stared down the corridor, his eyes widening in amazement.

  They were gone!

  The bushwhackers and Blade were gone!

  But if they hadn’t passed him, then there must be another way out of the building. A rear exit maybe.

  Annoyed, Hickok turned and hastened down the stairwell to the lobby.

  He rushed across to the glass doors, noticing one of them had been shot out. Bodies littered the steps beyond and the street below, but none of them were moving. And Rikki and Yama were nowhere in sight.

  Blast!

  Hickok shoved through the glass doors, forgetting his sore shoulders and paying for his neglect with a painful twinge. The air was refreshing on his face. He halted and surveyed the street and the nearest buildings.

  No one.

  Where was everybody?

  Hickok went down the steps to the sidewalk, debating which way to go.

  Faint yelling seemed to be coming from behind the edifice he’d just vacated. He heard a voice and glanced to the left.

  Three men and a woman, all on the grubby side, unexpectedly appeared on the left side of the steps. They were in a heated discussion and they hadn’t seen him.

  Yet.

  Hickok darted to the right, his moccasins pounding, wanting to temporarily evade them until he regained better use of his arms. His accuracy was undoubtedly diminished, while theirs wasn’t. And two of the men carried rifles.

  “Hey! There goes one!” a man bellowed.

  “Stop!” shouted another.

  Not on your life! Hickok mentally vowed. He weaved to the left as a shot rang out, into the street, the move saving his life, causing the rifleman to miss. He bounded across the street as a second shot cracked and missed.

  What a bunch of cow chips!

  Hickok ran behind a row of trees lining the opposite sidewalk, interposing the trees as a screen.

  Two more shots blasted.

  Something tugged at Hickok’s right sleeve as he raced to the south. He passed building after building, some damaged, some untouched.

  The rifles weren’t firing.

  Had the yahoos given up?

  Hickok came to an intersection and jogged to the left, looking over his left shoulder as he made the turn, discovering the quartet a block behind him in hot pursuit. He grinned, confident he could elude them, facing forward, his eyes expanding in stark astonishment as he abruptly stopped, nearly tripping over his own feet.

  No!

  Not another one!

  But it was.

  Another gigantic crab was blocking the sidewalk not eight feet away, its eyes on him!

  Chapter Eight

  Rikki watched the mob drawing ever closer to the brick building. They were searching every structure they came to, and they would inevitably find Yama and himself. He might be able to escape, but Yama was not in any condition for a fight. They had to depart before they were found. He darted along the hallway to his friend. “Yama?”

  There was no answer.

  “Yama?”

  The silver-haired Warrior was sitting with his back to the wall, hunched forward, his chin on his chest.

  Rikki knelt, unable to see Yama’s face clearly in the dark. “Yama? Can you hear me?”

  Yama didn’t budge.

  Fearing the worst, Rikki groped for Yama’s left wrist and felt for a pulse. It was there, but weak. With Yama unconscious their predicament was compounded. He could not possibly escape the crowd while bearing Yama’s big bulk. Which left him one of two options. Either he made a stand right where he was to protect Yama, knowing he would eventually be overcome by sheer force of numbers, or—

  There was shouting outside.

  Rikki rose and ran to the front door. The forefront of the mob was twenty feet off, and they were still looking in each building. They would be at the brick one in less than a minute, and they would enter unless they were diverted. Rikki stared in the direction of his helpless companion.

  “May the Spirit be with you,” he whispered, then bolted out the front door.

  The crowd saw him immediately.

  Rikki leaped to the sidewalk, raking his foes with the HK-93 while in midair, landing on his feet and sprinting to the south.

  The mob howled and gave chase.

  “I want him alive!” someone yelled.

  You must catch me first, Rikki thought to himself. He jogged daily and was in superb physical condition. Pouring on the speed, he pulled ahead of those after him. He glanced back once to insure none of them had gone into the brick building harboring Yama.

  They were all after him.

  Rikki grinned and ran even faster. His scabbard was flapping against his left leg, and he steadied his katana with his left hand.

  “Don’t lose him!” a man commanded.

  Rikki was pleased with his strategy. If he drew them away from Yama, he could circle back undetected. His friend required medical attention, and the sooner the better. In another block or two he would attempt to shake his pursuers.

  But fate intervened in a bizarre manner.

  Rikki was abreast of a brownstone when the unforeseen occurred. To his left was the rusted hulk of an automobile, and on the pavement next to the wreckage was the partially devoured carcass of a black cat. Rats were doing the devouring, and a half dozen of them were nibbling at the cat’s putrid meat when Rikki suddenly came upon them. He saw the rodents at the same instant they saw him, and the rats automatically scattered for cover. A pair of the 18-inch long scavengers bounded directly into Rikki’s path.

  The Warrior’s reaction was instinctive. He endeavored to vault over the rodents, but he was already in midstride, running at full speed, and his left leg came down short. His black slipper-like shoe, constructed for him by the Family Weavers according to photographs in the library depicting the apparel worn by prewar martial artists, stepped on the back of one of the rats.

  The rodent squealed and kept moving.

  Rikki felt his left leg slip out from under him. Unable to retain his balance, he sprawled forward onto the side-walk, onto his hands and knees. The HK-93 went flying from his grasp. His palms stung and his kneecaps were racked by unbelievable torture. He tried to regain his footing, but his legs momentarily wouldn’t support him. Stumbling, he tottered forward.

  Footsteps pounded to his rear.

  Rikki attempted to turn as the fleetest of his pursuers caught up with him. Strong arms encircled his waist and drove him onto his back.

  A black-haired man with a jagged scar on his right cheek straddled the Warrior’s chest
. “Got you!” he shouted, elated.

  Not quite.

  Rikki-Tikki-Tavi formed his right hand into a leopard paw and thrust his calloused foreknuckles into the man’s throat.

  The man with the scar clutched at his crushed larynx, gurgling and sputtering, and toppled to the right.

  Rikki scrambled to his feet, his disciplined mind shutting out the ache in his knees, knowing his foes would be on him like a pack of hungry wolves on an injured bull elk. But like the elk, with its pointed antlers, he possessed a tapered, glistening weapon of his own. He whipped his katana from its scabbard and faced the mob.

  Just as they reached him.

  The first three never slowed. They expected to bowl the wiry man in black over.

  Rikki taught them the error of their ways. His katana flashed once, twice, three times, each stroke a veritable blur, and the three men were dead before their bodies struck the sidewalk. Two were nearly decapitated, and the third’s neck was slit wide open.

  A fourth antagonist reached the Warrior, a brown-headed woman with a machete. Apparently she’d forgotten the order to take the Warrior alive because she aimed a vicious swipe at his head.

  Rikki ducked under the blow and retaliated, gutting her, her abdominal cavity splitting and her intestines pouring out over her ragged clothing.

  She screamed and dropped.

  Two men charged the Warrior, one with an axe, the other with a baseball bat, Rikki danced to the right, slicing his katana through the left leg of the man with the axe. As the man started to fall, Rikki rent his face from his forehead to his chin. Blubbering, the man collapsed.

  The one with the baseball bat delivered a wicked swing at the Warrior’s head.

  Rikki stepped backwards to avoid the bat, then drove the point of his katana into the man’s chest, straight through the heart. As the man stiffened and expired, Rikki yanked the katana free.

  “Pretty sharp moves you’ve got there, sucker.”

  Rikki pivoted to his right, his katana in front of him at waist level.

  A handsome man and a strikingly beautiful woman were calmly standing seven feet away. They resembled each other in every respect.

  Both were about six feet in height and both were lean and muscular. Their facial features were angular with prominent chins, thin lips, and thin eyebrows. Both had green eyes. And both had white hair, completely white without a strand of color anywhere. Unlike their crude associates, they were clean and wearing unsoiled black leather pants and shirts. Black boots covered their feet. And both were holding pump-action shotguns trained on the Warrior.