Anaheim Run Page 8

  “No,” Blade answered.

  Gallagher glanced at the downed assassin. “At least we have one of the sons of bitches alive! I’ll get him to talk.”

  “We will question the prisoner,” Blade said, disputing him.

  General Gallagher rose, his thin lips compressing. “The prisoner is under my authority, and I will handle his interrogation.”

  “We will,” Blade reiterated.

  “Now see here!” General Gallagher thundered.

  “One moment, gentlemen,” Plato intervened, walking from the conference room. “We are allies. We should be working in tandem. Why not interrogate the captive jointly?”

  General Gallagher scowled. “I don’t need his help, thank you! The Free State Army has functioned acceptably tor over a century without the assistance of the almighty Warriors! And we don’t want the Family meddling in our affairs!”

  Plato and Blade exchanged glances. “Do I detect animosity in your tone?” Plato asked.

  Gallagher stepped up to the Family Leader and poked Plato in the chest with his right forefinger. “You’re damn right you do, Socrates!”

  “My name is Plato,” Plato corrected him.

  “Whatever you say, Socrates,” Gallagher stated sarcastically.

  “Why do you dislike the Family?” Plato inquired.

  “I’ll tell you,” General Gallagher replied, jabbing Plato again. “It’s not just your Family I don’t like. I don’t like any of the Freedom Federation clowns! Governor Melnick and his advisors may think signing a treaty with your Federation is essential to California’s future, but I don’t!”

  “Why not?” Plato queried politely.

  “We don’t need your Federation,” General Gallagher declared.

  “California has managed quite well without you. What can you offer us that we don’t already have? Nothing!”

  “We offer you our hand in friendship,” Plato said. “We will be your allies. We can establish trade routes and mutually benefit from our association in other respects.”

  General Gallagher laughed. “Trade? What can your Family possibly offer us? It seems to me we’re coming out on the short end of the stick.”

  “Having allies could be crucial should the Soviets, the Technics, or the Androxians decide to attack California,” Plato remarked.

  General Gallagher snorted derisively. “Let them try! We can defeat any of them!”

  “Aren’t you being somewhat overconfident?” Plato asked.

  “I’m being realistic,” General Gallagher snapped. “Our military power is the equal of anyone else’s! We’re as strong as the Commies or the Technics and the rest, and we’re a hell of a lot stronger than the Family.”

  Gallagher snickered. “I’ve heard all that bull about how great your Warriors are, but I don’t buy the lies.”

  “Our Warriors are quite skilled,” Plato commented.

  “Your Warriors aren’t shit!” Gallagher retorted, poking Plato one more time.

  One time too many.

  Gallagher was opening his mouth to lambaste the Family Leader some more, when an iron hand clamped on his throat, and a vise grabbed him by the scruff of his neck. He was bodily lifted from the floor and shoved against the wall, scraping his nose and forehead. His neck and throat were released, and he angrily turned to confront his assailant.

  Blade loomed above the general, his fists clenched at his sides, his face a livid scarlet. His right arm snaked up, his right forefinger jabbing Gallagher and slamming the officer against the wall. “If you ever lay a finger on Plato again,” Blade warned, his voice an ominous growl, “I’ll break it off and shove it up your ass!”

  General Gallagher couldn’t seem to think of what to say. He sputtered, his mouth working like that of a fish out of water, plainly enraged.

  “Governor Melnick should be here soon,” Blade said. “If you have a complaint, we’ll take it up with him.”

  “I handle my problems myself!” Gallagher stated belligerently.

  Blade pointed at the injured soldier. “Why don’t you tend to your man, and then get the hell out of my sight!”

  Gallagher glared balefully at the Warrior. For a moment, it appeared he would launch himself at Blade. But his attention was fortuitously distracted by the arrival of a pair of medics. “Take care of him!” he barked, indicating the guard, and then stalked off.

  Bear moved closer to Blade. “Whew! What got him so bent out of shape?”

  “That’s what I’d like to know,” Blade responded.

  “His attitude is most peculiar,” Plato agreed. “Perhaps he is an isolationist.”

  “What’s that?” Bear asked.

  “Someone who believes a country or state is better off left to its own devices,” Plato explained. “They’re of the opinion that peace can only be achieved if they do not enter into alliances or make commitments with other nations.” He paused. “There were a considerable number of isolationists in the U.S. before the war.”

  “Could be,” Bear said doubtfully. “But if you ask me, that turkey hates our guts.”

  “I think you’re right,” Blade said to Bear. “We’ll need to keep our eyes on him.”

  “I will discuss Gallagher’s behavior with Governor Melnick when he arrives,” Plato mentioned.

  Bear gazed across the lobby. “Hey, Blade! Here comes your buddy!”

  Blade glanced up, hoping to see Hickok approaching. Instead, Captain Di Nofrio was heading toward them laden with four M-16’s.

  “He got the guns,” Bear remarked eagerly.

  Di Nofrio halted, looking at the assassin and the two troopers in amazement. “What happened here?”

  “We had a party-crasher,” Blade quipped. “You always miss out on all the fun.”

  Di Nofrio was studying the hit man. “I know him! He works in the kitchen! I saw him serving coffee to General Gallagher when we arrived.”

  “You don’t say?” Blade crossed to the captain and took one of the M-16’s. “Thanks for getting these.”

  “I have two men bringing the rest here in a few minutes,” Di Nofrio said.

  “Did anyone give you a hard time?” Blade inquired.

  “No.” Di Nofrio grinned. “I had a call patched through to the Governor’s limousine. Only took a minute. The Governor said you’re to have whatever you want.”

  “I’ll have to put in a good word to Melnick about you,” Blade commented.

  “You will? Really?”

  “Really,” Blade said. He lowered his voice. “What can you tell me about General Gallagher?”

  “Why do you ask?” Di Nofrio rejoined.

  “I need to know,” Blade said. “I take it he doesn’t like us.”

  Di Nofrio nodded. “I heard he argued with the Governor about the treaty we’re going to sign. He’s dead set against it.”

  “Why?”

  Di Nofrio shrugged. “I don’t know. Gallagher has always given the governor a hard time. He’s real hard-line military, you know? Sometimes I think General Gallagher would like to be running the state himself. Don’t underestimate him, Blade. Gallagher is popular with the troops. General Owens always sided with the governor, which annoyed Gallagher no end. And Owens was just as popular as Gallagher.”

  “But General Owens is dead,” Blade observed. “Who else can keep a rein on Gallagher?”

  Di Nofrio pondered for a moment. “No one.”

  Blade looked at the assassin, reflecting. How far was the general willing to go to insure the treaty wasn’t signed? Would Gallagher hire a hit squad to eliminate the Federation delegates? Was the man genuinely concerned about his state, or was the general over the edge, a fanatic?

  Someone was nudging his left elbow.

  Blade turned, finding Plato at his side.

  “Boone,” Plato said, pointing toward the rear of the hotel.

  The Cavalryman was hurrying toward the conference room, winding through the crowd in the lobby.

  Blade moved out to meet him. “Where’s Hickok?
” he demanded.

  “Sorry,” Boone said, his mouth curling downward. “I lost him.”

  “You what?”

  “He took off after the man we were chasing,” Boone detailed, “and I lost them both. Those gardens back there are a real maze.”

  “Damn!” Blade muttered. “And I can’t leave the summit!”

  “I’ll keep looking,” Boone offered. “Just be sure to let Kilrane know where I am.”

  “Will do,” Blade said. “And thanks.”

  Boone jogged away.

  Blade turned, frowning, telling himself there was nothing to worry about. No one was faster than Hickok. No one was more deadly. So why was he apprehensive? Because Hickok was one of his very best friends? Or because the gunman had this uncanny knack for blundering into dangerous situations? Trouble seemed to be attracted to the Family’s preeminent gunfighter like metal to a magnet, and the more bizarre the peril, the more outlandish the jeopardy, the more likely the gunman was to be involved.

  Blade sighed. The best he could do was pray Hickok wasn’t performing up to par.

  Now he was really worried!

  Chapter Seven

  Hickok froze, his right leg suspended above the alligator, his hands inches from his Pythons.

  The blamed critter was real!

  Hickok was in a quandary. If he planted a couple of slugs in the gator, he’d alert the assassin to his proximity. But he had to make some move, and soon! The confounded reptile wasn’t going to lie still forever. He realized the alligator had been sunning itself on the bank. Where the dickens could the beast have come from? he wondered. Had its ancestors escaped from a zoo?

  The alligator abruptly opened its gaping maw.

  Hickok tensed, prepared to draw, but the gator didn’t budge. Why in the world was the thing just lying there with its mouth open? Was it trying to catch flies? No. There weren’t any flies in January. Was the reptile sunning its teeth?

  The alligator grunted.

  Hickok couldn’t afford to wait any longer. If the alligator wasn’t aware of his presence, the thing would be soon. And if the gator knew he was standing here, then either it wasn’t hungry or didn’t care two hoots.

  The gator emitted a loud burp.

  Hickok made his move, dropping onto his knees on top of the alligator and sweeping his fists downward, boxing the reptile’s eyes, hoping the blows would temporarily obscure its vision. He dived to the right, hitting the turf and rolling, coming erect with the Colts clearing leather and cocked.

  The alligator was sliding backwards into the lake, its head disappearing below the water.

  Hickok grinned and holstered the Pythons. “Piece of cake,” he mumbled.

  The water suddenly stirred and rippled, and the alligator’s protruding eyes appeared above the surface.

  Hickok braced for an attack, wondering how fast gators could run.

  The alligator studied the human for a minute, then sank from sight with a flip of its tail.

  “Adios,” Hickok said, and resumed his hunt. The lake angled to the northeast, and he began to speculate on whether the lake wasn’t really a river.

  Buildings loomed ahead.

  The structures were in disrepair, consistent with the century of neglect they’d suffered. Windows were cracked or missing, the paint was peeling, and on one of them the roof was crumbling. The verdant forest had reclaimed the land surrounding the buildings, and trees were growing right next to the walls.

  Hickok darted from tree to tree, probing for evidence of habitation. The edifices were dark and gloomy. The Warrior circled to the north, 30 feet from the structures. If someone was in there, then they had…

  Bingo!

  Hickok ducked down as he spied a faint light glimmering in the bowels of one of the buildings.

  Was it the assassin?

  The gunman dashed toward the side of the structure, using the trees and bushes for cover as he zigzagged ever nearer. He reached the wall and pressed his back flush with the wood, listening. All was quiet inside.

  So far, so good.

  Hickok spotted a door at the top of a ramshackle porch, and he tiptoed up the sagging steps, halting when one of them creaked, then continuing to the door when the creak went unchallenged. Whoever these cow chips were, their security wasn’t worth beans!

  Someone was talking.

  Hickok stopped, cocking his head. The words were muffled, incomprehensible. The door was ajar, revealing a glimpse of a dusty, murky interior. Hickok edged through the doorway, easing the door aside only as much as necessary to permit his passage.

  The voice increased in volume, but the individual words were still indistinguishable.

  Hickok found himself in a room filled with grime-overed prewar furniture and artifacts. He sidled toward an open door on the opposite side. Bright light was emanating from whatever lay beyond. The gunman warily crossed the room until he was standing behind the open door. He pressed his right eye to the crack between the door and the jamb.

  The light was coming from four lanterns hanging from nails which had been hammered into the walls, illuminating a spacious chamber, its windows boarded over, containing tables and chairs.

  Hickok’s eyes narrowed. He counted nine occupants as well.

  There were six men and three women in the room, each one attired in a black robe secured by a thin red sash. Four of the men and the trio of women were seated in metal folding chairs, facing a tall figure. Interposed between them was a man in a soldier’s uniform, holding his bloody left arm against his side.

  Hickok couldn’t see the faces of the men and women in the chairs because their backs were to him. Likewise with the assassin in the trooper’s uniform. But the tall figure’s features were cast in stark relief by the glow of the lanterns.

  The tall one was standing on a crate or wooden box, as if he felt the need to accentuate his already lofty six-and-a-half-foot frame. His hair was auburn, neatly combed and hanging to his broad shoulders. Pale blue eyes were gazing coldly at the one in the uniform. His facial lines exhibited a decidedly sinister aspect. “Explain your failure to us again, Neborak,” he demanded in a low, commanding tone.

  Hickok saw the assassin in the uniform fidget and glance nervously at those seated to his rear.

  “I asked you a question,” the tall man reiterated.

  “I didn’t fail, Kraken!” Neborak blurted. “I know I got one or two of them!”

  Kraken raised his right hand and thoughtfully stroked his tapered chin.

  “Which ones?”

  “I’m not sure,” Neborak replied.

  Kraken’s blue orbs bored into Neborak. “You’re not sure? How can this be, brother? You just told us you know you got one or two of them. Yet you’re uncertain of which ones.”

  “I mean I saw a couple of them fall,” Neborak stated hastily. “But I’m not sure which two they were.”

  Kraken surveyed the men and women in the chairs. “Did you hear Neborak, brothers and sisters? Do his words trouble you as much as they do me?”

  “I couldn’t stay to verify the kills!” Neborak cried. “I was hit!”

  “Ahhhh, yes. Your wound.” Kraken gazed at Neborak’s left arm. “The elbow, I believe?”

  “Yes.”

  “And who shot you? A Free State soldier?” Kraken inquired.

  “One of the Warriors,” Neborak answered. “I think it was the one called Hickok.”

  “You encountered Hickok and you’re still alive?” Kraken rejoined.

  “Most remarkable. Hickok is a formidable adversary.”

  Hickok nodded. Now he knew who the brains of this outfit was.

  “It was Hickok, I tell you,” Neborak insisted.

  The man named Kraken sighed. “All this prevarication is most distressing.”

  “All this what?” Neborak asked.

  Kraken placed his hands on his hips, the baggy sleeves of his robe draping over his knuckles. “Why don’t you reassure us, brother? Go over it again. The Gild will be you
r judge.”

  Neborak looked at his seated peers, licking his lips.

  “Proceed,” Kraken ordered.

  “I followed my instructions exactly,” Neborak said. “I took one of the uniforms Emery stole for us and met him at the northeast corner of the hotel grounds where they have the garbage cans. I scaled the wall when the guard on the roof was looking the other way, and Emery led me to the rear of the hotel. I stashed my Darter in the garden, in case I needed it for my getaway. Emery took me to a locked closet in a hallway, then unlocked it so I could hide there. There was a fully loaded M-16 in the closet.”

  Kraken smiled. “Emery is a consumate professional. If only all the Gild members could be so dedicated to their craft! Go on.”

  “I waited until Emery came back and told me that Plato and two Warriors had arrived,” Neborak said, continuing his narration. “I went to the lobby and shot at Plato and the other leaders. I know two of them went down. Then before I knew it, soldiers were pouring out of the woodwork after me. I barely got out with my life.”

  “I thought you said Hickok was after you?” Kraken queried.

  “He was,” Neborak quickly answered. “So were the soldiers.”

  “This gets better and better!” Kraken said sarcastically. “Now you managed to escape with half the Free State Army and one of the Warriors after you!”

  Neborak didn’t appear to notice the sarcasm. “I felt it was my duty to return and report.”

  “Your duty?” Kraken repeated, then said the words again, his voice booming. “Your duty? I seriously doubt you know the definition of the word! Foster performed his duty, when he blew himself up rather than be taken at the airport. Emery is performing his duty by going undercover, by allowing me to plant him on the kitchen staff as our inside man at the hotel. But you! You spineless worm! You wouldn’t know what duty was if it jumped up and bit you on the ass!”

  “Kraken—” Neborak began.

  “Silence!” Kraken roared.

  Neborak backed up a step.

  “I will tell you what you really did!” Kraken bellowed. “I will tell you what really happened! Emery snuck you inside the hotel, as he was supposed to do. And he obtained an M-16 for you, so you could mingle with the other soldiers without drawing attention to yourself. But when it came time for you to terminate the Freedom Federation leaders, you suddenly sprouted a yellow streak down your spine! Instead of mingling and getting as close to the leaders as possible, as ordered, you opened up too soon, and from too far away! Am I right?”