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  "There was another reason I didn't want to wait for the jet," Hickok added. "To reach Boston, the VTOL would have to fly over Russian territory. The last time one did, the Commies shot it down. Takin' the SEAL is a mite slower, but it's also a tad safer." He straightened, his right hand dropping to the Henry resting on the console. "Now what's this action?"

  The three vehicles were slowly closing on the transport. From the passenger side of the foremost vehicle, a gray car, fluttered a white flag.

  "They want to talk," Geronimo said.

  "I don't trust 'em," Hickok stated.

  "We should give them the benefit of the doubt," Geronimo suggested.

  "Okay," Hickok responded reluctantly. "But don't doze off on me." He headed toward the vehicles, keeping the speedometer at ten miles an hour.

  "They're armor-plated," Geronimo observed.

  Marcus looked closer. Sure enough, each vehicle was covered with makeshift armor plating. Mesh wire had been fastened to the windshields.

  Two of the three were cars, the third a pickup. Riding in the bed of the pickup were three men in seedy clothes, and each man held a machine gun.

  "Maybe they'll let us pass," Geronimo said, but his tone lacked conviction.

  "If they don't, we'll have a fight on our hands," Hickok noted. "I don't like the notion of wastin' more ammo."

  "We can always ram them," Marcus recommended.

  The gunfighter glanced over his right shoulder. "Have you ever wanted to learn to drive the SEAL?"

  Marcus grinned. "You bet I have."

  "Forget it."

  The distance between the transport and the three armored vehicles slowly narrowed. When only 20 yards separated them, they halted.

  Hickok put the SEAL in Park. He saw a man climbing out the passenger side window of the lead vehicle, a scrawny figure carrying a Winchester. Tied to the end of the barrel was the white flag, a ragged towel. "Looks like they want to palaver."

  "To what?" Marcus asked.

  "Palaver is Martian for shoot the breeze," Geronimo translated.

  "Oh."

  "You two stay put," Hickok directed. He scooped up the Henry and opened his door.

  "I should go, not you," Geronimo said.

  Hickok shook his head. "I need to stretch my legs. Keep your peepers peeled. If they try any funny stuff, back my play." He eased to the asphalt.

  "I'll go with you," Marcus offered.

  "I told you to stay put," Hickok said. He slammed the door, hefted the Henry, and strolled toward the man bearing the white flag.

  The three men in the bed of the pickup, which was parked a few yards behind and to the left of the lead car, all trained their machine guns on the Warrior.

  Chapter Eleven

  Berwin wanted answers.

  He'd spent the better part of the past two hours contemplating the course of action he should pursue, and he'd reached the conclusion that the only way he could discover the reason for his presence in a Russian-controlled hospital in Boston would be to find an office or a file room. Any written records pertaining to his case were bound to shed light on the mystery. His parents and sister were due to arrive in several hours.

  Doctor Milton had departed for lunch, and Nurse Krittenbauer had told him she'd be downstairs for an hour.

  He had all the time he needed.

  Berwin stepped to the door, insured the corridor was empty, and bore to the right, heading for the junction. He tiptoed to the corner and listened. Someone coughed lightly and another person began humming.

  He eased his left eye to the edge and ventured a peek.

  Twelve feet from the junction stood an obviously bored guard, a man in a blue uniform with the words ACME SECURITY printed on the cap he wore. In a black leather holster on his left hip rode a pistol sporting black grips. His brown hair had been clipped short, and his brown eyes regarded his surroundings with ill-concealed disdain. He yawned and stretched.

  Not more than a yard behind the guard was an elevator shaft, the door closed and the needle on the floor indicator overhead pointing at the third floor.

  Between the junction and the elevator, on the right side of the hall, positioned close to the wall, was an L-shaped counter eight feet in length and half as wide. Stationed at the counter, attired in a smart white uniform, humming to herself as she sorted through a stack of index cards, was a nurse with black hair. Positioned at the opposite end of the counter, at the open end near the elevator, was a shut door on which the word OFFICE had been imprinted in large block letters.

  Berwin stared at that door, wishing he could get inside.

  "I need to take a leak," the guard unexpectedly announced.

  "Go ahead. I'll cover for you," the nurse said.

  "Give a yell if the patients try to rebel," the guard joked, walking over to the counter.

  "You'd better go to the bathroom and get back to your post," the nurse advised him. "If Milton or Krittenbauer see you talking to me, we're in hot water."

  "Okay," the guard said. "We don't want to wind up like Crane and Schmidt."

  "What happened to them? Why were they relieved of duty? Why were we called up here on such short notice?"

  "I don't know all the facts. Apparently they slacked off and let an unauthorized person on the floor. Milton and Krittenbauer hit the roof. I was told that Krittenbauer had them relieved on the spot and ordered replacements on the double," the guard related.

  The nurse lowered her voice conspiratorially. "Just between you and me, Colonel Krittenbauer scares me to death."

  "Yeah. I know what you mean. The KGB has the same effect on me," the guard stated. He moved away from the counter, toward the junction.

  "Shout your lungs out if the elevator starts up. That's a private baby reserved for those using this floor, so it might be Krittenbauer or Milton coming back."

  "You've got it," the nurse promised.

  Berwin whirled and raced swiftly and silently to his room. He ducked inside and flattened against the door, breathing heavily, his adrenaline pumping. Crouching, he peered out and saw the guard walk past the junction and disappear, evidently en route to the bathroom. Berwin straightened and returned to the junction. He glanced to the left, elated to find the guard nowhere in sight, then looked at the nurse's station.

  Still humming, still sorting the index cards, the nurse had her full attention focused on her task.

  There would never be a more opportune moment.

  Berwin sank to his hands and knees, then crawled to the counter. He moved slowly along the base, holding his breath, expecting to hear the nurse cry out in alarm, but he crept past her without incident, the five-foot-high counter screening him from her view. He came to the open end and paused, gazing at the office, wondering how he could sneak in there unnoticed.

  With a loud whirring noise the elevator began to operate.

  "Oh, no!" the nurse said.

  Berwin glanced at the elevator, then at the nurse. She had turned to her left, away from the office.

  "Nelson!" the nurse called out. "The elevator!"

  Quickly Berwin glided to the office and tried the doorknob. To his delight the door opened, and he hastily slid into the cool, dark interior and closed the door quietly. Diffuse light rimmed the border of the heavy yellow drapes covering the large window on the far side of the room. A massive oaken desk occupied the center of the floor. To the left, along the wall, was a sofa. To the right, metal cabinets.

  Records!

  Berwin stood and angled toward the cabinets.

  "The elevator is on its way up!" the nurse warned the guard. "Hurry it up, Nelson!"

  Berwin estimated he had two minutes, at the most. He reached the file cabinets and tugged on the top drawer. Locked. In mounting urgency, with repeated looks at the door, he attempted to open each of the drawers.

  Every one was locked.

  Damn.

  "Come on, Nelson!" the nurse yelled.

  "Don't have a heart attack," came a reply from down the hall.
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  Feeling supremely frustrated, Berwin attempted to open the last drawer without success. He scowled and turned toward the door.

  "About time," the nurse outside said.

  "I'm here, aren't I? Don't sweat it," Nelson told her, his voice growing louder with every word.

  Berwin paused, confounded. He couldn't escape from the office with the guard back on duty. But what if the person riding the elevator came in?

  He spied a closet a few feet to the left of the metal cabinets and dashed on over.

  From the corridor came the ting of a bell.

  "Colonel Krittenbauer," the guard declared.

  "Refer to me as Nurse Krittenbauer, you cretin," snapped a familiar voice. "What if our patient were to overhear you?"

  "Sorry, ma'am," Nelson replied dutifully. "It won't ever happen again."

  "See that it doesn't," Krittenbauer commanded.

  Berwin opened the closet, within which he could distinguish white uniforms and other clothes hanging on a rack. On the floor were several pairs of shoes. Assorted items were piled in the corners. He secreted himself inside and drew the door to within an inch of the jamb, leaving the narrow space so he could see the room.

  None too soon.

  A burst of light flooded the office and Nancy Krittenbauer entered. She walked to the metal cabinets, produced a key from one of her uniform pockets, and unlocked the top drawer.

  Berwin watched her flip through dozens of manila folders. She selected several and stepped to a plush chair facing the oaken desk. As she settled into the chair, Milton came in.

  "You're back from lunch early," Krittenbauer commented.

  "I didn't have much of an appetite," Milton replied. He closed the door, went around the desk, and sat down with a sigh.

  "I didn't hear the elevator," Krittenbauer said.

  "I used the stairs," Milton informed her. He placed his elbows on the desk top and supported his chin in his hands.

  "Our star patient?"

  "Who else?" Milton responded morosely.

  "Are you upset about the possible ramifications of the incident with the janitor?" Krittenbauer inquired.

  "Aren't you? If we fail, the general will bury us alive."

  "You're exaggerating."

  Milton sat back in his chair. "Hey, you're the one who mentioned firing squads, as I recall."

  Krittenbauer deposited the manila folders on the edge of the desk. "So how bad can it be?"

  "There are so many variable factors involved, it's difficult to make an accurate assessment," Milton said. " If they really talked about Jennings'

  work and nothing else, and if Jennings didn't reveal any information concerning our facility, and if the drug hasn't worn off prematurely, and if the Warrior's suspicions weren't aroused, then we might be in good shape."

  "You don't exactly inspire confidence," Krittenbauer remarked. "Do you think Jennings blabbed?'"

  "He claims he didn't. But he's smart enough to realize the trouble he'd be in if we knew he divulged any details," Milton said. He smacked the desk in anger. "Damn that stupid guard! I hope the general strings Private Crane up by the balls."

  "He just might," Krittenbauer stated, and smirked.

  "We're so close to eliciting the information the general wants. The memories are starting to surface, just as our research demonstrated would be the case."

  "Experimental drugs are notoriously unreliable. I wouldn't place a lot of faith in the Memroxin."

  "We have a general sketch of the interior of the Home thanks to the Memroxin," Milton reminded her.

  "But the general wants more than a mere sketch. He wants precise information, nothing less than a detailed layout of the entire compound.

  He wants to know the purpose for every building, and who lives in which cabin. When the HGP Unit goes in, they'll need accurate intelligence to coordinate their attack properly," Krittenbauer said.

  "If the Memroxin doesn't wear off, we'll acquire the data the general desires."

  "And then the fun part begins," Krittenbauer mentioned.

  "The fun part?"

  "Extracting his semen for our impregnation program should be mildly diverting. I'm certain he'll resist. The Warrior is disgustingly noble."

  Berwin knit his brow in perplexity. There was that word again.

  Warrior. Why did he tingle every time she spoke it? He must be the Warrior to whom she referred. But what significance did the word carry?

  What type of Warrior was he?

  "Did you know the second set of tests have confirmed the initial series?"

  Milton asked.

  "When did you hear?" Krittenbauer responded, leaning forward.

  "This morning shortly before the fiasco with the janitor," Milton said.

  "The written report will be on my desk by this evening. His genes appear to be virtually disease free. They rate his heritable disease quotient as almost nil."

  "No wonder the general has ordered he be kept alive and unharmed at all costs. Think of the contribution he can make to future generations."

  "And now you can appreciate why the general decided to use the Memroxin to extract the information. Except for the typical disorientation while the patient is under the influence of the drug, there are no known side effects," Milton said.

  "Shouldn't one of us go check on our star patient?" Krittenbauer asked.

  Berwin tensed. They'd discover he wasn't in his room and sound a general alarm. He had to stop them!

  "I'll go," Milton offered.

  "Let me. We're developing quite a rapport."

  Berwin ran his hands over the floor, groping about for anything he could use as a weapon. His right hand bumped into a thin, upright object leaning in the corner, knocking it over, and the object slid to the floor, missing the clothes, making a scratching noise. Berwin pulled back from the closet door.

  "What was that?" Milton asked absently.

  "Did one of your lab mice escape?" Krittenbauer quipped.

  "Not to my knowledge," Milton said.

  Berwin heard the man rise and walk toward the closet. A fleeting panic seized him, and he clenched his fists and willed his mind to stay calm.

  "I really should clean out this closet," Milton commented, "I stuff everything in here, and I never know what will fall out next."

  The door swung open.

  For a second both men were transfixed, Berwin huddled on the floor, coiled to spring, while Milton gaped in amazement at the giant.

  "Any mice in there?" Krittenbauer joked, her view of the closet obstructed by the physician.

  "Bl—" Milton started to blurt out.

  And Berwin pounded with the speed of a striking cobra, his seven-foot frame surging out of the closet, his left hand clamping on Milton's throat.

  He stepped into the clear, holding Milton at arm's length. "Don't move!"

  he instructed the startled woman in the chair.

  But Colonel Nancy Krittenbauer of the Soviet KGB was already in motion. She leaped erect and took two strides toward the office door, her mouth widening, about to yell for the guard.

  Berwin intercepted her. He hauled Milton after him, his right arm flicking out, and his fingers locked on Krittenbauer's hair. With a brutal jerk of his right arm he whipped her backwards, causing her teeth to snap together and stifling her cry for aid, then released his hold. The power in his bulging muscles sent her sailing into the desk, her right side bearing the brunt of the impact.

  Krittenbauer gasped and doubled over, her right arm pressed to her ribs. Still game, she raised her head to shout.

  Berwin reached her before she could. Acting instinctively, he backhanded her across the face, the blow twisting her sideways. She tried to run but her legs buckled and she fell to her knees. "Drug me, will you?"

  Berwin said bitterly. He swept his right knee into her chin.

  The KGB agent crumpled, unconscious.

  "And now, Doctor Milton," Berwin stated in a gravelly tone, swinging the terrified physician around
to face him, "you're going to tell me all I need to know or I'll break every bone in your body."

  Milton wheezed and nodded, his hands feebly pulling on the iron vise constricting his neck.

  "Now then," Berwin said, intending to begin the interrogation, but a heavy pounding on the office door interrupted him.

  "Doctor Milton? Doctor Krittenbauer?" the guard called. "Is anything wrong?"

  Berwin glanced at the door, his fury mounting.

  Chapter Twelve

  Hickok met the man bearing the white flag midway between the vehicles.

  "Hey, dude. How's it hangin'," asked the other, and grinned broadly, exposing a gap where two of his upper front teeth had Been. Unkempt dark hair framed his dirty face. His beady eyes, thin nose, and oval chin gave him a rodentlike aspect. He wore a green, short-sleeved shirt and jeans, both of which had seen better days decades ago. From his right ear lobe dangled a large, circular diamond-studded earring. He also sported a silver safety pin through his nose. Adorning his left forearm was a tattoo, a depiction of a sneering skull and the words HEAVY DEATH RULES.

  "What the blazes are you?" Hickok responded.

  The scrawny man did a double take. "Whoa. Serious hostility. What a bummer."

  "What?"

  "My name is Dezi."

  "I'm Hickok."

  "Cool name, dude," Dezi said in a friendly fashion.

  "Quit callin' me 'dude,' pipsqueak," Hickok stated testily. He glanced at the three vehicles, estimating the odds. In addition to the trio in the bed of the pickup, there were two in the cab, three men in the second car, and two more in the lead vehicle, all well armed.

  Dezi made a clicking sound. "Man, what did you do in your last life to deserve such a rotten karma?"

  "What are you babbling about?" Hickok asked impatiently.

  "Like, you're radiatin' bad vibes," Dezi said.

  "And you're one marble shy of brainless," Hickok retorted. "What's with the white flag? Who are you guys and what do you want?"

  Dezi held the Winchester loosely in his left hand and placed his right on his hip. "You shouldn't be rude, dude. I'm comin' to the point."