Anaheim Run

Chapter Eighteen

When the rain came, Boone was grateful.

The tempest would hide him from the… thing… in the lake.

Boone had never spent such nerve-racking hours in his entire life. After the reptillian back had appeared above the surface of the pool, he had stayed as motionless as a stone, dreading the consequences if he should move and attract the creature’s attention. Eventually the mutant had submerged, and Boone had immediately gone to work on the cord binding his wrists and ankles, striving to loosen his hands or free his feet. But Nightshade’s knots were too tight and the leather cord was stretched taut.

Every attempt to break his bonds resulted in severe pain in his shoulders and legs. He couldn’t pull on one without hurting the other.

Twice the broad brown back had crested the top of the water, floated or meandered about the pool for a spell, and then disappeared.

Boone had froze each time the creature became visible, then resumed his escape efforts once the thing submerged. But now, with the storm at full fury, he threw caution to the yowling wind and strained on the cord, hoping the elements would obscure his movements from the mutant. He recalled Kraken mentioning something about feeding someone else to the thing earlier, and he speculated on whether the mutant’s full stomach had saved his life.

So far.

The Cavalryman was saturated to his skin by the rain. As the rainstorm continued, he realized his wrists were becoming more and more slippery.

And was his imagination playing games, or was the leather cord developing some slack? He worked his hands back and forth, the cord digging into the skin, mixing his blood with the rain.

What was that?

Boone glanced at the pool, squinting, striving to pierce the murky gloom.

There it was again.

A deep, guttural grunt.

Boone perceived the vague outline of a huge form in the middle of the pool, and with a start he realized the thing’s head was above the water and looking in his direction!

The mutant grunted again.

Could it see him? Would it come after him? The thought of gleaming fangs sinking into his body goaded him to action. If he could put some distance between the pool and himself! Boone dug his chin into the ground, tensed his shoulders, arched his back, and drew his knees upward, then straightened as far as the cord would allow. Resembling a buckskin clad snail, he slowly, painstakingly inched his way up the gradually curving bank. Once he slipped and his face plowed into a puddle, mud splattering his lips and cheeks. He girded his strength and kept crawling.

A tremendous splash sounded from the pool.

Boone refused to admit defeat. Expecting to feel a heavy weight crash onto his back at any moment, he snaked onward, ever upward, continuing to try to stretch the cord around his wrists even as he proceeded inch by muddy, soaked inch. He tasted the muck in his mouth and swallowed. To his astonishment, he reached the rim of the bank unmolested. His exertion was taking its toll; every muscle ached and his wrists were throbbing. But he could move his hands a bit, and thus encouraged, he struggled anew. The rain was softening the leather cord, rendering the leather more pliable.

There was a thump and a hiss from behind him.

The mutant was emerging from the pool!

Boone twisted, rolling onto his left side, desperately wrenching on the cord.

A gargantuan bulk loomed at the edge of the water.

No!

Not when he was this close!

Boone gritted his teeth, frantically rubbing his hands front and back, front and back, disregarding the throbbing anguish in his wrists. The cord was loosening more and more with every second.

But the mutant was shuffling toward him!

Boone felt the cord give way, sliding over his knuckles. He desperately tried to unravel his fingers from the entwining cord.

And then the mutant was there, a colossal reptilian monstrosity rearing skyward in the storm, the heavy downpour veiling its hideous face. The creature roared.

Boone saw the mutant’s head lowering, and he caught a glimpse of a lengthy tapered snout, a mouth filled with wicked teeth, and a pair of bulging eyes. Fetid breath was on his face, almost gagging him, and he knew his doom was imminent. “No!” he shouted in defiance, wrenching on his arms one final time, and then his hands were free, and with the accomplishment came instantaneous action. He slid onto his back, drawing the Hombres faster than he had ever drawn them before, and he fired both revolvers when the mutant’s mouth was widening for a bite.

A rumbling bellow greeted the gunshots.

Boone fired again as the mutant reared upright, the 44 Magnums belching their deadly lead. He blasted both guns a third time as the creature snarled and seemed to crouch at his feet, and he kept squeezing the triggers, firing as the mutant shambled toward the pool and yet again as the creature plunged into the water. Was it gone? Was it really gone?

He trained the barrels on the pond, waiting for the thing to reappear.

The storm was still in full swing.

Boone sat up, grinning, scarcely able to believe he was alive. He placed the Hombres next to his feet and hurriedly freed his ankles. As he scooped the Magnums up, he stood, but a wave of dizziness almost toppled him to his knees. He shook his head, stumbling away from the pool. Shelter! He needed shelter! Somewhere he could rest and recover his strength.

The building 40 yards off was promising.

The Cavalryman recollected Kraken saying the assassins were going to move to another part of the park. The nearby buildings should be safe. But what if the Gild members hadn’t moved yet? What if they had overheard the shots? He stopped and squatted, carefully reloading his Hombres, watching the building. Should he rest or head for the hotel? His wobbly legs served as his answer when he straightened. Rest was his first priority.

He moved in the dirction of the building, his Magnums cocked, his feet squishing with every step.

A shadowy figure materialized ahead, lurking near the structure.

Boone crouched, watching the figure.

Whoever it was walked from the east to the west, an indistinct profile blurred by the torrential rain. The shape went out of sight around the west end of the building.

Boone compelled his legs to function as he hastened after the figure. A captured Gild member would be an invaluable source of information! If he could get the drop on the assassin, he’d take the S.O.B. back to Blade.

Finding Hickok would have to wait. He cautiously approached the building and peeked past the northwest corner.

The figure was heading for the first structure, the one farthest south.

Hunched over, Boone crept after his quarry.

The man halted at a porch on the west side of the first building, hesitated for several moments, then walked inside.

This might be his chance! Boone hurried as quickly as he could, hoping to ambush the figure when the man emerged from the building. He attained the porch safely and stealthily climbed the wooden steps.

The interior of the building was cloaked in darkness.

Boone positioned himself to the right of the door. He holstered his left Hombre and tensed, waiting.

There was a thud from inside the building, close to the door, as if someone had bumped into a piece of furniture.

Boone glanced down at his right Hombre, debating whether he should use the barrel or the butt, and in the instant his attention was distracted from the doorway the figure appeared.

The man was looking to the north, away from Boone.

The Cavalryman reacted automatically, pouncing and wrapping his left arm around the figure’s neck even as he raised his right Hombre to deliver a smashing blow to the head. Only the blow never landed.

The assassin’s reflexes were uncanny. As Boone’s arm clamped on his throat, he bent over at the waist and twisted his left shoulder.

Before he quite knew what was happening, Boone was airborne, flying over the assassin’s shoulders and tumbling head over heels down the porch. He slammed into the ground on his stomach, temporarily dazed, but he managed to heave to his hands and knees, knowing he was dead if he didn’t get up.

A hard object was suddenly pressed against the back of his head, and there was the sharp click of a hammer being cocked.

“Say your prayers, you polecat!”