Boston Run

Chapter Eighteen

Major General Ligachev wheeled and took a step.

“Now don’t go off in a huff,” Hickok said. “We need to shoot the breeze a bit.”

The officer turned, the set of his features revealing his anger. “I have nothing left to say to you. Surrender, or else.”

The Warrior gazed at the helicopter at rest to the west. The troopers inside were still seated, their AK-47’s in their laps or held in their hands.

None of them were aiming a weapon at him. “Maybe I was a mite hasty.”

“What?”

“I reckon a surrender is in order.”

Ligachev nodded and smirked. “You finally see the light. There is no way you can escape us. Resistance would be futile.”

Hickok hooked his thumbs in his gunbelt. “Yep, you coyotes sure have this all thought out. But there’s a few things I don’t understand.”

“Such as?”

“Why didn’t you guys track the SEAL from the Home? It would have been a lot simpler.”

“True,” the officer acknowledged, “But had we attempted to shadow your vehicle all the way from the Home, we increased the likelihood of being detected.”

“Why’d you spring your trap now? Why not earlier? Or why not later?”

“Our fuel consumption was a major factor in our decision. Any earlier and we would have been too far from our lines to be able to engage you, if you refused to give in, and still have enough fuel left to return to our refueling site. Our helicopters haven’t been modified to fly extended distances, like the one the HGP Unit used to fly to the Home. Such modifications are expensive, and only a few such craft have been converted,” Ligachev said. “We could have waited until later, but we ran the risk of not being able to find the SEAL. There are few secondary roads in this section of Iowa, making the area ideal. And as General Malenkov said, the sooner the better.”

“How is old cow face?”

“Eager to see you,” Ligachev responded, and grinned wickedly.

“I’ll bet,” Hickok stated. He allowed his hands to slowly drop to his sides. “I’ve got one last point that’s puzzlin’ me. Malenkov wants the Home destroyed. He hates our guts. So why’d he send in the commandos just to snatch Blade? Why not send them in to blow up the Home?”

“That’s been tried before without success. Your compound even withstood a direct assault by a vastly superior force during your war with the Docktor. Before the general sends his elite unit against the Home, he wants to learn all about your defenses. He wants to know everything there is to know about your compound. That’s one of the reasons Blade was taken,” Major General Ligachev detailed. “You are right about the general hating your Family. After he is done, your compound will be reduced to rubble and your Family will be dead or in prison. The general rates the destruction of the Home as his paramount priority, and he is giving the matter his personal touch.”

Hickok nodded. “I guess that’s all I need to know. It’s time to surrender.”

Ligachev extended his hands. “I’ll take your weapons now.”

“You’ve got it backwards, turkey.”

“What?”

“I’m givin’ you a chance to surrender.”

“You’re giving us—!” the officer exclaimed incredulously.

“Have your men line up behind you with their arms in the air,” Hickok instructed him.

“You’re insane.”

“I mean every word I say.”

Scarlet flushed the Russian’s cheeks. “You’ve been toying with me. You had no serious intention of surrendering.”

“You’re the one who should give up before you get me riled.”

Ligachev uttered a hissing noise and pivoted on his heel. He stalked toward the helicopter.

“Hey,” Hickok said.

“What is it now?” the officer snapped, stopping and glancing at the Warrior.

“Do I take it your answer is no?”

“We’ll never surrender to you, you dimwit,” Ligachev said. “Once I give the word, your SEAL won’t last two minutes.”

The corners of Hickok’s mustache curled upward. “You won’t be givin’ the word.”

Major General Ligachev studied the man in buckskins, and the full meaning of the Warrior’s words dawned. He glanced at the Colt Pythons, their pearl grips glistening in the sunshine, and remembered the many tales he had heard about the gunfighter’s prowess. “Now wait a minute.”

“Surrender, or else,” Hickok said, mimicking the officer.

“If you shoot me, my men will slay you.”

“Maybe, Maybe not.”

Ligachev gestured at his waist. “But I’m unarmed. You can’t shoot an unarmed man.”

Hickok’s forehead creased. “Why not?”

The unexpected question gave Ligachev pause. Why not, indeed? He’d executed dozens of unarmed political prisoners during his early years in the army. He cursed himself for being a fool, for not carrying a gun. “I came over here unarmed to show I only wanted to talk, to prove my good intentions.”

“Good intentions? You’re fixin’ to blow us to bits.”

Ligachev frantically thought of another argument he could use. “Killing me won’t accomplish anything. My second-in-command will take over and the choppers will still destroy the SEAL.”

“Pluggin’ you will buy us a minute or two while your boys get their acts together,” Hickok said. “I may rattle ’em so bad that they’ll make mistakes.”

Major General Ligachev began to back toward the helicopter. “Listen to me. I was told that Warriors are men of honor. How can you slay me in cold blood? Don’t you have any morals?”

“I do have this code I live by,” the gunman admitted.

Ligachev smiled. “There. See?”

“It’s called do unto others before they do unto me,” Hickok said, and drew. The Magnums streaked from their holsters and cracked in unison.

The officer’s eyes disappeared and the back of his head exploded outward.

Major General Ligachev died on his feet.

Hickok spun as the Russian started to crumple. He holstered the Colts and raced toward the alley, unslinging the Henry as he ran. Shouts sounded to his rear and he glanced over his left shoulder to see Soviet soldiers pouring from the helicopter. He looked at the mouth of the alley but saw no signs of Geronimo and Marcus. Where the blazes were they?

“Kill the son of a bitch!” someone bellowed gruffly from near the chopper.

Hickok heard the chatter of AK-47’s and he weaved, never running in a straight line for more than a few yards. Rounds smacked into the asphalt or buzzed by. He felt a stinging twinge in his left shoulder and glanced down to see that he’d been nicked. Fifteen yards separated him from the alley, and he knew the Russians were bound to bring him down before he could reach it if Geronimo and Marcus didn’t provide cover fire.

Where were they?

A high-pitched whine emanated from the alley and the SEAL hurtled onto the highway, speeding in reverse. The van screeched to a halt, then rocketed in the gunman’s direction.

Grinning, Hickok whirled and crouched, pressing the Henry to his right shoulder. He took a bead on a soldier leading the pack of Russians and fired, gratified when the soldier reacted as if a sledgehammer had pounded the trooper in the forehead. He snapped off a second shot, flattening another Russian, and then the SEAL braked abruptly alongside him and the passenger door was flung open.

“Need a lift?” Geronimo yelled.

The gunman vaulted onto the bucket seat and closed the door. “I thought you wanted me to do all the driving.”

Geronimo drove forward, directly at the Russians. Bullets were striking the SEAL and ricocheting off. “I knew you’d pull a stupid stunt like this.”

His hands were glued to the steering wheel, his knuckles white.

“Like what?”

“I knew you’d blow that officer away,” Geronimo said. “I figured you could use a little help.”

Hickok smiled at his friend. “Thanks, pard.”

They were closing rapidly on the Soviets. Geronimo pressed one of the toggle switches and the 50-caliber machine guns cut loose, their heavy slugs tearing the soldiers to ribbons. He kept the transport on a steady course, kept the machine guns belching lead, narrowing the range to the chopper. A hail of high-powered rounds hit the helicopter broadside, slaying a Russian who was trying to close the bay door. Geronimo angled the SEAL at the copter cockpit and the 50-calibers tracked accordingly, drilling into the cockpit, shattering it, exposing the pilot and copilot. Both were slain the next moment, punctured repeatedly. Geronimo switched off the machine guns. He made a tight U-turn, heading into the town again.

“That helicopter won’t get airborne again,” he commented.

But the three others were already aloft and converging on the SEAL.

“Here they come,” Hickok said.

The helicopter swooping in from the north and the one from the south drew close together above Highway Three, their cockpits slanted at the SEAL.

“They’re aimin’ to use their nose cannons,” Hickok declared, and he reached across the console to flick the toggle activating the Stinger.

At a distance of less than 50 yards, the streamlined missile was on the Russian craft before the pilots could so much as blink, let alone attempt evasive maneuvers. The Stinger struck the chopper on the north side of the highway and the resultant blast was tremendous. A billowing fireball consumed the first helicopter, then swirled outward and enshrouded the whirlybird hovering only a few dozen yards to the south. A second explosion shattered the heavens and rocked the buildings in Strawberry Point, and the added heat and gas and force produced a cumulative effect, creating a small sun, a brilliant ball of candescent energy that scorched the structures and ground underneath.

Geronimo applied the brakes and the transport lurched to a sudden stop. The SEAL was buffeted violently by the twin blasts, and even through the impervious shell the Warriors felt the heat.

“Wow!” Marcus exclaimed.

Intense but short-lived, the fireball dissipated swiftly. Debris rained on Strawberry Point. Twisted, smoldering wreckage and fried body parts thudded onto the highway and the roofs.

Hickok leaned forward, searching for the fourth helicopter, the one that had landed far off at the east end of town. Reddish-orange flames and plumes of black smoke obscured his view for over a minute. He finally caught sight of the ribbon of highway stretching into the distance, and tensed.

The last chopper was gone.

“Get this buggy movin’,” Hickok urged.

Geronimo drove eastward, adroitly avoiding the larger segments of wreckage scattered in their path.

“Where’d the other helicopter go?” Marcus asked.

“Your guess is as good as mine,” Hickok responded.

“Maybe it’s on its way back to the Russian lines,” Marcus said.

“I doubt it.”

“Why? We just took out the other three. The Russians in the fourth helicopter won’t want to mess with us.”

“They’ll come at us with everything they’ve got for the same reason I would if I was in their shoes,” Hickok stated.

“What’s that?”

“To get even.”

They rode in silence for several hundred yards, their eyes on the sky.

“What are they waiting for?” Marcus queried impatiently.

“My guess is that they don’t know we only had one stinger mounted on the roof,” Geronimo said. “They don’t want to suffer the same fate as their buddies, so they’ll come in fast and low.”

They did.

Like an enormous bird of prey, the Russian helicopter swept on the transport from out of the south, flying only a few yards above the trees and the rooftops.

Hickok glimpsed the chopper out of the corner of his right eye and swung around, crying in warning, “This side! Look out!” He saw a tiny puff of white smoke appear underneath the fuselage.

The roadway in front of the SEAL suddenly exploded, spraying chunks of asphalt and dirt in all directions.

Geronimo jerked on the steering wheel, cutting the van to the right, hanging onto the wheel tightly as the concussion from the blast hit the SEAL. He straightened the vehicle and scanned the sky for the enemy aircraft.

But the chopper had already vanished to the north.

“Hit and run,” Hickok said bitterly. “Whatever you do, don’t stop. We’ll be sittin’ ducks.”

“Maybe we can lose it by hiding in an alley,” Geronimo suggested.

“Get us out in the open where we can maneuver,” Hickok said. “Then we’ll teach those hombres a lesson.”

Geronimo angled the SEAL closer to the curb on the north side of the highway, using the structures bordering the road as partial cover. “How can we fight back? The machine guns, the rocket, and the flamethrower are all aligned to take care of targets directly in front of the SEAL.”

“I’ll think of something,” Hickok replied.

“I was afraid you’d say that.”

Two hundred yards passed and the helicopter failed to attack.

“Maybe they’ve given up,” Marcus remarked.

Its rotors spinning and shimmering, the great brown craft came at them from out of the north, flying low as before. They fired another rocket.

Hickok grabbed the dashboard as a section of sidewalk to the south blew up, spewing concrete skyward. He kept his eyes on the helicopter, tracking the chopper as it flashed overhead and flew to the south. “Blast!”

“Sooner or later they’ll nail us,” Geronimo said.

“Too bad we can’t ram ’em,” Hickok responded. He scrutinized the highway ahead and spotted a huge building off to the left, perhaps an abandoned warehouse or a factory. Gigantic metal double doors hung wide, disclosing a gloomy interior. “Drive in there,” he instructed.

Without an instant’s hesitation Geronimo complied, steering deep into the bowels of the building, bypassing stacks of crates and cartons, and abruptly braked. “What now?”

“Everybody out,” Hickok said, and shoved his door open. He jumped to the cement floor, cradled the Henry, and sprinted toward the metal doors.

He spied a pile of metal drums along the right-hand wall.

Geronimo and Marcus raced on the gunman’s heels.

“What are we doing?” Marcus asked.

“Hickok has a clever plan,” Geronimo said. “Don’t you, Nathan?”

“Nope,” the gunfighter answered. “I’m wingin’ it.”

Geronimo looked at Marcus. “I trust you’ve made out your will?”

Hickok led them to the right and up to the corrugated metal wall, near the double doors. He placed his back to the wall and inched to the edge, then peered out. There was no sign of the Russian helicopter.

Yet.

“We’ve lost it for the time being,” Hickok said.

“They’ll figure out where we are eventually,” Geronimo commented.

The gunman glanced at his friend. “Why do you always look on the bright side of things?”

Geronimo shrugged. “Just habit, I guess.”

“Spread out,” Hickok stated. “Check this whole place and let me know what you find.”

“What are we hunting for?” Marcus wanted to know.

“I’ll know that when we find it,” Hickok replied, and darted away from the sunlight, into the building, making for the left side, inspecting every item he found. There was a lot of litter and trash. In one spot he found a heap of old tires. Elsewhere he came across a mound of cinder blocks, once apparently arranged in a tidy stack, now lying in a jumble. He also discovered more crates and disintegrating cardboard boxes.

From outside, from far away, arose the muted sound of the helicopter’s rotors. The Russians were searching for them.

Hickok returned to the front of the warehouse where Geronimo and Marcus awaited him. “Well?”

“I found a lot of boxes, some chairs, and lumber,” Marcus detailed.

“What kind of lumber?”

“Oh, planks, boards, a few shorter pieces.”

“Is the wood rotten or sturdy?”

“I didn’t test it,” Marcus said.

“See if you can find me two sturdy boards about six feet in length and two feet wide,” Hickok ordered.

“On my way,” Marcus responded and hastened off.

The gunman faced Geronimo. “What about you?”

“Crates containing nails. Cartons containing cans of paint. A half-dozen antique washing machines. And metal strands of some sort.”

Hickok’s interest was piqued. “Metal stands?”

“Yeah. I have no idea what they were used for. They’re flat on the bottom and the upper part slants to a peak.”

“How high are they?”

“I’d say a foot and a half at the most.”

“Go get a couple.”

Geronimo nodded and jogged into the depths of the structure.

An idea was forming in the gunfighter’s mind, an elaborate ruse to lure the Russians into an ambush. He moved to the doorway and listened but couldn’t hear the chopper. Good. The Russians were undoubtedly puzzled by the disappearance of the SEAL, and they were likely scouring the highway to the east, mistakenly thinking that the van was speeding from Strawberry Point. Their mistake. He wheeled and hurried to the metal drums he’d observed earlier. They turned out to be empty. After slinging the Henry over his left shoulder, he proceeded to roll one of the drums to the front of the warehouse. Back he went for another, and by the time he had three of them positioned in a line extending from the right-hand door across the doorway, Geronimo and Marcus came back bearing the items he’d requested.

“Where do you want these boards?” Marcus inquired. He had hauled a pair of seven-foot-long boards, each three inches thick and two and a half feet wide, to the entrance. The exertion had hardly fazed him.

“Lay them right there,” Hickok said, and Marcus complied.

Geronimo deposited the two strange metal stands. “What next, fearless leader?”

The gunman nodded in the general direction of the cinder blocks.

“There’s a bunch of heavy blocks back that-a-way. I don’t know how many I’ll need yet, so lug about six of them over here.”

Geronimo and Marcus began to walk off.

“Not you, Marcus,” Hickok said. “You can lend me a hand with the drums.”

“How many do you want?”

“Enough to make a wall.”

“A wall?”

“You’ll see,” Hickok stated.

Together they carted fifteen more metal drums to the front and stacked them three high and six across, constructing a makeshift wall.

“We’ll need six more,” Hickok declared after gazing at the SEAL.

Yet another layer was added to the top. Geronimo finished with the cinder blocks and assisted in carrying the last drum.

“That ought to do it,” Hickok said, surveying their handiwork critically.

“Do what? That dinky wall won’t stop the copter,” Marcus noted.

“It’s not supposed to stop that overgrown dragonfly,” Hickok stated. He looked at Geronimo. “Would you drive the buggy on over here, pard?”

“No problem.”

The gunman motioned at Marcus. “Give me a hand with these boards and the rest.”

Working rapidly under Hickok’s guidance, the two Warriors placed the metal stands six feet from the wall of gray drums, positioning the stands about ten feet apart. Then they aligned three cinder blocks in a row behind each of the stands, leaving a foot of space between each block.

Marcus studied the arrangement and snickered. “What in the world are you doing?”

“I’m not done yet,” Hickok said, and picked up the first board. He carefully set the end of the board on top of the left metal stand and positioned the full length over the cinder blocks, then set the board down.

He repeated the procedure on the right side.

Perplexed, Marcus scratched his head. They had fabricated a crude ramp with the high end near the makeshift wall of drums. He could see that much. But he still didn’t comprehend how the wall and the ramp would enable them to defeat the last helicopter. “Care to explain what you intend to do?”

“In a bit,” Hickok replied. He stood next to the metal drums and watched the SEAL approach at a crawl. Motioning with his arms, he directed Geronimo, insuring the transport’s tires were perfectly in line with the board.

Marcus glanced from the board to the SEAL and back again. His eyes widened and he looked at the gunman. “I get it! But those boards will never support the entire weight of the SEAL.”

“They only have to support the front end,” Hickok said, crossing his fingers. He beckoned Geronimo onward.

The van crept forward until the tires touched the lower edges of the boards.

Geronimo poked his head out of the SEAL. “How am I doing?”

“Just fine,” Hickok said. “Take it real slow and easy. I’ll let you know when to stop. And hurry. That chopper will return soon.” He riveted his gaze on the boards as the transport crawled onto the ramp. Please hold! he prayed. The boards creaked and sagged, but they didn’t break. He measured the progress mentally, scarcely breathing, anxious to dispose of the Russians so they could go to the aid of Blade.

One inch.

Two.

Four.

At five inches the boards sagged even more, but they still held.

Six.

Seven.

Nine.

Hickok gestured for Geronimo to stop, then walked around to the driver’s side. “Nice job.”

“As a certain friend of mine is so fond of saying, it was a piece of cake,” Geronimo said.

“Sit tight and wait for Marcus to give you the signal to fire the rocket.”

Geronimo stared at the wall of metal drums. “But those things are blocking my view. How can I fire the rocket if I can’t see the target?”

“You let me worry about that,” Hickok replied. “Just be ready.”

“What are you going to do?”

Hickok ignored the question and stepped to the drum wall. He looked at the SEAL, at the middle of the front grill where the secret compartment housing the rocket was located, then envisioned the trajectory the rocket would need. He removed two of the drums from the center and pulled them aside. Now the SEAL had a clear shot at the airspace just outside the warehouse. “Marcus.”

“Yeah?”

“Stand here and keep a watch. When the chopper gets within thirty feet of the front of this building, when you think the angle is right, signal Geronimo to fire.”

The gladiator came over. “I doubt the pilot will fly the helicopter so close.”

“You let me worry about that,” Hickok said, and stepped to the left of his improvised wall.

“What are you planning to do?” Marcus said, echoing Geronimo’s question.

Again the gunfighter ignored the query. “Be ready,” he ordered, and darted into the open, making for the middle of the highway. He looked back at the warehouse, assessing the trap. The drum wall effectively screened the SEAL from any casual scrutiny, although the grill was visible where he had removed the two drums. Now everything depended on him luring the whirlybird into position. The ramp had elevated the transport enough so the rocket would speed on a slight trajectory. Not much of a trajectory, granted, but it would have to do the job.

Now where the blazes were the Russians?

Hickok slowed and strolled to the faded yellow center line. He surveyed the horizon in every direction. If the pilot had flown to the east after the SEAL, then the helicopter should return shortly. He unslung the Henry and walked eastward, his nerves on edge, feeling exposed and terribly vulnerable. A rifle and a pair of revolvers were no match for the flying arsenal.

Several minutes elapsed.

The Warrior halted and gazed at the warehouse, deciding he’d gone far enough. All he could do was wait.

And wait.

Hickok began to wonder if the Russians had called it quits and flown toward their lines. Why else would they be taking so long? He sighed and stared to the south.

The helicopter came at him from the north.

One moment he was alone, the breeze on his cheeks, the sun warming his skin, and the next an aerial demon rushed out of the blue, zeroing in on him, its machine guns blazing.

To Hickok the sound of the machine guns resembled the din of thunder.

He inadvertently flinched and crouched, shielding his face with his arms as the highway was stitched to the right and the left by the powerful rounds, the shots missing him by inches. In the space of seconds the chopper was past him and flying to the south. He spun and raced for the warehouse, following the copter with his eyes, watching the pilot execute a wide loop and swing back toward the town.

Toward him.

He covered ten yards and saw the familiar puffs of smoke under the fuselage. His arms outflung, he dived for the ground. A volcano seemed to flare into life at the very spot he’d vacated, and he was pelted with bruising fragments of the road.

The helicopter arced overhead.

Hickok pushed himself up and ran for his life, his moccasins pounding hard on the asphalt, his heart pounding even harder, his ears ringing from the explosions.

This time the chopper swung to the west and banked, zooming at him once more, soaring over the warehouse. The pilot tilted the craft for a better view.

In desperation Hickok threw the Henry to his shoulder and banged off three shots, working the lever as fast as he could, aiming at the cockpit.

He must have struck it too, because the helicopter slanted to the south a few dozen feet, which wasn’t enough to interfere with the pilot’s aim.

The nose cannons boomed.

The Warrior flattened and hugged the roadway, his left cheek scraping on the rough surface, and he thought of his wife and son as an earthquake caused the earth around him to buck and heave. Dirt and dust cascaded upon him. He heard the copter fly to the east.

Go! Go! Go!

The word screamed over and over again in his mind as he rose and sprinted toward those inviting double doors, toward the makeshift wall, toward the friends he might never see again. The hair at the nape of his neck prickled and he imagined the Russian pilot closing the distance swiftly, the machine guns set to fire. He zigzagged, expecting bursts that never came. Confused, he glanced over his right shoulder and nearly tripped over his own feet.

A ten-ton arrow whizzed at him, the chopper almost skimming the highway. In clear sight in the cockpit, beaming maliciously, sat the enemy pilot. His intent was obvious.

Hickok stopped, stunned. The prick was going to ram him, to bowl him over and reduce him to so much crimson-soaked pulp! Enraged, he managed to squeeze off a single shot and dropped prone for a third time.

A vortex of wind pummeled his back, causing the fringe of his buckskins to flap wildly. He peered skyward and saw the underbelly of the craft streak by within two feet of his head. Every nut and bolt was visible. He could have sworn he heard mocking laughter. But that was impossible.

The helicopter rose and flew to the south, performing a circular maneuver.

This was it!

Licking his lips, Hickok leaned erect and dashed all out for the warehouse. He had to be in the proper position, directly in front of the double doors, when the chopper reached him. Any mistakes now meant certain death. The Russians had missed him three times; evading them a fourth time would be extremely unlikely. Unless, as he suspected, they were toying with him.

The copter came toward the gunman at a leisurely speed, the pilot apparently convinced he had the Warrior dead to rights.

Hickok reached a point in the middle of Highway Three and 20 yards from the wall of gray drums. He faced the chopper, appalled to discover the craft hovering at least ten yards too far to the west.

Blast!

The Warrior sighted the Henry on the cockpit and squeezed off a shot, the 44-40 recoiling in his arms. In response the pilot banked the helicopter to the east a dozen yards, where the chopper hung poised over the roofs on the opposite side of the street.

What was the polecat waiting for?

Hickok lowered the rifle and fumed. He needed to draw the helicopter in closer to the warehouse.

The aircraft didn’t budge.

How could he goad the pilot into coming nearer? Hickok asked himself, then smirked. He extended his left hand, made a fist, and flipped his middle finger up.

Evidently the pilot got the message, because the next instant the helicopter swooped down at the Warrior, its machine guns chattering.

Hickok whirled and scampered toward the entrance. Bullets smacked into the ground all around him, and bits of the road and dirt peppered his buckskins. Midway to the drum wall he stumbled when a searing pain racked his left thigh, and he went down on his knees. He glanced at the descending chopper, then at the drums, at the gap where the SEAL’S grill was visible, and wondered why Geronimo hadn’t fired. A few more seconds and the craft would be too close to the warehouse to risk trying to destroy it.

Fire! he was tempted to shout.

The machine guns abruptly ceased.

Which could only mean one thing. Hickok dove to the right and rolled, his intuition warning him that the Russian pilot was about to employ a rocket, and after two yards he came to a rest on his back in time to witness an event he hadn’t anticipated.

The SEAL launched its rocket.

But so did the chopper.

Geronimo unleashed the van’s rocket a millisecond before the pilot fired. Right on target, the rocket flashed into the copter’s cockpit and exploded. A heartbeat later the Soviet rocket struck the drum wall.

It all happened so incredibly fast, Hickok could do no more than shout a horrified “No!” He automatically curled into a fetal position, his arms over his head. Caught in the open between the twin blasts, he felt as if a colossal invisible hand smashed him into the depths of an enormous furnace. The heat and the force took his breath away, and for several seconds he thought he would burst into flames. Even with his eyes shut tight, brilliant light engulfed him, penetrating hues of red, orange, and yellow. For the span of 30 seconds he endured the torment of being immersed in a veritable sun. His hair and exposed skin were singed. His lungs were on the verge of rupturing. He thought he was dying.

The sun blinked out.

As suddenly as it began, the ordeal ended. The heat and the wall of force evaporated. Smoke shrouded the area, as thick as the heaviest fog.

An acrid scent permeated the air.

Hickok rose to his knees, coughing and rubbing his stinging eyes, ignoring the agony in his left thigh. He placed his left hand on the ground and bumped the Henry, which he scooped up to use as a brace. Propping the stock firmly on the asphalt, he stood. “Geronimo! Marcus! Are you all right?” he yelled.

There was no response.

For one of the few times in his action-packed life, the gunman felt a surge of genuine fear. He hobbled in the direction of the warehouse, swatting at the smoke with his right hand. “Geronimo! Marcus! Where are you?”

They didn’t answer.

Hickok’s right foot thumped against a jagged piece of metal drum. He angrily kicked it aside and advanced to the verge of the doorway, where the smoke abruptly thinned, permitting him to see the interior. “Dear Spirit!” he breathed, aghast.

The metal drums had taken the brunt of the impact and been blown to pieces. They had served as a buffer, cushioning the SEAL from the full fury of the explosion, enabling the transport to survive relatively intact. The destructive energy had demolished the ramp and knocked the SEAL a good 15 feet backwards.

Hickok hardly glanced at the van. His attention was riveted on the blood-splattered form lying on the floor eight feet away. The tattered brown clothing, the scorched, lacerated flesh, and the wisps of smoke rising from the blistered scalp brought a lump to his throat. “Marcus!” he croaked, and limped over to the fallen Warrior.

Marcus was flat on his back, his eyes shut, breathing shallowly in ragged breaths. His arms were bent at the elbows and suspended at grotesque angles. Blood flowed from a score of wounds.

“Please. No,” Hickok said weakly, and sagged to his knees. “Don’t die.”

Marcus’s eyelids fluttered and his eyes opened. He focused on the gunfighter with a supreme effort. “Hickok?”

“It’s me, pard,” Hickok assured him, resting his right hand on the gladiator’s shoulder. “I’m here.”

“I’m glad. I don’t want to die alone.”

“Don’t talk like that,” Hickok stated, his voice rasping, sorrow pervading his being.

A door slammed.

The gunman looked up and saw Geronimo walking unsteadily toward them. Blood trickled from a five-inch gash in Geronimo’s forehead.

“Hickok?” Marcus said.

“I’m still right here,” the gunfighter stated, squeezing Marcus’s shoulder gently.

“It’s my own fault. I didn’t give the signal soon enough. I wanted to be sure.”

“You did just fine. We got the damn Commies.”

“Good,” Marcus said, the word barely audible.

Geronimo joined them, swaying slightly as he halted next to Marcus’s head. He took one look and shuddered.

“I feel so tired,” Marcus commented.

“Hang in there. I’ll get the medicine bag from the buggy,” Hickok offered, and started to push himself erect.

“Don’t bother,” Marcus said softly. A wry grin creased his lips. “You know, I’ve always wondered what it looks like.”

“What?” Hickok asked.

“The other side. The afterlife. Heaven. The mansion worlds. Whatever you want to call it.”

Hickok tried to adopt a lighthearted tone. “Don’t talk like that,” he reiterated. “We’ll have you back on your feet in no time.”

There were a few seconds of silence.

“You’re a rotten liar, Hickok.”

The gunman and Geronimo exchanged tormented expressions.

“Give my mom and dad my love,” Marcus said. “And tell Blade I’m sorry. I—” he began, then stiffened and arched his back. His gaze seemed to center on something far, far away, and his mouth relaxed in a peaceful smile. He went into eternity with that smile as his parting farewell.

Hickok leaned down and felt for his pulse. He looked up at Geronimo and shook his head.

“I liked him,” Geronimo said sadly.

“Are you okay?”

“I cracked my thick skull on the steering wheel, and I keep getting dizzy. I might have a concussion.”

“Then you take it easy and I’ll handle the burial,” Hickok stated, putting his right palm on Marcus’s forehead.

“Burial?”

“We’re not leavin’ him lying here like this.”

“You’re right,” Geronimo said. “We’ll take him back with us.”

Hickok glanced up. “What are you talkin’ about? We’re not going back to the Home yet. We’ve got to rescue Blade.”

“We’re in no shape to rescue Blade. Look at yourself,” Geronimo declared, and pointed at the gunfighter’s thigh.

Hickok looked at his leg and grimaced. A pool of blood had formed under him, and the hole in his thigh was large enough to accommodate two of his fingers. “I’ll bandage this scratch and we’ll head out.”

“We’re returning to the Home.”

“Like hell we are.”

Geronimo leaned down and locked his eyes on his best friend. “I don’t want to go back either, but we don’t have any choice, Nathan. We’ve lost Marcus. I’m groggy and ready to keel over. And you’re bleeding to death.

The Healers can take care of us if we return to the Home, but if we try to press on now, in the condition we’re in, we’ll be committing suicide. We’ll never reach Boston.” He paused. “You can see I’m right, can’t you?”

“But Blade—”

“Blade has been their prisoner for over a week. Another few days won’t make a difference if he’s still alive. We need to have our injuries tended to and select another Warrior to accompany us,” Geronimo said, and sighed.

“Do you think I want to go back? Do you think I like the idea of leaving Blade in their hands? You know me better than that.”

Hickok began to object, then changed his mind. He gazed at the blood coating Marcus, the blood seeping down Geronimo’s brow, and the blood pumping from his thigh, and his shoulders slumped in agonized resignation. “Damn,” he said bitterly.

“We go back?”

“We go back,” Hickok stated reluctantly. “Until we heal up. Blade’s on his own. I just hope the Big Guy can escape without our help.”