Chicago Run

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Falcone drove the trike himself, and delivered the Warrior to the west edge of the spacious parking lot surrounding the Central Core at ten minutes to eight. The magnificent structure sparkled in the bright morning sunshine. Since the typical workday for the majority of personnel employed at the Core began at seven a.m., the lot contained hundreds of trikes and four-wheelers as well as a few jeeps, trucks, and cars.

Yama wore a green trench coat to conceal his weapons. The Wilkinson and two Dakon II’s were in a large red garment bag given to him by Roy.

He had the bag draped across his thighs and one hand on Falcone’s shoulder as the trike pulled up to the curb.

“End of the line,” the rebel leader declared, looking over his shoulder.

Dismounting, Yama cradled the heavy bag in his left arm, and tugged at the wide-brimmed purple hat tendered by another member of the Movement to cover his distinctive hair and screen his face.

On the street beside them swarmed the usual heavy traffic.

“Let’s synchronize watches,” Falcone suggested. He wore an orange trench coat and a yellow polka-dot cap.

The warrior pulled back his left sleeve to expose the watch given to him by his newfound friend. A digital, and the very latest in Technic technology, it boasted 41 functions in addition to telling the time. Falcone had claimed the device could even monitor a person’s blood pressure and pulse rate. “I have nine minutes until eight.”

“Same here.”

“Then we’re all set,” Yama said, hefting the garment bag.

“In more ways than one,” Falcone stated. “My people are all in position.

At eight sharp we begin.”

“May the Spirit guide your every move.”

Falcone twisted and gazed up at the tip of the glistening Core. “I don’t see how you can possibly do it, and I don’t understand why I believe you can.”

“The Movement will have the hour it needs,” Yama promised, and started to leave.

“Yama?”

“Yes?” the Warrior responded, pausing.

“Take care,” Falcone said, and revved the engine. In seconds he’d blended into the traffic flow and was racing to the north.

Yama faced the edifice and walked across a narrow strip of grass to the lot. There were few people abroad, and none paid him the slightest attention. Threading a path among the parked vehicles, he soon came within 15 yards of the gold doors lining the Core’s base.

There were two guards, soldiers with Dakon II’s slung over their shoulders. They stood near the middle of the row of doors, conversing idly.

Neither paid much attention to the Warrior until he was almost upon them. Then the shorter of the duo looked around in surprise and declared, “Hold it, citizen. Where do you think you’re going?”

Yama casually unbuttoned the trench coat and halted six feet from them. “Sorry to bother you, but do you have the time?”

“Why don’t you go find a phone and call Dial-the-Time?” the trooper suggested. “The number is 282-5000.”

“Give him a break, Nick,” said the other soldier, who checked his wristwatch. “It’s three minutes till eight.”

The Warrior eased his right hand under the trench coat. “Then I’ll start early.”

“Start what, citizen?” the short soldier asked, his brown eyes narrowing.

“Are either of you married?” Yama inquired.

Surprised by the unexpected query, the troopers looked at one another.

The tall courteous one snickered and said, “No, citizen. Neither of us have tied the knot yet. Why do you want to know?”

“It’s for the best,” Yama said, and drew the Browning. A single shot bored a slug through the shorter man’s brain, and the Technic spun and dropped. Yama shifted, aiming at the soldier who had given him the time, who was now gawking at him in horror.

“Don’t,” the man said.

“Drop your weapon and flee.”

Stupefied by the order, the soldier nonetheless promptly let his Dakon II slide to the cement walk and took off to the south. He never bothered to glance back.

Yama stared at the gold-plated doors for a moment, half expecting reinforcements to appear immediately. When none did, he placed the garment bag on the asphalt, crouched, and quickly unfastened the zipper.

Shrugging out of the trench coat and tossing it aside, he replaced the Browning, slung the Wilkinson over his right arm, a Dakon II over his left, and gripped the second Dakon II in both hands. His pockets bulged with ammo, clips, and magazines, and attached to his belt were six fragmentation grenades courtesy of the rebels. Rising, he strode up to the doors and spied a slender panel between two of them. As he’d been told would be the case, there were several buttons arranged vertically down the panel. He pressed one.

A door to his right hissed wide.

He went in swiftly and found an enormous, lavishly adorned lobby.

There were three military men conversing off to the left, a pair of civilians straight ahead, and a counter along the right-hand wall manned by four people.

Everyone gaped at him as he entered.

Yama snapped the Dakon II to his right shoulder and methodically squeezed off his shots, one bullet to a customer. The special dumdums fired by the rifle were amazing. Each round was programmed by a microchip to explode after penetrating several inches into any substance, whether flesh, wood, or metal.

He downed the three soldiers first, their heads bursting as if hit by buckshot and spraying brains, hair, and blood all over the thick red carpet.

The civilians started to run toward the row of elevators situated along the opposite wall.

Yama sent a dumdum into the back of each person’s head, and swiveled toward the counter without wasting the time to verify they were dead.

Two of the four at the counter had dropped from sight. The remaining pair, a man and a woman, stood with their mouths wide open, petrified by the slaughter. He sent a dumdum into the mouth of each.

Unexpectedly an alarm sounded, a strident blaring of klaxons.

He turned and walked to the elevators. Stabbing an up button, he kept his back to the wall while waiting for the car to open. It was well he did.

One of the gold doors slid to the left and in charged two police officers, service revolvers in their hands.

Yama slew both before they had an opportunity to spot him, drilling a dumdum into each man’s chest. A bell went ping and the elevator arrived.

He pivoted as the door opened, and discovered two army officers inside, both carrying briefcases. They were listening in concern to the klaxons.

Their expressions changed to utter consternation when they beheld him.

“What the hell,” one blurted out.

“Just possibly,” Yama said, and leveled the Dakon II. The rifle cracked twice, delivering a single round into each man’s heart. They were thrown back against the rear of the car, and three-inch holes blossomed in their torsos as the miniature charges detonated. Crimson drops and bits of skin spattered on Yama’s face.

He stepped into the car and hit the button for the ninth floor. On the tenth was the Minister’s office and personal suite, his destination. But taking the elevator all the way up would be foolhardy. The rebels had advised him of a rumor that the top of the shaft had been wired with explosives so the Minister, with the flick of a switch, could reduce the car and any hostile occupants to miniscule pieces when the elevator arrived on the upper floor.

Yama watched the indicator lights on the inner panel as the car climbed steadily. He passed the second, third, and fourth. On every floor the klaxons were shrieking.

Suddenly, as the car came to the fifth floor, it halted and the door opened.

Framed in the corridor were six soldiers, each armed with a Dakon II, evidently on their way downstairs, where they believed the intruder to be.

They took one look at the big man in blue and tried to bring their weapons into play.

Yama was faster. A slight motion of his right thumb switched the Dakon II’s selector lever from single to full auto, and his fingers stroked the trigger. In the confines of the elevator the blasting of the Dakon II was deafening.

All six troopers took the lethal hail of dumdums straight on, their bodies dancing and jerking as they were riddled. Behind them arose shouts and the pounding of others coming to their aid.

The instant the magazine went empty Yama punched the control panel, and the door closed and the elevator resumed its ascent. He pressed the release button on the rifle, extracted the spent magazine, and pulled a fresh one from a back pocket. The rebels had supplied him with enough ammo to wage World War Four, and he intended to avail himself of every round.

The car passed the sixth and seventh floors.

Yama detached a grenade from his belt, his eyes on the indicators. He hoped to reach the ninth without difficulty, but the car again whined to a stop on the eighth. His finger slid into the grenade’s pin, and he was about to pull it when the door folded inward to reveal a startled woman in a white laboratory smock standing there with a yellow notebook in her left hand.

She screamed.

He stepped from the car, curled his hand around the pineapple, and clipped her on the jaw with it.

The woman’s teeth crunched together and blood spurted from her mouth. She staggered rearward a few feet and collapsed.

Beyond her was a long white corridor with dozens of doors on each side.

Frozen in the act of going somewhere or other were a score of men and women similarly attired in white smocks.

Some kind of scientific research department, Yama reasoned. He wagged the Dakon II at the people in the hall and they all scattered, darting or diving through doorways. In seconds the corridor was empty.

He started to turn toward the elevator.

With another ping the door abruptly closed.

Annoyed at himself for not acting sooner, Yama saw the arrow overhead drop rapidly toward the first floor. He glanced down the corridor, wary of being shot in the back, and spied an EXIT sign halfway down.

Just what he needed.

Yama rotated and raced toward the exit, going by door after door, most slamming shut a few steps before he reached them. Those still open afforded access to unoccupied chambers. In some he saw long tables bearing various beakers and racks of vials. Other rooms contained electronic equipment.

All the time the klaxons wailed on.

He had a good dozen yards still to cover when a bearded man in an immaculate smock stepped from a room up ahead and pointed a peculiar device at him. The object consisted of a silver rod jutting from the center of a small black box. At the end of the rod was a small golden ball or globe.

Not knowing what it was and unwilling to find out the hard way, he dived onto his stomach, firing in midair.

The scientist had just squeezed the trigger on the box when a neat pattern of red holes stitched across the front of the smock and he was flung onto his back, the device flying from his limp fingers.

Yama saw a thin red beam of light shoot from the gold ball even as the man fell, and heard a sizzling sound as it shot over his head. As quickly as the light appeared, it vanished. He rose and ran to the still, bleeding scientist. Slipping the grenade into a front pocket, he picked up the device. What in the world could it be? He’d never heard of such a bizarre weapon.

There were only two buttons on the black box. One was marked FIRE, the other RECHARGE.

Intriguing but useless, Yama decided, and tossed the unique weapon to the floor. He hastened onward. For his plan to succeed, for him to keep every administrator and military official in the Central Core preoccupied for the better part of an hour, he must reach the Minister.

The EXIT door was unlocked, and he moved through it onto a wide landing. Gazing over the railing he saw the bottom far below. From down there came yelling and the clumping of heavy boots.

Yama went up, taking the steps three at a stride. He reached the ninth floor landing and halted, recalling the intelligence information relayed by the rebels. On this floor were stationed 20 or 30 seasoned troops, the Minister’s personal guard unit. He went to the door, twisted the knob slowly, and opened it a crack.

Sure enough, there were several dozen soldiers congregated near the elevator shaft, spread out so four or five troopers covered each one. An officer stood to one side, issuing instructions.

Removing the genade from his pocket, Yama set the Dakon II down and pulled the pin. Holding the safety lever flush with the serrated body, he tugged the door wider, took a stride, and heaved.

Someone spotted him and shouted a warning.

Yama whirled and darted onto the landing, pressing the door closed with one hand as he scooped up the Dakon II with the other. He flattened a heartbeat before one or more of the troopers blistered the door at chest height.

With a loud whomp! the grenade went off.

That should delay them a bit, Yama reflected, shoving upright. He took several steps, making for the tenth floor, but he’d only covered half the landing when he saw the huge creature bounding down the stairwell toward him and he drew up short in amazement.

The thing was a dog.