Cincinnati Run

Chapter Twenty-one

The Butcher reached out and patted the top of the laser. “Perhaps I should start with one of your ears,” he said, and grinned.

Geronimo looked at the small hole through which the laser beam would be fired, and tensed. The two soldiers had his stocky body bent at the waist, with his shoulders and head above the tabletop. His arms were twisted up and back, and his sockets ached terribly.

“Move his head to the left,” General Stoljarov ordered.

The tall trooper gripped Geronimo’s chin in his right hand and pushed, but Geronimo jerked his head away.

“Not like that, imbecile!” the Butcher snapped. “Move his entire body.”

By increasing the pressure on his arms to compel compliance, the soldiers sidled their captive to the left.

“Now hold his head steady,” Stoljarov instructed.

Again the tall trooper grasped the Warrior’s chin.

General Stoljarov leaned down, gauging the alignment, and motioned at the tall guard. “Your body is too close to his ear. You’re in my line of fire.”

The trooper stepped back, arching his spine to ensure his abdomen was out of the beam’s projected path.

“So what will it be?” the Butcher asked Geronimo. “Will you sketch the complete layout of the Home for me?”

“Give me a pencil—” Geronimo said.

General Stoljarov smiled in triumph.

“—and I’ll shove it up your ass,” Geronimo finished.

The Butcher frowned, his eyes narrowing. “Very well. You have brought this on yourself. I’ve heard many stories about how brave the Warriors are supposed to be. Now let’s put your bravery to the test.” He adjusted the dials, then smirked. “This will hurt you more than it will me.”

Geronimo focused on the second dial, the one the Butcher would turn to activate the laser. He must make his move the moment before the dial was rotated. His best hope lay in grabbing the AK-47 propped against the right side of the table, and first he had to break free of the guards. The trooper on the left stood in a firm stance and would be difficult to dislodge, hut the tall soldier on the right was standing awkwardly.

Geronimo tensed his legs, his eyes on the laser.

“After I burn a hole in your ear, I think I’ll work on your forehead,” General Stoljarov said.

Geronimo said nothing.

“Have you ever smelled burning flesh?” the Butcher asked, and touched the second dial.

Concentrate on those fingers! Geronimo told himself. He saw the fingertips grip the dial and start to turn, and he threw himself to the left, against the shorter trooper, while yanking his right arm downward, feeling as if he tore every muscle in his arm. The unexpected tactic took the tall guard by surprise and he was pulled off balance, directly in line with the laser at the distant the red beam flared.

The tall soldier uttered a petrified shriek as the beam seared into his groin, flaming through his pants and underwear and scorching his gonads. He released Geronimo and stumbled backwards, automatically lowering his hands over his genitals, and cried out when the laser burned off two of his fingers.

Geronimo wrenched his right arm loose and pivoted, driving his fist into the short guard’s stomach, then extended his right thumb and spiked it straight up, burying the digit in the fleshy folds of the man’s throat. The hold on his left arm slackened, and he dove for the floor, tearing his left arm from the trooper’s grasp, and scrambled to the right side of the table.

He surged erect, his hands closing on the AK-47 and sweeping the gun to his right shoulder.

The tall Russian was staring down at himself in terror as the laser penetrated his body, while the short soldier gurgled and wheezed, his features livid. Only the Butcher saw the Warrior grab the weapon, and he reacted by taking hold of the laser and attempting to swivel the device at the Indian.

Geronimo shot Stoljarov first, smiling as he squeezed the trigger, seeing the Butcher’s head dissolve into chunks and pieces of flesh and hair. He spun, the next rounds slamming into the short soldier’s chest and flinging him against the wall.

Bubbling blood out his mouth, the tall Russian was sinking slowly to the floor, the red beam slicing his torso up the center, splitting him in half.

Shooting him would be a waste of ammunition, Geronimo decided, and ran for the door, skirting the dying soldier. He entered the Control Room, heading for the elevator, and shot a pair of technicians on a console to his right, then a third man in red seated at a computer to his left.

“Look out!” a woman yelled.

“Get down!” bellowed another.

Geronimo advanced toward the elevator, shooting any technicians foolish enough to show themselves, and when he was within ten yards of the elevator door he began firing at the equipment, reducing a bank of complicated instruments and panels to smoldering, sparking ruins.

“No! Don’t!”

Geronimo stopped, staring at the skinny man with the wire-rimmed glasses coming toward him down an aisle on the right.

“You don’t realize what you’re doing!” Leonid Grineva declared. “This is a work of a lifetime!”

His lips compressing, Geronimo trained the AK-47 on the scientist.

Leonid Grineva blinked rapidly and extended his arms, palms out.

“Wait! You can’t!”

“Watch me,” Geronimo said.

“But I was just doing my job!” Grineva declared.

“So am I,” Geronimo responded, and stitched the genius from his navel to his neck. Without a backward glance he walked to the elevator and went to press the button.

The door opened.

“Going down?”

Geronimo’s mouth dropped as his gaze alighted on the speaker.

“Are you going to stand there all night catching flies, or will you join us?” Blade asked.

Geronimo entered the car.

“Nice to see you again,” Captain Stuart commented.

Blade pressed the button for the ground floor. “Where have you been?”

he queried Geronimo as the door shut and the elevator began its descent.

“I took the shortcut.”

“Here are some presents for you,” Blade said, unslinging the SAR.

Geronimo leaned the AK-47 against the rear wall and took the Springfield, the Arminius, and the tomahawk. He hefted the latter and grinned. “I’m ready to go on the warpath now.”

“What have you been doing? Goofing off?”

“I’ll tell you all about it some year.”

Blade stood next to the door and started reloading the Commando’s magazine. “We’d be wiser taking the stairs, but we can’t.”

“Why not?” Geronimo inquired.

“My left leg is injured,” Lyle disclosed. “There’s no way I could handle twenty-five flights of stairs.”

“This way is quicker,” Blade commented. “But stay frosty in case the elevator stops on the way down.”

“How about you?” Geronimo questioned. “Did you run into much trouble?”

“A few minor inconveniences.”

They fell silent, glued to the control panel, watching tensely as the numbers ticked off one by one. At the 11th floor the car commenced rocking back and forth.

“What’s happening?” Geronimo inquired in alarm.

Blade stared at the panel, waiting to hear a crash or a crunch and feel the elevator drop like a rock. If the grenades had damaged the shaft at the tenth floor, the car might fall or become wedged tightly. Neither prospect was appealing. He held his breath and saw the number ten light up, then the number nine.

The rocking ceased.

“What was that all about?” Geronimo asked.

“Part of the tenth floor is missing,” Blade explained.

“How’d that happen?”

“Faulty construction.”

The car lowered steadily until the elevator arrived and the door opened, revealing four Soviet soldiers, all of whom were clearly surprised at finding the car occupied. They gamely tried to bring their AK-47’s into play.

Blade and Geronimo mowed the Russians down, the Commando and SAR perforating their torsos, slaying them before they could fire a single shot.

“Let’s go,” Blade said, walking over two of the bodies on his way to the front entrance.

“Dear Lord!” Lyle exclaimed. “I’m beginning to understand the reason only an idiot would mess with the Family.”

“Anyone who does answers to the Warriors,” Blade stated.

“Which seems to be the equivalent of committing suicide,” Lyle commented.

They walked to the junction and took a right, and spied the brown door at the end of the corridor.

“Is that the way out?” Lyle queried.

“Yes,” Blade told him. “The Hurricane is in the parking lot outside guarded by twelve soldiers.”

“I know,” Lyle said. “I gave lessons to the six best Soviet pilots in the parking lot, but I was always brought down here blindfolded. The Butcher escorted me personally, and he would lead me all over the building before we ended up outside. I think he was trying to confuse me, to make me believe escape was impossible, that the Needle was a maze.”

“The Butcher will never confuse anyone again,” Geronimo mentioned.

“You took care of him?” Blade asked.

“For all of us.”

“Too bad. I was hoping to introduce him to my Bowies.”

They were five feet from the door when Geronimo stopped abruptly and slapped his forehead. “Hold it!” he whispered.

Blade glanced at him. “What is it?”

“I remember the Butcher saying something about having two men guarding this door.”

“Is that so,” Blade said, and handed the Commando to Captain Stuart.

He stepped lightly to the door, drawing his Bowies, and used the tops of his fingers to twist the knob slowly and ease the door an inch from the jamb.

Sure enough, a pair of troopers were standing six feet from the doorway, craning their necks and gazing skyward.

How convenient, Blade thought, and came through the doorway in a rush, reaching the Russians in two leaps, swinging the Bowies up and in and embedding the blades to the hilt, one in each guard’s neck. He held on fast as their eyes widened and they dropped their AK-47’s, their hands grasping at his wrists. Blood spurted over Blade’s forearms as he shoved the troopers from him, tugging the knives out and sending the guards sprawling onto the asphalt.

“Here you go,” Captain Stuart said, coming up on Blade’s left and offering the Commando.

Blade wiped the Bowies on his pants and slid them into their sheaths.

He glanced at the Hurricane as he took the Commando, and there were the 12 soldiers, all congregated near the tail of the VTOL, and every one was staring up at Lenin’s Needle. “Wha the—” he said, and looked in the same direction.

Bright red and orange flames were shooting from shattered windows on the tenth floor, and clouds of white smoke billowed from the crystal globe.

“What a beautiful sight,” Lyle remarked.

“It’s just the distraction we need,” Blade stated, and raced toward the Hurricane, threading between the vehicles parked near the silver spire. He was 25 yards from the dozen troopers when he spotted a lone figure approaching them from the north. The newcomer’s shirt was unbuttoned, his shirttail hanging out, and pearl-handled revolvers were visible at his waist.

“That’s Hickok!” Geronimo exclaimed.

“What’s he doing?” Lyle asked.

Blade saw the gunman halt not eight feet from the soldiers. Hickok spoke a few words to the Russians, but the distance was too great for Blade to hear what was said. The troopers whirled toward Nathan, and the gunfighter’s hands were a streak as they pulled the Pythons. Six shots sounded almost as one, and six guards died with a slug through the head.

And then a strange thing happened.

Hickok held his fire, wagging his Colts at the remaining Russians, none of whom had their AK-47’s unslung, and addressed them.

Blade was still 15 yards away. He was startled to see the guards slowly lowering their assault rifles to the ground. A moment later they were fleeing to the east as if a demon was on their tail.

“I don’t believe it,” Geronimo stated.

Hickok swung toward them, and a weary smile creased his face.

“Howdy, pards. About time you got here.”

“What was that all about?” Blade inquired, nodding at the departing Russians.

“I gave them a choice,” Hickok said. “They figured they wanted to live.”

Blade looked at Captain Stuart. “Fire up the Hurricane.”

Lyle limped to the jet, to a rope ladder dangling from a door located under the cockpit. The Hurricanes were designed to ferry commando squads into combat, and the small access door enabled the strike force to drop or climb to the ground without exposing the pilot to enemy fire by raising the cockpit. Lyle clambered up the ladder.

Blade surveyed the parking lot, relieved to discover there wasn’t a soldier in sight. The Russians in Lenin’s Needle were undoubtedly in a total state of confusion, and additional troops had yet to arrive. He looked at Hickok, noting a peculiar, troubled aspect to his friend’s expression.

“Are you okay?”

Hickok sighed and started reloading his Pythons. “I’m gettin’ a mite tired of all this killing.”

Blade and Geronimo looked at one another.

“You’re getting tired of killing?” Geronimo repeated in bewilderment.

“All we ever do is go around pluggin’ cow-chips,” Hickok said softly while ejecting a spent round from his right Colt. “The baddies attack us, and we attack them right back. They kill someone, and we kill them.

There’s always some varmint out to nail our hides to the wall, and we’re always traipsing around the countryside teachin’ them the error of their ways.” He paused and sighed. “A lot of innocent folks have been killed along the way.”

Geronimo placed his right hand on the gunman’s left shoulder. “What’s wrong? What’s bothering you?”

“I don’t know. I reckon I need a vacation real bad. Or maybe you’ve got the right idea. We’ve been doing this for years. Maybe we should retire, stop being Warriors, and spend more time with our families.”

Blade and Geronimo were shocked, and their features showed as much.

“So if you’re aimin’ to quit, pard,” Hickok said to Geronimo, “I’ll hang up the Colts too.”

Geronimo licked his lips and glanced at the silver spire, noting the flames were spreading. He stared into the gunman’s eve eyes and squared his shoulders. “Uhhhh, I don’t know how to tell you this.”

“Tell me what?”

“I’ve changed my mind about quitting.”

“You what?”

“I learned an important lesson on this run,” Geronimo explained. “My quitting wouldn’t make my wife and son any safer. They might sleep better at night, but I wouldn’t. I’d know there was always someone out there scheming to destroy the Home and our Family. Let’s face facts. Peace on earth and good will among all people will not come about until all the power-mongers and degenerates are eliminated. And as long as there’s a need for Warriors to defend the Home and the Family, I intend to be one.”

“You changed your mind,” Hickok mumbled.

A tremendous roar shook the parking lot as the Hurricane’s engine, a Rolls-Royce Pegasus Three turbofan that could supply 23,000 pounds of thrust, thundered to life.

“Into the VTOL,” Blade shouted, dashing to the ladder and climbing into the cockpit. He took a seat behind Captain Stuart, who was wearing a flight helmet and inspecting the instrument panel. “Are we all set?”

Captain Stuart gave the thumb’s-up sign with his right hand.

Geronimo and Hickok ascended the rope ladder, pulled it in after them, and closed the door. They took seats behind Blade, side by side. The cockpit was arranged with two rows of two seats apiece situated to the rear of the pilot, with a final solitary seat at the very back.

“Take it up,” Blade ordered. “Do you have enough fuel to reach Denver?”

“There’s fuel to spare.”

“Good. Then you can drop us off near the SEAL and fly to Stapleton.

President Toland and Governor Melnick will be glad to see you.”

The VTOL began to rise slowly from the ground, using its vertical-takeoff capability to lift straight up.

Blade stared at the parking lot below, then at the spire.

“I should have known you’d change your blasted mind,” Hickok declared.

“What’s that crack supposed to mean?” Geronimo replied.

“You always were wishy-washy.”

Captain Stuart banked the Hurricane and applied more thrust to the engine. The jet arced into the night sky, soaring high above Lenin’s Needle.

“You know what to do,” Blade stated.

Stuart nodded, winging the aircraft in a circle, and executed a tight dive, the nose angled at the silver spire. “Away she goes!” he cried, and a missile swooped toward its designated target. He pulled back on the stick and the Hurricane responded superbly, heading for the stars.

Blade shifted and gazed at the silver spire. The missile struck the edifice at about the 15th floor, and the resultant explosion blew out three whole stories as a billowing fireball enveloped the spire’s midsection.

Gravity took over, and the structure buckled and tilted, crumpling upon itself, and plunged toward the ground. Lenin’s Needle, a monumental testimony to humanity’s arrogance and passion for violence, crashed to the earth of its own pretentious weight.

“All right!” Captain Stuart declared happily.

Smiling, Blade settled back in his seat and relaxed, savoring the prospect of a peaceful flight to the SEAL and the return to the Home. But he should have known better.

“Hey, Lyle!” Hickok called out.

“What is it?”

“Does Geronimo’s seat have an eject button?”