Cincinnati Run

Chapter Six

The full moon cast the nighttime terrain in a pale glow.

“Looks like a farmhouse,” Hickok said.

Blade nodded, surveying the farm below, noting the three-story house to the north, the barn to the east, and the fenced pasture containing a herd of cattle to the south. He looked to his right at the gunman, then to his left at Geronimo. The three of them were on a rise 60 yards to the west of the farm, lying prone with their heads above the rim, a forest to their rear. “Let’s pay the owners a visit,” he directed, bracing his palms on the grass.

“Wait,” Geronimo stated, pointing at the porch bordering the south side of the farmhouse. “There are dogs.”

“I don’t see any,” Hickok said.

“Wait a moment,” Geronimo advised, placing the SAR on the ground.

Blade was straining to perceive the dogs, thankful for Geronimo’s excellent vision. All of Geronimo’s senses were above average, and Blade wondered if the fact was attributable to his friend’s Blackfoot inheritance.

He detected movement near the house, and two dogs appeared in a circle of light radiated by a lamp attached to a porch post.

“They’ll raise a ruckus if we try to get closer,” Hickok whispered. “Do we take them out?”

Blade pursed his lips, deliberating. Three hours remained until dawn, and he estimated they were still over 20 miles north of Cincinnati. The SEAL was concealed in dense woods seven miles to the northwest, not far from State Highway 725. “Yes, but we don’t kill them.”

“Have you gone loco?” Hickok responded. “How the blazes will we do that?” His right elbow bumped the AR-15 lying at his side.

“I have an idea,” Blade said, and sat up. He began undoing the laces on his left combat boot.

“I’ve got it!” Hickok stated with a smirk. “We’ll let ’em get a whiff of your feet and they’ll keel right over.”

Blade removed the lace from his left boot.

“Are you aimin’ to take those clodhoppers off?” Hickok asked.

“Yep.”

“Dam. And I forgot to bring my gas mask.”

“Keep it up,” Blade said, working on his right boot.

Geronimo looked at the gunman. “Does this qualify as cruelty to animals?”

“Forget the critters. What about us?”

Blade pulled the right lace free. “Here,” he said, and gave it to the gunfighter.

Hickok studied the black lace for a second. “Am I supposed to lasso one of the dogs with this?”

“Remind me to bring Yama on the next run. He doesn’t talk as much,” Blade retorted, and handed the left lace to Geronimo. He stripped his boots off and gazed at the farmhouse.

The dogs were sitting at the base of the steps leading onto the porch.

“I don’t want to kill the farmer’s dogs if it can be helped.”

Blade explained. “The farmer will be less likely to cooperate if we slay them.”

“We’re going to tie their tails together so they can’t go anywhere,” Hickok guessed sarcastically.

Blade took off his combat boots and rose to his knees. “When I grab the dogs, I want you to tie their mouths shut.”

Hickok glanced at Geronimo. “Next he’ll have us wrestling worms.”

Blade sighed and motioned with his arms at the ground. “Stay down, and don’t make a peep.”

They complied.

“Here goes nothing,” Blade said, and whistled as loud as he could.

Reacting instantly, the dogs stood on all fours and stared in the direction of the rise.

Blade repeated the whistle. How keen was their eyesight? If they couldn’t see him, would they come to investigate? If they started barking now and woke up the householders, the jig would be up and the Warriors would have to move on. He could see wires leading into the house from a pole next to the curved front drive, and he concluded the people must possess a telephone. Neutralizing the dogs was imperative if he wanted to subdue the occupants quietly before they could use the phone. He didn’t want to cut the wires.

The largest dog advanced several yards toward the rise, its head upraised, apparently sniffing the air.

Nice try, dog, Blade thought, but the wind was blowing his scent away from the farm. He whistled a third time, lower than before.

Both dogs jogged to the west.

Blade smiled and reached into his left front pocket for a stick of venison jerky. The Commando was on the grass behind him so the canines wouldn’t be spooked by the oily, metallic scent of his firearm. He squinted, focusing on the dark shapes bounding across the field separating the farmhouse from the rise.

The dogs came on rapidly.

Blade whistled the tune to “Old MacDonald” softly while breaking the stick of jerky into small pieces which he clasped in his left hand. He adopted an air of supreme nonchalance, not even bothering to watch the dogs. Any hint of hostility on his part, and the dogs would be on him tooth and nail. He wanted to lull them into a false sense of security, to convince them he was harmless.

The padding of their feet reached his ears.

He intentionally stayed on his knees. The dogs might be too wary to draw near if he straightened to his full seven-foot height. He whistled and waited, gazing at his thighs.

A low growl heralded their arrival.

Blade calmly looked up, discovering the pair 20 feet off, eying him balefully. Both were mixed breeds, mongrels. The large dog was brown, the smaller black and white. He placed a piece of jerky in his mouth and chewed noisily, smacking his lips and saying, “Ummmmm,” repeatedly.

The dogs inched closer.

He gazed at them and smiled.

Both dogs snarled.

Blade grinned and pretended to put another morsel of jerky into his mouth. He acted like it was the best meat he’d ever tasted.

The brown dog took several steps closer.

Here goes nothing, Blade told himself, and tossed a piece of venison at the large dog. The jerky landed a foot short.

Predictably, the farm dogs retreated several yards, bristling and growling.

Blade ignored them, continuing to champ and smack his lips. He held his arms at his sides to avoid frightening them. The seconds stretched into a minute. Two.

The large dog moved cautiously forward, smelling the grass, until it found the scrap of venison. One hungry gulp and the jerky was gone.

Blade smiled and whistled, casually flinging another piece midway between the big dog and himself.

Torn between its appetite and its instinctive wariness, the dog looked from the Warrior to the jerky and back again. Appetite won.

“Good boy,” Blade said softly. “Good boy.”

The dog’s tail wagged.

Blade threw a third chunk of venison out.

Apparently not content to allow its companion to get all the food, the small dog darted forward and wolfed down the chunk.

“You guys are starved,” Blade addressed them in a composed tone.

“Here.” He pitched two pieces a yard from his legs.

The dogs were on the meat in a flash. They swallowed without chewing, then stared at him, wanting more.

“Good dogs,” Blade said. “Treat yourselves.” He dropped two morsels near his knees and tensed.

They came nearer tentatively and ate the meat.

Blade was down to his last two pieces, and he was ready to make his move. He could feel their fetid breath on his skin. Neither of the canines were displaying any aggression, but they could revert at a moment’s notice. He would have a split second to succeed; if he missed, there would not be a second chance.

The small dog whined expectantly, craving additional venison.

“Here you go,” Blade whispered, and let the last morsels fall next to his kneecaps. He placed his hands on his legs just above his knees. “Enjoy yourselves.”

They hesitated, then stepped closer and snapped at the venison, lowering their muzzles to the grass and exposing the backs of their necks.

Now!

Blade’s hands flashed out, his steely fingers clamping on each dog behind the ears, his sinews bulging as he gripped the folds of their skin and heaved erect.

Both dogs automatically tried to pull from his grasp, and as their front legs were hauled from the ground they endeavored to bite the arms holding them, snarling viciously, their fangs exposed.

Blade whipped each hand outward, spinning the dogs away from his body. “Tie them before they bark!” he ordered.

Hickok and Geronimo materialized in front of him. The small dog had gone unexpectedly limp, trembling with fear, and Geronimo easily looped a lace tightly around its mouth. Hickok, however, was having problems.

The large dog growled, thrashed, and bit at the gunman’s hands.

“Hold still, you mangy mutt!”

“Hurry,” Blade stated.

Hickok tried once more, and narrowly missed losing a finger to the dog’s wicked teeth. “So you want to play rough?” he said, and leaned over, inspecting the area between the dog’s rear legs.

“What in the world are you doing?” Blade inquired.

“I just wanted to see if this critter is a guy or a girl,” Hickok explained.

“It’s a male.”

“What difference does its sex make?” Geronimo asked.

“Plenty,” the gunman replied, and slugged the dog in the jewels.

The dog uttered a peculiar gurgling noise, whined, and sagged in Blade’s hands.

Hickok grinned and secured the lace about the dog’s mouth. “There.”

Blade felt the dog quivering in agony. “I don’t recall being taught that ploy in our Warrior classes.”

“I picked it up from Lynx,” Hickok divulged.

Blade smiled. Lynx was one of three mutant Warriors, all of whom were outcasts the Family had adopted. “It figures,” he said.

“Lynx has a motto I kind of like,” Hickok elaborated. “He says it comes in handy in any kind of fight.”

“What’s the motto?” Geronimo queried.

“When in doubt, go for the gonads.”

“I thought you always go for the head.”

Hickok shrugged. “A fellow should always have a backup strategy,” he mentioned.

Blade headed toward the farmhouse. “One of you bring my boots and the Commando.”

“You take the boots,” Geronimo said to the gunman.

“I’ll carry the long guns,” Hickok offered, and moved to the Colt AR-15.

“I’ll carry them,” Geronimo proposed.

Fifteen feet off, Blade halted and glanced over his right shoulder, a docile dog in each huge hand. “I don’t care which one brings the guns and which one brings the boots. Just do it.”

“Goody,” Hickok said, and scooped up the weapons. He smirked at Geronimo and hurried after the giant.

Geronimo retrieved the combat boots and caught up with them. “I owe you one, Nathan.”

“What’d I do?” Hickok asked with all the innocence of a newborn baby.

“I owe you,” Geronimo reiterated.

The Warriors crossed the field to the edge of a wide lawn dotted with trees and shrubs. They stopped behind a short, squat pine tree. Geronimo promptly deposited the boots on the grass.

“Hickok, I want you to check out the barn,” Blade commanded. “Look for some rope.”

Hickok nodded, handed the SAR and Commando to Geronimo, and ran toward the barn.

“Do you want me to cut the wires?” Geronimo queried.

“Not yet,” Blade said. “Someone might try to call these people in the morning, and we wouldn’t want the caller to become suspicious and alert the authorities.”

They waited for the gunman, listening to the breeze rustling the limbs.

In the quiet hours preceding the dawn, the farm was tranquil, the picture of serenity.

Geronimo stared at Blade.

“Something wrong?” the giant whispered.

“Why didn’t you kill the dogs?”

“I told you. I don’t want to antagonize the people living here.”

“Are you sure that’s the only reason?”

“Why else?”

“Oh, like maybe you didn’t want to upset me.”

Blade looked at the farmhouse. “Ridiculous.”

“The easy way would have been to slit their throats with your Bowies,” Geronimo noted.

“They weren’t a threat.”

“They could have barked and given us away. Are you trying to avoid spilling blood for my benefit?”

“Would I do that?”

“Yes,” Geronimo answered. “You’re one of my best friends. You might try to go easy on the killing this trip, hoping I’ll forget all about the idea of resigning.”

“I’m not that devious.”

“Yes, you are. Hickok isn’t. He’ll stay on my case until I agree to remain a Warrior. But you’ll use your head. You’ll try psychology on me.”

“You overestimate my ability.”

“And you weren’t selected to be the head of the Warriors because of your stinky feet.”

“What do you guys have against my feet?”

“Don’t change the subject. I want to know your honest feelings. Would my quitting be a mistake, like Nathan claims?”

Blade looked at Geronimo. “The decision must be yours.”

“But how do you feel?”

“Do you really want to step down?”

Geronimo averted his eyes.

“Do you?” Blade pressed him.

“No.”

“I didn’t think so. But you’ll resign for the sake of your family.”

“My family’s happiness must come first.”

“I agree.”

“What would you do?”

“Do you want an honest answer?”

“I’d expect nothing less,” Geronimo said.

Blade frowned, allowing his arms to droop. The small dog was whining, but the large one hadn’t so much as whimpered since Hickok’s lesson in behavior modification. “I haven’t told anyone else this. I’ve been thinking about resigning too.”

Geronimo was shocked. “What?” he blurted.

“As you know, I’m also the head of the Freedom Force based in Los Angeles. The strain on my family has been severe, what with my constant commuting between the Home and California. Even when I’m at the Home, I’m always being sent on missions to deal with the latest threat to our Family’s safety. I’d rather spend the time with Jenny and Gabe.”

“And you’re seriously thinking about quitting?”

“I am.”

“What will Plato think?”

“I love Plato like a father, but he isn’t married to Jenny. The decision is mine,” Blade stated.

Geronimo abruptly glanced to the east. “Hickok is coming, but he’s not alone.”

“He’s not?” Blade said, starting to turn, and as he did a chorus of bestial howls rent the night.