Citadel Run

Chapter Seventeen

Blade heard a sudden outburst of automatic fire coming from the north, and the next instant the ground shook from a tremendous explosion. The ring of boots surrounding the troop transport dissipated, soldiers running every which way, orders being shouted, men shrieking and screaming as the firing attained a virtual crescendo.

What was going on?

He hastily crawled to the edge of the first truck and peered out, witnessing a scene of madness and devastation.

Smoke was everywhere. Army troopers were dashing back and forth and firing into the smoke almost at random. The northern sentry tower was in flames.

Blade eased from under the protective shelter of the truck and looked around. None of the soldiers were in his immediate vicinity. The machine-gunner in the western sentry tower was shooting at a target in the smoke.

What?

The smoke abruptly parted, revealing the SEAL in all its glory, its fifty-caliber machine guns blasting as it circled the area west of the stockade, mowing down soldiers in droves.

Hickok.

Blade rose and ran toward the tent. The Family gunman was deliberately drawing their fire, forcing the troopers to devote their complete attention to the SEAL, and judging by the volume of gunfire his plan was successful.

With one notable exception.

Blade was only three feet from the tent when the smoke briefly cleared, and there, standing in the opening, the Commando in his hands, was Colonel Jarvis, his features contorted in rage.

No time to turn aside and no place to hide!

Blade dove, his long arms outstretched, even as Jarvis spun, bringing the Commando up.

“Bastard!” Jarvis bellowed.

Blade crashed into the furious officer and they both slammed into the tent, into the table, upending it. They rolled on the ground, Jarvis gripping the Commando and striving to smash the stock against Blade’s head.

“Bastard!” Jarvis repeated, his voice harsh, his eyes bulging, his veins prominent on his forehead. “Bastard!”

Blade found himself flat on his back, with Jarvis on top, the officer bearing down for all he was worth.

Where was that green blanket?

To his right or his left?

Blade heaved, his rippling muscles flinging Jarvis aside. The colonel struck one of the chairs and crashed to the ground.

Now!

Blade rolled to his right, his anxious fingers closing on the green blanket and lifting, and there they were, glistening in the light from the overhead lantern, his prized Bowies. Jarvis had removed them from their sheaths, apparently to admire their craftsmanship, and left them lying with the other weapons instead of resheathing them. A minor oversight, but a fatal one.

Colonel Jarvis had scrambled to his knees, the Commando leveling, as he twisted toward Blade, his finger already on the trigger.

Blade grabbed the handle of one of his Bowies and tried to rise to his knees.

Too late.

Jarvis had the Commando pointed at the Warrior’s huge chest, a sneer on the officer’s face.

Blade tensed, expecting the slugs to rip through his body.

“I was wrong about you,” Jarvis taunted, reveling in his victory. “You’re not my equal! You’re just like all the rest! Uncivilized swine! Any last words for Samuel?”

Blade stared down the Commando barrel, wondering. Was it possible?

“I have some last words for you,” he told Jarvis.

Jarvis was surprised by the statement. “For me? What?”

“Did you clear it?” Blade asked.

Colonel Jarvis was confounded by the question. “Clear it? Clear what?”

Blade nodded at the Commando. “That. Did you clear it? The last time I used it, the thing jammed on me.

Jarvis snickered. “Fool! Do you think I’m that gullible? Do you think I’m an idiot?”

Blade slowly nodded, smiling.

Jarvis turned red and pulled the Commando trigger.

Nothing happened.

“That answer your question?” Blade said mocking him.

Jarvis was frantically pulling the trigger.

Blade rose to his knees, the Bowie in his right hand.

Colonel Jarvis pounded the Commando on the ground, then stared at the Warrior, wide-eyed, his mouth moving soundlessly.

Blade closed in. “I only regret I can’t give you everything you have coming to you,” he stated, his voice hard and low, “but this will have to suffice.”

Jarvis tried to bring his hands up, to feebly save himself from his doom.

The hulking Warrior ripped the Bowie blade into the officer’s stomach and twisted. Jarvis made a choking sound and clutched at the knife.

“This,” Blade said, “is for all those innocent people you murdered today!” He steeled his arm and wrenched the knife upward.

The last sight Jarvis saw before he toppled into the long night was the sight of his own guts spilling over the ground.

Blade wrenched his Bowie free and stood. The clamor of shouts and shots outside drew him back to reality.

Hickok!

Blade knelt by the blanket and armed himself with the A-1, the Vegas, and the Bowies. He stuck the Dan Wesson .44 Magnum in his belt for added measure. He rose and saw the Commando at his left.

“Colonel Jarvis!” someone outside was yelling. “Colonel Jarvis!”

Blade knelt again and examined the Commando. He extracted the magazine and found the jammed bullet in the clip.

“Colonel Jarvis!”

Blade quickly reloaded the Commando, thankful the A-1 and it used the same caliber ammunition.

“Colonel Jarvis!” The voice was very close.

Nodding in satisfaction, Blade stood, the Commando held snugly in his right arm, the A-1 in his left.

“Colonel Jarvis! Sir!”

A soldier reached the tent and flung the flap to one side. He spotted the Warrior and attempted to bring his M-16 into play.

The Commando roared, bucking in Blade’s arm, and the slugs caught the trooper in the chest, his back exploding outward as he fell.

Blade emerged from the tent.

Both the sentry tower at the north end of the stockade and the tower on the west side were demolished, spewing fire and smoke. The SEAL was stopped in the center of a circle of soldiers, and they were pouring everything they had at the vehicle.

Blade advanced across the field. He fired as fast as soldiers appeared, the Commando and the A-1 tearing them apart before they knew what hit them. Four troopers directly ahead were engaged in replacing the magazines in their M-16’s. One of them spotted the Warrior and warned his companions; all four spun and were caught in a withering hail of fire.

He downed nine more in five seconds.

Something plowed into Blade’s left shoulder, stunning him and drawing blood. He knew he’d been hit, but he ignored the wound for the moment as he concentrated on wrapping up this operation. A group of soldiers suddenly appeared to his left, charging over a small rise.

Blade crouched, aiming the Commando, doubting he could hold them all off with just one good arm.

There were at least ten of them, and as they passed near the front of the SEAL there was a hissing and a puff of blue and the entire group was engulfed by a sheet of flame. Their death cries were awful.

Blade scanned the area, surprised to discover the troopers were gone.

The ones still alive, anyway. The ground was littered with dozens and dozens of bodies, some oozing blood from multiple perforations and others fried to a fine crisp.

The stench was staggering.

Blade rose to his feet, his ears ringing from the conflict. He could hear moans and groans coming from every direction; the sound was eerie.

During his time as a Warrior, he’d seen a lot of fights, a lot of killing, but nothing like this. This was his first taste of all-out warfare, and he was feeling oddly uncomfortable as he faced the SEAL.

The driver’s door flew open and Hickok emerged, his Pythons in his hands.

“Glad to see you could make it,” Blade said. “I was beginning to think you were on vacation.”

Hickok warily walked over to Blade, his eyes alertly seeking any indication of hostility from the bodies on the field. His lips were compressed, his expression drawn and haggard.

“Something wrong?” Blade asked him.

Hickok nodded. “I didn’t like it.”

“Didn’t like what?”

Hickok motioned with his left arm toward the SEAL. “It wasn’t a fair fight! These slobs never had a chance! All I had to do was sit there and flick a switch and I’d wipe out a dozen of them at a crack! Did you see the flamethrower? Those boys never stood a chance!” he repeated, sounding stunned. “I like it when I can face an enemy and go one-on-one. That’s my ideal of a fair fight. This was… was nothing more than outright slaughter.”

Blade knew what the gunfighter meant and agreed with him.

There was the thump of a door closing, and Joshua jogged into view around the SEAL. “Blade!” he shouted. “You’re okay!”

Blade rubbed his injured shoulder as Joshua reached them. “Not quite,” he said. “I took one.”

“I’ll tend it immediately,” Joshua stated, turning. “My medicine bag is in the SEAL. Did you see it?” he inquired, grinning, sweeping the field with his right hand. “Did you see it?”

“See what?”

Joshua, continuing toward the SEAL, glanced over his right shoulder.

“Did you see Hickok? Wasn’t he magnificent? He handled the SEAL like an expert! All that shooting and the explosions and everything and they never even touched us! Amazing!” And with that he entered the SEAL.

Blade eyed Hickok quizzically.

“Don’t look at me, pard!” the gunman protested. “It’s all his doing. Josh has decided he likes me.”

“He likes you?”

“Yep. Just the way I am.” Hickok saw a body nearby twitch and stopped talking, waiting to see if it would move again. Nothing. “How’s the wing?” he asked Blade.

“Seems to be a clean hit, in and out,” Blade replied, inspecting his left shoulder. “How about you?”

“Like Josh said,” Hickok responded, “they never laid a glove on us. The Founder did a great job on the SEAL. Whatever he forked out was well spent. That plastic body must be practically impenetrable. The M-16’s didn’t even faze us. We could hear the slugs ricocheting, kind of like the buzzing of a bunch of angry hornets, but they didn’t put a nick in the buggy.”

“There were some bigger guns in the sentry towers,” Blade mentioned.

“Yeah. I noticed them,” Hickok said. “They rocked the SEAL real good, which is why I took ’em out first. We were lucky. If they’d had grenades or a bazooka it might have been a different story.”

Blade gazed at the SEAL, wondering what was delaying the Empath. “I still can’t believe Joshua was excited over a fight,” he commented.

“I think he’s faking it,” Hickok confided.

“Why?”

Hickok looked around to insure Joshua was still in the SEAL. “I reckon he’s on a campaign to show us how helpful he can be. I think he knows he’s been a monumental pain in the butt, and this is his way of making amends. Shhhh. Here he comes.”

Joshua was running toward them, his leather medicine bag, supplied by the Family Healers, clutched in his right hand. “I finally found it!” he exclaimed as he rejoined them. “In all the commotion it slid under one of the seats. Let’s have a look at your shoulder.”

Except for wispy tendrils, most of the smoke had drifted from the field of conflict.

Hickok stared at the stockade. “Is she there?”

“She’s there,” Blade confirmed. “She’s looking forward to seeing you.”

“Maybe we can leave ’em in there another night,” the gunman proposed. “We’ll make like we’re too busy checking bodies to pay them any mind.”

Blade chuckled, then inadvertently flinched as Joshua probed his wound. “I don’t think it would work.”

“Why not?” Hickok wanted to know.

Just then, a loud male voice shouted at them from within the stockade.

“If a certain party doesn’t get his fat buns over here this instant and release us, then I’m going to tell another certain party some news the first certain party doesn’t want the second certain party to know about a third certain party who shall remain nameless! If you get my drift!”

“That dingblasted Injun!” Hickok fumed, and stormed toward the stockade.

Joshua, in the process of cleaning Blade’s gunshot with a clean compress and an herbal remedy developed by the Healers, grinned. “Was that who I think it was?”

“It was,” Blade affirmed.

Joshua laughed.

“What’s so funny?” Blade asked.

“I never realized it before,” Joshua replied, “but you guys are a lot of fun!”