Nevada Run

PROLOGUE

Should he waste the scuzz now or later? Johnny Giorgio glanced over his right shoulder at the source of his irritation and frowned. His diamond-shaped face, with its hard, cruel features, became even more severe. A flinty narrowing of his brown eyes accompanied a bunching of his bushy black eyebrows. He lifted his left arm and swiped at the bangs of his oily black hair.

“I still say this is the craziest damn idea you ever came up with,” Manzo complained for the umpteenth time. His rodent like countenance twitched as he spoke, his dark eyes flicking over the landscape on both sides of Highway 59. His dark brown suit, unlike Giorgio’s neat, black three-piece, was rumpled and in need of a washing.

Giorgio pursed his lips thoughtfully, his right hand resting on the machine gun in his lap, a Weaver Arms Nighthawk. He was tempted to order his driver to stop the jeep so he could show Manzo what happened to underlings who chronically complained, but he refrained for two reasons. First, he might need Manzo when he made the snatch. Secondly, he estimated they were within ten miles of their destination, and he didn’t want anyone from the Home to hear the gunfire.

No.

He would bide his time.

Play it real smart.

And rack the son of a bitch the first chance he got!

The two green jeeps, decades ago the property of the Nevada National Guard, continued northward on 59. A new road sign appeared on the right: HALMA. FOUR MILES.

Giorgio gazed at the road sign in perplexity. What the hell was this?

Was Halma inhabited? His snitch had never said nothing about Halma.

Manzo, seated in the rear of the jeep directly behind Giorgio, spotted the sign. “Look at that!”

“I see it,” Giorgio said calmly.

“You know what that means?” Manzo asked belligerently.

Giorgio twisted in his seat and stared at the two men in the back, Manzo and the other trigger man, lanozzi, who was sitting behind the driver. He focused his full attention on Manzo, composing himself so his anger was carefully concealed. “I know what it means,” he said in a quiet tone.

Ianozzi, a young man of 25 wearing a blue suit and tie, gazed at Giorgio for a few seconds, then casually placed both of his hands on the Mossberg Model 500 Bullpup resting across his knees.

“Why did we have to come so far?” Manzo queried, nervously surveying the woods bordering the highway. He failed to note the expression on Giorgio’s face. His fatigue and apprehension combined to make him careless. “Who cares what’s in Minnesota?”

“I’ve explained it to you many times,” Giorgio noted patiently.

Manzo scowled. “I just don’t like being this far from Vegas. We could have done this another way.”

“This is the best way,” Giorgio assured him. “Trust me.”

Manzo’s weaselly eyes shifted to Giorgio. “I trust you, Boss. You know that.”

“Do I?” Giorgio said. “I’m beginning to wonder.”

Manzo abruptly realized his mistake. He blanched and swallowed hard.

“Hey, no offense meant, Boss! I was just letting off a little steam. We’ve been on the road for over a week, and all the muties and creeps can get to a guy. You know how it is.”

“I know how it is,” Giorgio said.

Manzo mustered a weak grin. “I’m a little antsy, is all. All this nature shit makes me uncomfortable. I’m used to the casinos, the broads, and the booze. Hell! I ain’t been laid in over a week!”

“None of us have been laid since we left,” Giorgio observed. “But you don’t hear none of the other guys griping.”

Manzo voiced a feeble titter. “Don’t take it personal, Boss. I can’t help it if I’m edgy.”

“A wiseguy can’t afford to get edgy,” Giorgio noted. “You know the saying: If you blow your cool, you’re a fool.” He paused. “I don’t like fools in my organization.”

“It won’t happen again,” Manzo vowed. “I promise!”

Giorgio glanced at the other trigger man, Ianozzi. “Did you hear that, Ozzi? He says it won’t happen again.”

Ozzi’s green eyes brightened, his thin lips curling upward. “I heard it, Boss.”

The driver suddenly slammed on the brakes, causing the jeep to lurch slightly as it abruptly slowed.

Giorgio gripped the dash with his left hand for support. “What the hell are you doing. Sacks?” he demanded.

Sacks was gripping the black steering wheel tightly, his brown eyes on the highway ahead, his bulldog visage registering amazement. “Look! Up ahead!” He began to gradually accelerate.

Giorgio swiveled and faced front.

Highway 59 was awash with the bright May sunlight. Two hundred yards distant walked a quartet consisting of two men and two women, none of whom appeared to be much over 20 years old. One of the women was a blonde, the other a redhead. The blonde wore blue shorts and a faded yellow blouse; the redhead was wearing light brown pants and a green blouse. Both of the men wore jeans. One, the heftier of the pair, also wore a dark green T-shirt and carried a shotgun; the leaner of the men had on a brown shirt and was armed with a revolver in a holster on his right hip. All four were heading to the north, their backs to the approaching jeeps.

“Do we snuff ’em?” Manzo asked eagerly.

“No,” Giorgio replied. “Chill out and let me do the talking.”

Alerted by the roar of the jeep motors, the quartet had turned and were watching the vehicles draw ever nearer. The man with the shotgun hustled the others to the right side of the road, their expressions conveying their apprehension.

Giorgio gazed over his left shoulder and out the rear window, spying the second jeep 25 yards to the rear, the jeep containing three more of his best soldiers—Pete, Tommy, and Nicky—as well as most of their supplies, their food and water and spare gas.

“You want me to pull up next to them, then?” Sacks inquired.

Giorgio stared at his driver. Sacks was one of the old-time boys, and there were flecks of gray in his brown hair. Although Sacks was unquestionably loyal, his intellect was on a par with a turnip’s. “No,” Giorgio cracked, “I want you to run them over.” He paused. “Of course I want you to pull up next to them! How else am I going to talk to them?”

Sacks flinched and angled the jeep to the right side of the road.

“Keep your hardware out of sight,” Giorgio instructed his men. He slid the Nighthawk to the floor, then placed his right hand on the door latch.

The doors on the jeeps were canvas affairs with thin plastic windows instead of glass, and the windows did not roll down. He waited until the jeep stopped approximately five yards from the quartet before opening the door and stepping out, smiling broadly.

“Hello,” he greeted them.

The young men eyed him warily, the hefty one fingering the trigger of his shotgun, the lean one with his right hand on his revolver. Behind the men, the two women were clearly uneasy.

“Hello,” Giorgio said again. “I hope we didn’t scare you.”

The second jeep was coasting to a halt behind the first.

“Who are you?” the hefty youth queried anxiously. “What do you want?”

Giorgio deliberately maintained his friendly facade. He took a step away from the door, his hands at his sides to show he was unarmed and ostensibly not a threat. “Sorry to bother you, but we’re lost.”

“Lost?” the hefty youth repeated skeptically.

“Yes,” Giorgio lied. “We’re looking for a place called the Home. Have you ever heard of it?”

The redheaded woman grinned in relief. “I’m from the Home. Who are you?”

“You’re from the Home!” Giorgio stated in delight. “I can’t believe my luck! We’ve traveled so far to get here, all the way from Nevada.”

“Are the Elders expecting you?” the redhead asked.

“I don’t know who the Elders are,” Giorgio admitted.

“The Elders are responsible for managing the Home,” the redhead disclosed. “One of them, Plato, is our Leader.”

The hefty youth’s brown eyes narrowed. “You came all the way from Nevada to see the Family and you don’t know about the Elders?”

Giorgio resisted an impulse to smash Hefty in the chops. “I was told a little about the Family. I know they live in a thirty-acre compound on the outskirts of what was once Lake Bronson State Park. And I heard a lot about the Warriors, the ones who defend the Home and protect the Family. But I wasn’t told about the Elders.” He didn’t add that his only interest was in the Warriors; he couldn’t care less about the damn Elders.

“The Spirit is smiling on you,” the redhead said. “Blade is at the Home right now. He’s the head Warrior.”

Giorgio nodded. “So I heard. The Warriors have quite a reputation.”

Hefty grinned. “The Warriors are the best fighters in the world! Nobody’s been able to beat them—not the Trolls, the Doktor, the Technics, the Russians, nobody,” he said proudly.

“Are you from the Home too?” Giorgio questioned.

“No,” Hefty replied. “I live in Halma, about three miles or so to the north. My people are called the Clan. We used to live in the Twin Cities, but the Warriors saved us from the Watchers and helped us to relocate in Halma. We wanted to live close to the Family.”

“I’m the only one here from the Home,” the redhead chimed in.

“How nice,” Giorgio said politely. “How far is it to the Home from here?”

“Three miles to Halma,” the hefty youth calculated aloud, “and then another mile to the cutoff. You take a right when you come to a dirt road.

It runs about five miles, right up to the Home. You can’t miss it.”

Giorgio grinned. The Home was nine or ten miles away, which meant no one there would be able to hear the shots and none of the Warriors could reach the scene before he was long gone. Halma was much closer, but it didn’t matter if any of the Clan heard the gunfire. “This is great news,” he said.

“My name is Mindy,” the redhead offered. “My mother is a Warrior.”

Giorgio did a double take. “She is?”

“Yes,” Mindy stated.

“Why didn’t you say so before?” Giorgio queried.

Hefty chuckled. “Mindy’s too modest. Her mom isn’t as famous as Blade, Hickok, Yama, and the others, but she’s one mean momma.”

“Ted!” Mindy exclaimed in protest. “Don’t talk about my mom that way!”

“Well, she is,” Ted insisted.

“What is your mother’s name?” Giorgio asked Mindy.

“Helen,” she answered.

Giorgio could scarcely suppress his excitement. Here was exactly who he needed, delivered on a golden platter! “I look forward to meeting your mother. Would you consent to drive with us to the Home?”

“I don’t know…” Mindy said, her blue eyes scrutinizing the jeeps.

“Come on,” Giorgio urged her. “I would take it as a personal favor.”

“I’d like to,” Mindy said, “but I can’t. Please don’t be insulted, but we’re taught to be very leery of strangers.”

“Yeah,” Ted concurred. “You haven’t even told us your name yet.”

“Anthony Pucci,” Giorgio stated, accenting each syllable distinctly. He didn’t want the kid to make a mistake. “But you can call me Tony.”

“I’m sorry I can’t go with you, Tony,” Mindy said.

“That’s perfectly okay,” Giorgio assured her. “It’s understandable in this day and age. You can’t be too trusting.”

“Why do you want to see the Family?” Ted inquired.

“That’s my business,” Giorgio replied, a touch testily. The shit-head was too nosy for his own good!

“Just ask for Blade or Plato when you reach the Home,” Mindy advised.

“The Family is always happy to see strangers if they come in peace.”

Giorgio turned toward the jeep. “I’ll do that. And I thank you for your time.”

Ted peered into the first jeep. “Who are those guys?” he asked.

“Associates of mine,” Giorgio said. He moved up to the jeep, standing with the door between the quartet and him, staring at them through the plastic window. “Say, do you like chocolate candy?”

“I’ve never tasted it,” Ted rejoined.

Giorgio grinned. Now it was his turn to razz the shit-head. “You’ve never had chocolate candy?”

“No,” Ted responded.

“Don’t you eat sweets?” Giorgio queried.

“Sweets aren’t good for the body,” Mindy interjected. “The Elders teach all of the Family children about sweets. We know there was a public mania for sugar-based foods before the Big Blast. The American people downed tons of sweets each day. Many of them were addicted, which is sad when you think about it, because excessive sugar consumption disrupts our metabolism.”

Giorgio shrugged. “Some candy now and then never hurt nobody.” He looked at Hefty. “What about you? You’re from the Clan, not the Family.

Or do the Elders control the Clan too?”

“The Elders don’t control anyone,” Ted said stiffly. “They guide the Family and serve as teachers. We respect the Elders a lot.” He paused. “As far as candy goes, where would we get it? I spent my childhood in the Twin Cities, where we had to fight for every scrap of food. There wasn’t any candy to be found. Since we came to Halma, though, the Family members have taught us how to grow our own crops and to gather food from the forest. We use a lot of honey, and my mom can whip up some terrific honey treats. But we don’t have any chocolate candy.”

“That’s too bad,” Giorgio said. “You don’t know what you’re missing. I happen to have a box in the jeep. Would you like to taste some?”

The four exchanged glances.

“Sure,” Ted declared for all of them. “Why not?”

Giorgio smiled and leaned into the jeep, bending forward and taking hold of the Weaver Arms Nighthawk. He slowly backed up, keeping the machine gun out of sight until the last possible second.

Ted had relaxed his grip on the shotgun and was saying something to Mindy. The lean youth had taken his hand from his revolver.

“If you think sweets are bad for the body,” Giorgio commented casually, “wait until you see what lead does.” He pivoted and leveled the Nighthawk.

The blonde screamed.

Giorgio smiled as he squeezed the trigger, shooting the first burst low and taking Ted off at the knees. The Weaver’s heavy slugs ripped into Ted’s kneecaps, blowing them apart, tumbling Ted backwards and causing the shotgun to fall from his fingers.

The lean youth was clawing at his revolver.

Giorgio blasted the youth from the crotch to the chin, stitching a straight line of miniature red geysers, the impact flinging the lean one onto his back.

The blonde was still screaming, but not for long.

Sadistically, Giorgio let her have a few rounds in the face and she dropped with a strangled cry.

Mindy was gaping at Giorgio in horror, shocked to her core.

“The girl!” Giorgio snapped, and Ozzi, Sacks, and Manzo promptly emerged from the jeep. Ozzi and Sacks took hold of Mindy and started to propel her toward the vehicle.

“No!” Mindy shrieked, striving to wrench her arms free from their steely grasps.

Ozzi, holding his Bullwhip in his right hand and Mindy’s right elbow in his left, unexpectedly rammed the Bullwhip barrel into her abdomen, doubling her over. “Move your ass, bitch!” he snarled.

“Don’t damage the merchandise,” Giorgio cautioned.

Ozzi and Sacks carted Mindy to the far side of the jeep and forced her to sit on the back seat.

Ted was on his left side, bent forward, clutching his legs above his ruined knees, whining and groaning, his eyes shut tight, in misery.

Giorgio walked up to the youth. “Open your eyes, punk!”

Ted’s eyes didn’t open. He trembled, breathing deeply.

Scowling, Giorgio hauled off and kicked the youth in the ribs.

Ted involuntarily cried out, tucking his right elbow against his side, his anguished brown eyes opening wide.

“That’s better,” Giorgio growled. He leaned down. “Listen up, punk, because I don’t want you to forget any of this. Are you listening?”

Ted nodded vigorously.

“Good,” Giorgio smirked. “When you see the Warriors, you tell them Anthony Pucci sends his regards. You got that?”

Tears rimming his eyes, Ted nodded.

“And I want you to give Blade a message,” Giorgio directed. “I want you tell Blade we’ll be waiting for him and the other Warriors. If Mindy’s mom, Helen, wants to see her daughter again, then the Warriors must come to Las Vegas. They have one month. That’s all. Just one month. If they don’t show up by then, we whack the girl. Got that?”

Ted gulped and nodded.

“Tell Blade the girl will be waiting for them at the Golden Crown Casino. Remember that name. The Golden Crown Casino. Think you can remember that?”

Ted nodded yet again, then uttered a single word, his voice strained, his features in torment. “Why?”

Giorgio straightened. “Wouldn’t you like to know,” he said, and kicked the youth on the chin.

Ted’s head snapped back, his teeth crunching together, and he went limp.

Someone snickered to Giorgio’s rear.

“That’s showing him, Boss!” Manzo said excitedly.

Giorgio turned.

Manzo stood three feet away, a Springfield Armory MIA rifle held loosely along his right side, idly gazing at the blood spurting from Ted’s ruptured kneecaps.

“Thanks for reminding me,” Giorgio said.

Manzo looked up. “About what?”

“This,” Giorgio stated, and shot Manzo in the stomach. He kept firing until all 25 rounds in the clip were expended, even after Manzo was down, and he grinned as he watched Manzo’s body flopping and convulsing as it was hit again and again and again.

Ozzi was laughing.

“A good button man should be seen and not heard,” Giorgio said, addressing the corpse contemptuously, then stalked to the jeep. “Let’s hit the road,” he announced. “We have a long ride ahead of us.”

“What about Manzo’s piece?” Ozzi asked.

“Leave it,” Giorgio barked. “We don’t need it.” He slid into the jeep and glanced back at Mindy. “My plan worked like a charm.”

Sacks took his seat behind the wheel. “I never doubted you for a minute, Boss,” he said.

Giorgio ran his eyes up and down Mindy’s attractive figure, then snickered. “Yes, sir! The trip back to Vegas is going to be a hell of a lot more interesting than the one coming out. Too bad Manzo won’t be around to get a piece of the action.” He cackled at his joke.