New York Run

Chapter Twelve

He almost had it!

Only an inch to go!

Hickok strained against the manacles binding his wrists, his sinewy muscles rippling, his shoulders corded knots, sweat coating his skin and blood dribbling down his wrists. It’d taken two days, two days of strenuous effort, secretly exerting himself to the maximum whenever the chamber was empty. Fortunately, a guard only checked on him four times a day, and he always announced his arrival by rattling his keys as he unlocked the door. Twice daily the guard would bring a tray of food and feed the prisoner.

And, by Hickok’s reckoning, it was close to feeding time.

The gunman grunted and groaned as he wrenched his arms from side to side, twisting his wrists back and forth, torturously endeavoring to free his arms.

He could do it!

Hickok knew his escape was only a matter of time. Sooner or later, if he could maintain his frantic contortions, the combination of sweat and blood would provide the lubrication necessary for his wrists to slide from the manacles.

But could he do it before the guard arrived?

He must, the gunman told himself. Otherwise, the guard might notice the ring of crimson around his wrists.

He had to do it Now!

Hickok’s hair was plastered to his head, drops of sweat dripping from his chin, as he toiled at his task, his chest heaving from his laborious exertion. His eyes roamed about the room and settled on the white plastic bucket at his feet.

The bastards wouldn’t even unlock the manacles and permit him to relieve himself!

They’d pay!

Dear Spirit, how they’d pay!

Hickok’s mouth curved downward, exposing his grit teeth as he grimaced in agony.

It felt as if his arms were being torn from their sockets!

Hickok savagely jerked his right arm.

Come on!

With a pronounced squishing sound, the gunman’s right wrist popped loose of the steel manacle restraining his arm. The momentum swung him around in a circle, tearing at the tendons in his left shoulder as his body sagged.

Bingo!

Hickok reached up and clasped the right manacle, still imbedded in the wall. Using the manacle for support, he pulled his left wrist free in moments.

Just as keys jangled at the door.

Perfect timing! Hickok gripped the left manacle, then drooped his body and lowered his chin, assuming his usual resigned position. A smile touched the corners of his mouth.

Now he was ready.

Let the son of a bitch come!

The guard entered the chamber, a tray of food in his right hand, his keys in his left. He wore a camouflage uniform, black boots, and an automatic pistol attached to his green web belt.

Hickok, feigning dejection, glanced up.

The guard, a solidly built soldier in his forties with brown hair and brown eyes, closed the door. “Well, how’s our hick doing today?”

Hickok didn’t respond. He was accustomed to being baited; the guards took perverted delight in amusing themselves at his expense.

The trooper advanced toward the gunman. “What’s wrong with you? Antisocial or something?”

Hickok didn’t answer.

The guard stopped in front of the gunman and stared at his weary face.

“You look awful, stupid. Are you getting your beauty rest?” He cackled at his joke.

Hickok’s blue eyes darted over the food tray. A glass of juice. A plate containing potatoes and a slice of meat. One fork and one knife, a dull butter knife from the looks of it. Not much, but it would have to do.

“You’d best enjoy this meal,” the trooper was saying. “I’ve heard through the grapevine you don’t have too many meals left.”

Hickok’s interest was piqued. “Why’s that?” he asked.

“Ahhh! You are alive!” the guard cracked. “Do you really want to know?” he taunted the Warrior.

“You’re the one who brought it up,” Hickok said. “You probably didn’t hear a thing.”

“I did so!” the trooper said indignantly.

“Yeah. Sure.”

“Think you know it all, don’t you, smart-ass?” the Technic said.

“I know more than you.”

“Is that so? Did you know the Minister plans to rack your ass after your buddies return from New York City?” the guard gloated.

“Nope,” Hickok admitted. “I didn’t know that.”

The soldier smirked.

“But I know something you don’t know,” Hickok mentioned nonchalantly.

“Like what?” the guard demanded.

“I don’t think you’d want to know,” Hickok said.

“You tell me or I’ll cram this food down your throat!” the soldier stated.

His gaze fell on the white plastic bucket. “Better yet, I’ll dump your shitpail on your head!”

“Are you sure you want to know?” Hickok asked, tensing.

“I want to know!” the Technic persisted.

Hickok shrugged. “If you insist.” He lunged, his left hand grasping the guard’s shirt and yanking him off balance as his right streaked to the fork and grabbed the implement.

Completely startled, the Technic dropped the tray and the keys, the tray clattering as it struck the floor. He tried to pull away, but the gunman’s left hand was locked on his shirt. The Warrior’s upper torso, without the shackles securing the wrists to suspend it, pressed down on the guard, causing his knees to sag.

Hickok touched the fork tines to the guard’s right eye. “Make one move and you’re blinded for life!” he threatened harshly.

The guard gulped.

“Do exactly as I say or I’ll ram this fork into your eye!” Hickok growled.

“What… what do you… want?” the trooper stammered.

“Reach down slowly, and I mean slowly, with your right hand and remove your pistol from your holster. Do it slow! One false move and you know what I’ll do!”

“Yes,” the guard stated in abject fright. He could feel the metal tines digging into his right eyelid.

“Use only your thumb and forefinger to draw the gun!” Hickok directed.

“Lift it—slowly—up to me!”

The guard trembled as his right hand lowered to the holster flap and undid the snap. He carefully eased his thumb and forefinger under the leather flap and withdrew the pistol, holding it by the grips.

“Slowly!” Hickok said.

The Technic licked his dry lips as he moved in slow motion, raising the automatic to chest level, inches from Hickok’s left hand.

“A little higher,” Hickok instructed him.

The guard elevated the pistol to within an inch of the gunman’s right hand.

Hickok glanced at the automatic, a 45 of indeterminate manufacture, probably produced by the Technics. He saw a safety button above the grips.

Blast!

The safety was on!

Hickok hesitated. He would need to drop the fork, draw the pistol, and flick the safety all in one move, leaving himself vulnerable for the fraction of a second his right hand would be empty. Could he do it before he soldier reacted?

Was there any other option?

“You’ve been a good boy,” Hickok said sarcastically. “But I still think I should put out your eye!”

“Please!” the trooper whined. “Don’t!”

Hickok scraped the fork tines over the guard’s right eyelid, and the soldier flinched, his eyes closing in instinctive defense as his face recoiled.

Which was just what the gunman wanted.

Hickok released the fork and snatched the automatic, his thumb flipping the safety off, and before the Technic quite knew what had transpired he found the fork replaced by the pistol. “Now we come to the easy part,” Hickok said.

“Anything,” the guard declared.

“Your momma sure raised a polite cuss,” Hickok joked. “Oh. Sorry. I forgot. You Technic types don’t know who your momma or pappa was, do you?”

“No,” the trooper replied.

“Too bad. A little parental love might have changed you from a jackass to a thoroughbred.” Hickok wagged the pistol barrel downward. “Now I want you to lower us down, real slow. I’ll let you know when to stop.”

Struggling to support the gunman’s weight, the soldier eased to his knees.

“I’m gonna let go of your shirt,” Hickok said. “When I do, slide your butt backwards. Don’t try anything stupid!”

The trooper nodded his understanding.

Hickok released his hold on the shirt, shoving the guard from him and dropping his left hand to the tiled floor to support his body. He wound up in the push-up position, his left arm bracing him, his ankles smarting like the dickens from the manacles above his feet.

The Technic was crouched not a foot away, staring at the pistol barrel.

“Pick up the keys,” Hickok ordered.

The trooper immediately complied, stretching his left arm to the keys and cautiously retrieving them.

“Now unlock my legs,” Hickok said. “I’ll have you covered all the way, and believe me when I say I can perforate your noggin if you so much as look at me crossways. Do it!”

The guard sidled to the left, still on his knees, toward the wall.

Hickok shifted his left arm, twisting his body, keeping the pistol in his right hand trained on the trooper.

The soldier reached the wall and quickly unfastened the first manacle.

Hickok felt a wave of relief as the agony in his left leg subsided.

The guard unlocked the last manacle.

Hickok rolled to his right, coming up on his knees, the automatic pointed at the Technic. “Thanks, pard. Now stand up and lock the manacles on yourself.”

The soldier obeyed without complaining, securing his legs and left wrist.

“Now freeze!” Hickok said.

The Technic became a statue.

Hickok rose and walked up to the guard, placing the pistol barrel a centimeter from the soldier’s nose. “Blink, and you’ll wind up with a new nasal passage!”

The trooper’s throat bobbed.

Hickok locked the right steel manacle on the guard’s right wrist, then smiled. “Do you want to live?”

The Technic nodded.

“Then tell me where the blazes they’ve got my guns and clothes,” Hickok directed.

“Right here,” the guard responded.

“Here?” Hickok scanned the chamber. All he saw was the brown easy chair. He tapped the barrel on the Technic’s nose. “You wouldn’t be joshin’

me, would you?”

“No!” the soldier assured the gunman. He nodded toward the right-hand wall. “There! You’ll find them there!”

Hickok stared at the blue wall. “Where?”

“They’re in a closet,” the trooper said.

“A closet?”

“A compartment in the wall. Go to the center of the wall,” the guard stated.

Hickok walked to the middle of the wall, the pistol trained on the trooper. If the wall was booby-trapped, he intended to blow the soldier away before he went.

“Look for a small button,” the guard said. “A little circle on the wall.”

Hickok recalled the incident with the syringe, and how Captain Wargo had touched a spot on the left wall, exposing the tray. He peered at the seemingly solid wall. “I don’t see it.”

“Keep looking!” the Technic said nervously. “It’s there!” he assured the gunman.

Hickok saw a circular indentation to his right, about waist height. He pressed the indentation and it sank inward several inches. So that’s how they did it!

With a whisk of air, a panel slid aside, a section of the wall simply disappearing as it slid into a recessed groove.

“Bingo!” Hickok said, smiling.

The compartment was six feet high by five feet wide. A metal bar was aligned across the space, six inches from the top. Dangling from silver metal hangers were the gunman’s buckskin shirt and leggings. His moccasins had been deposited on the floor in a corner. Leaning against the back wall were Hickok’s Henry, Blade’s Commando, and Geronimo’s FNC. Lying in a pile in the middle of the compartment were Blade’s Bowies, Geronimo’s tomahawk and Arminius, and one other item, the sight of which caused the gunman’s eyes to light up and a wave of genuine joy to wash over him: his pearl-handled Colt Python revolvers in their holsters.

Praise the Spirit!

Hickok crouched and laid the Technic pistol on the floor. He drew one of the Pythons and checked the cylinder to insure it was loaded. Satisfied, he raised the revolver and stroked his right cheek with the cool barrel.

The guard was gawking at the gunman in amazement.

“What’s the matter?” Hickok demanded gruffly.

“Ain’t you ever seen anyone in love with a gun before?”

“You’re crazy,” the Technic mustered the courage to comment.

“You think so, huh?”

“What else would you call it?” the soldier countered. “I’ve never seen anybody act the way you do over a rotten gun.”

“These Pythons have gotten me out of more tight scrapes than I care to remember,” Hickok said. “I know they’re just tools of my trade, but after all these years I’ve sort of developed a personal relationship with ’em. In a fix, they’re the best friends I’ve got.”

“Like I said,” the guard reiterated, “you’re crazy.”

“And you talk too much,” Hickok rejoined.

The guard clammed up.

Hickok hurriedly dressed, relieved to be clothed again. He strapped his gunbelt around his waist, then paused, considering the other weapons in the closet. What was he supposed to do about them? He couldn’t leave them for the Technics. Besides, Blade was as fond of the Bowies and Geronimo as attached to his tomahawk as he was to the Pythons. Nope.

He owed it to his pards to take the weapons with him, even if the extra weight slowed him down a mite. He picked up the tomahawk and slid it under his gunbelt in the small of his back. The Bowies, sheaths and all, he angled under the gunbelt, one on either side of the tomahawk. Bending over would pose a problem, but his hands had a clear path to the Pythons.

Next, he slung his Henry over his right shoulder. The FNC went over his left. He was about to grab the Commando when he saw the Arminius still on the floor.

Blast!

The gunman unslung the FNC, then draped the Arminius’s shoulder holster under his left arm. Finally, he slung the FNC over his left shoulder and took hold of the Commando.

He was ready.

Hickok walked over to the guard.

The Technic blanched. “I did everything you wanted!” he said, his voice rising.

“And I appreciate it,” Hickok remarked. “I surely do. But I’m afraid our friendship has reached the end of the line.”

“Are you going to kill me?” the trooper timidly inquired. “I have a wife and son.”

Hickok paused, thinking of Sherry and Ringo. “If you care so much for your missus and young’un, what are you doing in the Army?”

“I didn’t have any choice,” the guard replied.

“Everybody has a choice,” Hickok said.

“We don’t,” the Tecnnic revealed. “We’re given tests when we’re teenagers, about sixteen. The jobs we’re assigned are based on the test results.”

“They tell you what kind of work you’ll do?” Hickok asked.

The Technic nodded. “We don’t have any say in it. They say our system is best because the service we perform for the community, for the common good of all, is based on our demonstrated ability, not on what we might like to do.”

“But a person can have talent in more than one field,” Hickok noted.

“How do they know what’d make you happiest?”

“Make us happy?” The Technic snorted derisively. “Do you know what we’re taught? Individual happiness is an illusion,” he quoted from memory. “The good of all is the goal of the many. What is best for all brings real happiness.”

“So they tested you and told you the Army was going to be your career, whether you liked it or not?” Hickok concluded.

“You got it.”

“Pitiful. Just pitiful. Sort of makes me feel sorry for you. So I’ll tell you what I’m gonna do. I’m not gonna whack you upside the head like I planned,” Hickok said.

“Thanks,” the Technic said, manifestly relieved.

“But on the other hand…” Hickok crouched and began unlacing the guard’s right boot.

“What are you doing?” the Technic asked.

“Hold onto your hat,” Hickok said. He removed the boot, then the black sock underneath.

The guard perceived the gunman’s intent. “But that sock is dirty!” he protested.

Hickok rose. “Say Ahhhhhh.”

“But—”

Hickok raised the Commando in his left hand. “Say Ahhhh.”

The Technic opened his mouth wide. “Ahhhh—”

Hickok jammed the sock into the guard’s mouth, all the way in. He hastily removed the lace from the black boot, lopped the lace around the guard’s face, and tied it tight, the knot situated in the middle of his open mouth to prevent the sock from being spit out. “I reckon that ought to hold you for a spell. Adios.”

The gunman crossed to the door. If all went well, he’d find a flight of stairs lickety-split and vacate the Central Core before they realized he was missing. If he could find an unattended jeep or truck in the parking lot, he’d swipe it and make for the western gate.

Yes, sir.

Things were finally going his way.

It was beginning to look like busting out of Technic City would be a piece of cake!

Hickok opened the door and peeked around the jamb. The corridor, white tiles on the floor and walls, yellow panels on the ceiling, was deserted.

Like he said.

A piece of cake.

Hickok stepped into the corridor and closed the door behind him, just as a squad of four Technic soldiers, each armed with an automatic rifle, rounded a corner to his right!