New York Run

Chapter Seven

“How much longer before we reach Chicago?” Blade demanded, concentrating on steering the SEAL around the multiple obstacles in the highway; there were ruts and cracks, potholes and mini-trenches, and even whole sections of former U.S. Highway 12 were buckled and impassable or missing, necessitating constant detours to avoid the problem spots.

“We should reach the outskirts of Technic City soon,” Captain Wargo replied.

The SEAL had been on the road for three days, three relatively uneventful days of traveling while the sun was up and pulling over to rest at night. They deliberately skirted the larger cities in their path, knowing from painful experience such urban centers were invariably dominated by violent street gangs or other hostile parties. The smaller towns and hamlets they encountered were usually devoid of life and in abject disrepair. Three towns did show signs of current habitation, but the occupants had obviously fled at the sight of the gargantuan green SEAL, its huge tires, tinted body, sophisticated solar panels, and militaristic contours all lending an ominous aspect to its appearance.

Blade was behind the steering wheel. Across from him, on the other side of a console, Captain Wargo was seated in the other bucket seat.

Hickok and Geronimo occupied a wide seat behind the bucket seats. The rear of the SEAL was devoted to storage space for their supplies.

“Technic City?” Hickok spoke up. “I thought we’re headin’ for Chicago?”

“Chicago was renamed long ago,” Captain Wargo said, “although some people still refer to it by that antiquated name.”

“You didn’t tell us this earlier,” Blade observed.

Wargo shrugged. “I didn’t think it was important.”

Blade repressed a frown. The more he came to know Wargo, the less he trusted the Technic. There was a sly, devious quality about the officer. So far, despite tactful probing by the three Warriors, Captain Wargo had stuck to his original story; the Technics wanted the Family’s assistance in retrieving the Genesis Seeds. Blade didn’t believe him for a moment, and had given orders for one of the Warriors to always be inside the SEAL even when they were parked for the night or taking “a nature break.” If Wargo intended to steal the SEAL, Blade wanted to insure the Technic never got the chance. But during their three-day journey Wargo had behaved himself.

Blade was beginning to wonder if he was wrong about the man.

“Our Minister is looking forward to seeing you,” Captain Wargo commented.

“Do tell,” Hickok quipped.

“He will reward you richly for your services,” Wargo said.

“We’ll be satisfied with our share of the Genesis Seeds,” Blade commented.

“Of course,” Captain Wargo said, grinning.

Blade wanted to punch the smug so-and-so right in the mouth.

“Will we be staying in Chicago… Technic City… long?” Geronimo asked.

“No,” Blade responded before Wargo could speak. “I want to reach New York City as quickly as possible.”

“There’s no rush,” Captain Wargo said pleasantly.

“There is for us,” Blade rejoined. “We want to get in, grab the Seeds, and get out. It’ll take us five days, maybe more, to reach New York. Another day to find the Seeds. Then five more days to Technic City and three more to the Home. All tolled, we’ll be gone from our Home about three weeks. I don’t like being away from the Home so long. The sooner we get back, the better.”

“I can appreciate your feelings,” Captain Wargo said, “but some things can’t be rushed. It may take us more than one day to locate the Genesis Seeds in New York.”

“You told us you know where they’re located,” Blade reminded him.

“We believe we know,” Captain Wargo amended his statement. “We think our earlier teams did find the building they’re in, but we really won’t know for certain until we descend to the underground vault and examine it.”

“Terrific!” Hickok muttered. “We come all this way, and it could all be a wild-goose chase!”

Captain Wargo twisted in his seat and glanced at each of them. “Don’t you understand how important this is?”

Hickok chuckled. “How can we forget with you remindin’ us every two seconds?”

Captain Wargo’s jaw muscles tightened. “I’m sorry if I seem to dwell on the subject, but the future of mankind is at stake.”

Geronimo suddenly leaned forward, pointing directly ahead. “Do you see what I see?”

Blade nodded. He’d seen it too. A giant metal fence across the highway ahead, its gleaming strands stretching into the distance on both sides of U.S. Highway 12.

“What the dickens is that?” Hickok queried.

As the SEAL drew nearer, Blade could ascertain more details. The fence was 15 feet high and tipped with four strands of barbed wire. Bright gray in color, the fence was a heavy-gauge mesh affair with peculiar metallic lobes or balls imbedded in the mesh at ten yard intervals. Each of these globes was a yard in diameter.

“You’d better slow down,” Captain Wargo advised. “They’re expecting us, but they might not recognize the SEAL and open fire.”

Blade could see a gate in the fence, and behind the gate, which was constructed of the same mesh as the fence, reared a huge guard tower.

Over 30 feet in height and positioned on the left side of the road, it was manned with machine guns and several figures in uniform.

“You can stop now,” Captain Wargo directed.

Blade applied the brakes, bringing the transport to a halt ten yards from the gate. “Do you have a fence blocking every road into the city?” he asked.

“We have a fence completely encircling the city,” Captain Wargo answered.

“You mean this fence goes all the way around Chicago?” Hickok asked the Technic.

“Technic City is surrounded by this fence,” Captain Wargo said. “It was built to keep unwanted intruders out. Do you see those regulators in the fence?”

“Those big metal balls?” Hickok stated.

“Yes. They’re precision voltage regulators. Our fence is electrified with one million volts of electricity. If you were to so much as tap on the fence, you’d be fried to a crisp within seconds,” Captain Wargo told them.

“One million volts?” Blade’s mind was boggled by this revelation. The Family owned a functioning generator confiscated from soldiers in Thief River Falls, but fuel was scarce and they only used the generator on special occasions. Normally, they utilized candles and fires for their nightly illumination, and their plows and wagons ran on literal horsepower. The Civilized Zone produced electricity for its larger cities and towns, but their power plants were few and far between, their equipment outdated, and they suffered periodic outages on a regular basis.

“Perhaps you would like to visit one of our generating facilities?”

Captain Wargo asked.

“How many do you have?” Blade inquired.

“Two. Between them, they produce more electricity than we can use.

Most of it is diverted to our Atomospheric Control Stations.”

“Incredible!” Blade acknowledged.

Captain Wargo reached for the door handle. “If you don’t mind, I will have the guards open the gate.”

“Go ahead,” Blade said.

Captain Wargo exited the SEAL and walked toward the gate.

“You reckon that varmint was tellin’ the truth about one million volts in that fence?” Hickok asked.

“Why don’t you touch the fence and find out?” Geronimo cracked.

Blade looked at the gunman. “I believe him,” he said.

Hickok whistled. “If they can spare a million volts for a measly fence, what’s it gonna be like in there?”

“We’ll soon know,” Blade commented, poking his head outside.

Captain Wargo approached the gate, his arms upraised until he stopped in front of it. He conversed with someone on the tower stairway, and within moments the gate was thrown open, clearing a wide path for the SEAL. Captain Wargo turned and waved, beckoning them forward.

“Stay alert,” Blade cautioned his companions. He drove the SEAL to the gate and braked.

Captain Wargo climbed inside. “They’ve radioed the Minister. He’ll be expecting us.”

Hickok, studying the guard tower, suddenly gave a start and opened his mouth as if to speak. Instead, his eyes narrowed and he placed his right thumb on the hammer of his Henry, snuggled in his lap.

Blade accelerated, the transport cruising through the gate and into the unknown.

U.S. Highway 12 underwent a fantastic transformation, from a neglected roadway abused by over a century of abandonment to a perfectly preserved asphalt surface complete with white and yellow lines down the center of the highway.

Captain Wargo noticed the surprise flicker over the giant Warrior’s features. “All of the roads in Technic City are maintained in excellent condition,” he remarked.

Blade spotted a line of low buildings, perhaps 250 yards from the fence.

Between the electrified fence and the buildings was a field of green grass, the grass interspersed with yellow, red, and blue flowers. Butterflies flitted in the air.

Captain Wargo indicated the field. “Looks peaceful, doesn’t it?”

“Yes,” Blade replied. “What is it, a park of some kind?”

Captain Wargo laughed. “No. It’s a mine field.”

“A mine field?” Blade repeated.

“It’s our secondary line of defense,” Captain Wargo explained. “Should any attackers get past the fence, they’d have to cross a field dotted with thousands of mines. The field, like the fence, surrounds the city.”

Blade stared at a patch of flowers, pondering. If the mine field was intended to keep enemies out, then why wasn’t it located outside the electrified fence? Why place it inside, where an unwary citizen, child, or pet could stumble into it and be blown to kingdom come? The mine field’s position didn’t make any sense—unless it was intended to keep people in.

The SEAL reached the line of buildings.

“These are individual residential structures,” Captain Wargo detailed.

The buildings were unlike any Blade had ever seen, including those in the Civilized Zone. While the homes in the Civilized Zone were made of brick or wood or steel, these were composed of a synthetic compound similar to the SEAL’s plastic body. Each building was only one-story high, and they were characterized by a diversity of colors and shapes with circles, squares, and triangles predominating. Windows were tinted in different shades. Yards were meticulously kept up, replete with cultivated gardens and lush green grass. The setting was tranquil, ideal for family life.

Only one thing was missing.

People.

“Guards,” Hickok warned.

Blade saw four soldiers ahead and slowed.

“It’s just a checkpoint,” Captain Wargo declared. “You can keep going.”

Blade drove past the quartet of troopers, who snapped to attention and saluted as the transport passed.

“Flashing lights coming this way,” Geronimo announced. “Three of them.”

Vehicles of some sort were rapidly approaching from the east.

“Don’t worry,” Captain Wargo assured them. “It’s just our escort.”

“We need an escort?” Blade asked.

“Trust me,” Captain Wargo said. “You’ll understand better in a couple of minutes.”

The vehicles turned out to be blue cycles. Blade had seen motorcycles before, but not like these. Instead of two wheels, each blue cycle had three.

Their frames sat lower to the ground than the two-wheelers, and each one was outfitted with a miniature windshield. Riders in light blue uniforms with blue helmets were on each bike, and they guided their tri-wheelers with expert skill and precision, wheeling into a tight U-turn in front of the SEAL and assuming a line across the highway. The red and blue flashing lights were affixed to the front of the tri-wheelers, directly above the single front wheel.

“They’re Technic police,” Captain Wargo stated. “Just follow them and they’ll clear the road.”

“What the blazes are they drivin’?” Hickok asked.

“Trikes,” Captain Wargo responded. “Be careful you don’t squish ’em,” Hickok told Blade. “Our tires are bigger than them teensy contraptions.”

“There’s a reason for that,” Captain Wargo said.

“I’d love to hear it,” Hickok mentioned.

“You’ll see in a bit,” Captain Wargo said.

The Technic police gunned their trikes, and Blade fell in behind them.

They traveled for over a mile, passing hundreds of seemingly vacant residential structures.

“You’re about to see why we need your help,” C’aptain Wargo commented.

“How do you mean?” Blade asked.

“While our technology is superior to anyone else’s,” Captain Wargo bragged, “we don’t possess unlimited resources. Our vehicles reflect our dilemma. Ahhh. Here. You’ll see.”

The Technic police had braked at an intersection.

Blade did likewise, scanning the area ahead, stunned by the sight before them.

Another quartet of soldiers was stationed at the intersection, two of them standing to the right, two to the left, idly watching the traffic. And traffic there was! Vehicle after vehicle. Red, brown, yellow, purple, green, black; every color in the rainbow and more. But they weren’t the traditional vehicles Blade had observed elsewhere. The Warriors had appropriated a number of jeeps and trucks during the war against the Civilized Zone. Most of those had been returned after the two sides signed a peace treaty. President Toland had given two troop transports and two jeeps to Plato as a gesture of good will, but they were driven sparingly for two reasons. Plato didn’t want the Family to develop a dependence on motorized transportation after more than a century without any, and, secondly, although the Civilized Zone operated a few refineries, their fuel output was minimal and barely served their own needs, restricting the scant amounts they could trade with the Family. So, while Blade was familiar with jeeps and trucks and cars, and knew traffic in large cities in the Civilized Zone was quite heavy, none of his prior experience had prepared him for this!

Trikes were the order of the day. Thousands upon thousands. Another vehicle, a cycle similar to a trike but with four wheels, was also in plentiful evidence. The four-wheelers had two seats, front and back, and could seat up to six occupants. The trikes and four-wheelers packed the highways.

Each road appeared to handle traffic flowing in only one direction. The intersection would have been a madhouse, except for a yellow traffic light suspended above the middle of the junction, its red, yellow, and green lights apparently signaling directions to the drivers. When the traffic light facing one of the roads was red. Blade noticed, the vehicles on that road would stop. When the light was green, the trikes and four-wheelers would resume their travel.

“I don’t believe it!” Geronimo said.

“Now you see what I meant,” Captain Wargo stated. “We lack the resources to provide cars and trucks for our citizens, so we do the next best thing. Cycles don’t require unlimited raw material, and they consume far less fuel than cars or trucks. We can manufacture enough cycles for everyone at a fraction of the cost a full-sized vehicle would demand.”

“Does everyone own a cycle?” Blade asked, half in jest.

“Everyone of legal age, yes,” Captain Wargo answered.

“Doesn’t anybody around here know how to walk?” Mickok joked.

“Why walk when technology can provide a preferable alternative?”

Captain Wargo responded. “Besides, vagrancy is illegal.”

“Are you tellin’ me it’s against the law to walk?” Hickok inquired.

“Of course not!” Captain Wargo said, scoffing at the idea. “You can walk anywhere, anytime. Of course, you need to obtain the proper permit first.”

“Of course,” Hickok said.

Blade faced the Technic officer. “Why is there only traffic on the other three roads? Why are we the only ones on this one?”

“It should be obvious,” Wargo said. “This road is an exit road. It leads to the fence. Why would anyone want to use this road?”

“What if they want to leave Technic City?” Blade queried.

“No one leaves the city,” Captain Wargo said archly. “Why should they want to leave? You know how dangerous it is out there. We didn’t have much trouble because even the wild animals and the mutants fled from the SEAL. But for someone on foot, it would be certain suicide.”

“They could use a trike or four-wheeler,” Blade suggested.

“Taking a vehicle outside of the city is strictly forbidden,” Captain Wargo said, “unless you get a permit beforehand.”

“Of course,” Hickok interjected sarcastically.

For the briefest instant, a fleeting rage burned in Wargo’s eyes. The look vanished as swiftly as it appeared.

The three Technic police abruptly pulled ahead, their lights flashing and their sirens sounding. All traffic ground to a halt, leaving the intersection free of vehicles. The Technic police headed due east, and it was as if a huge hand were parting a sea of cycles. The trikes and four-wheelers scooted to the sides of the highway, some to the left and some to the right, opening an aisle for the Technic police and the SEAL.

“Follow them,” Captain Wargo directed.

Blade complied. He gazed at the vehicles lining the sides of the road and received a rude shock. Instead of staring at the SEAL, as any ordinary, curious person would do, the occupants of the trikes and four-wheelers averted their faces, deliberately turning away from the transport.

Or were they turning away from the police?

Blade was feeling distinctly uneasy. Something was definitely wrong here, but he couldn’t put his finger on the exact cause. He doubted the Warriors were in any real danger; none of the troopers or vehicles they had seen so far could pose any threat to the SEAL. The transport’s shatterproof structure could easily withstand small-arms fire. And the trikes and four-wheelers would be as fleas assaulting a grizzly if they endeavored to impede the SEAL. The Warriors were safe for the time being, but realizing the fact didn’t dispel his nervousness.

The scenery shifted, the residential buildings being replaced by larger edifices, up to four stories high and covering several acres. They were either white, gray, or black.

“This is part of our manufacturing sector,” Captain Wargo informed them.

Blade recalled seeing photographs in the Family library depicting prewar industry. “Where are the smokestacks?” he asked. “And how do you keep your factories so clean? I thought they were usually gritty and grimy, and made a lot of noise. Yours are so quiet.”

Captain Wargo smiled. “You’re comparing our modern, computerized, transistorized, and miniaturized factories to the obsolete monoliths prevalent before World War III. That’s like comparing worms to shrimp.

There just is no comparison,” he stated with pride.

Worms to shrimp? What a strange analogy! Blade watched as the Technic police continued to part the traffic ahead. “This doesn’t look like the Chicago I remember reading about when I was little,” he commented.

“It isn’t,” Captain Wargo declared. “We rebuilt it from the ground up.

The old ways were wasteful, inefficient. They deserved to be replaced.”

Wargo paused and looked at the passing factories. “Chicago wasn’t hit during the war, but a lot of the city was damaged by the looters, the hordes of scavengers, the roving gangs, and the mutants after the war was over. When the Technics came to power, they knew they had to rebuild from scratch. Out with the old and in with the new.”

“It must have taken an immense work force to accomplish all of this,” Blade mentioned.

Wargo grinned and waved his right hand to the right and the left. “As you can see, our work force now numbers in the millions.”

“All of these people?” Blade inquired, glancing at the ocean of humanity lining both sides of the highway.

“All of them. It’s against the law for anyone not to work. Being unemployed is a major crime,” Captain Wargo disclosed.

“What about your children?” Geronimo entered their conversation.

“What about them?” Wargo replied.

“Where are they?” Geronimo probed. “I didn’t see any playing in the yards in the residential area. Where are they?”

“Depends on their age,” Captain Wargo said. “Those over twelve hold down full-time jobs. Those under twelve are in school.”

“What about the infants?” Geronimo asked.

“They’re in school,” Captain Wargo reiterated.

“Even those two years old?” Geronimo questioned.

“Compulsory day-care begins at six months,” Captain Wargo said.

“Six months?” Geronimo exchanged astonished looks with Hickok.

“How do the parents feel about that?”

“They don’t have any say in the matter,” Wargo replied.

“You mean the young’uns are stuck in day-care whether the parents like it or not?” Hickok demanded.

Wargo snorted. “Parents! What the hell do they know! The government knows what’s best for the children, not the parents. We don’t place the same emphasis on parenting your Family does.”

“Do tell,” Hickok retorted.

“In fact,” Captain Wargo began, then hesitated, debating the wisdom of finishing his sentence. He shrugged and went on. “In fact, our children aren’t raised by their natural parents.”

“What?” Blade joined in.

“Biological bonding inhibits their effectiveness as productive citizens,” Captain Wargo said. “The kids are brought up by appointed surrogate parents. This way, we avoid all that messy emotional garbage other societies are tainted with.”

“I think they call that garbage love,” Blade remarked icily.

“Don’t take offense at our system,” Captain Wargo stated. “Just because it’s different than yours doesn’t mean we can’t live together in peace.”

Blade’s fingers tightened on the steering wheel. An intense revulsion swept over him. These Technics were worse than the government of the Civilized Zone had once been, and the Civilized Zone had been ruled by a dictator! How could they forcibly take innocent children away from their parents? How could they intentionally deprive the children of the caring and sharing during their formative years, qualities so essential to their later adult life? What kind of mon—

What in the world was that?!

The building was tremendous in size and magnificent in design. Ten stories in height, it reared skyward from its wide base and tapered to a point. The base was two acres in circumference, the structure progressively narrowing as it ascended. Its sides shone in the sunlight, resembling scintillating crystal. The doors lining the base were gold plated, as were the frames of all the windows. The sheer brilliance of the building dazzled the senses.

“Wow!” Hickok exclaimed.

“It’s our Central Core,” Captain Wargo revealed. “The seat of our government. Our Minister resides within.”

“Are there any more of these?” Blade asked, dum-founded.

Captain Wargo laughed. “No. All administrative functions are handled from here.”

“You say the Minister is waitin’ for us in there?” Hickok inquired.

“A banquet will be held in your honor tonight,” Captain Wargo answered. “We have quite a reception planned for you.”

“Only two of us will be able to attend,” Blade stated.

“Why can’t all three of you come?” Wargo inquired politely.

“One of us must stay with the SEAL,” Blade replied.

“The Minister will be very disappointed,” Wargo commented.

“One of us must stay with the SEAL,” Blade stressed.

Captain Wargo shrugged. “Whatever you want. But I don’t see why you can’t lock the doors and leave the SEAL unattended. It will be safe, I assure you.”

“Thanks, but no,” Blade said.

The Technic police reached a spacious parking lot surrounding the Central Core. Trikes and four-wheelers were parked in droves, and mixed among them were a few jeeps and trucks.

“What are those?” Hickok asked, leaning forward. “You said you didn’t make them.”

“I never said that,” Captain Wargo answered. “We don’t produce them in quantity, but we do have a few. Trikes and four-wheelers can’t serve all our needs.”

Blade followed the police escort into the parking lot. The area was crawling with men and women in blue uniform. Civilians filled the sidewalks, hurrying to and fro, engaged in their daily activities.

“Pull in there,” Captain Wargo instructed, pointing at a wide expanse of parking lot devoid of trikes. It was situated in front of the middle of the Central Core, not far from a pair of gold doors. “It’s been reserved for you.”

Blade drove to the spot indicated and braked, aligning the transport so the front end faced the Central Core.

The trio of Technic police positioned their trikes around the SEAL.

They were joined by dozens of others, some coming from the parking lot, others from the Central Core. Within minutes, they had formed into a blue phalanx enclosing the SEAL on four sides.

“See?” Captain Wargo said. “No one will bother the SEAL.”

“Not even if they get a permit first?” Hickok quipped.

Captain Wargo’s right hand surreptitiously moved to his rear pocket.

He slid his fingers inside and clasped a brown plastic ball with a solitary red button. Slowly, proceeding cautiously, he removed the object and eased his hand toward the floor.

Blade turned in his seat. “Geronimo, you stay here and keep an eye on the SEAL. Keep the doors locked. You know what to do,” he said meaningfully.

Geronimo nodded. “The SEAL is in good hands. Don’t worry.”

Blade nodded. “Hickok, you’re with me.”

Hickok patted his Henry. “Like a shadow.”

Captain Wargo opened his door. “Whenever you’re ready?”

“My Commando,” Blade said to the gunman.

Hickok twisted and reached over the back of his seat into the rear section. Blade’s Commando was lying on top of the pile of food, ammunition, and spare clothing.

He grabbed it by the barrel and swung it around.

“Here.”

Blade took the gun. “Thanks. Let’s go.” He threw his door open and dropped to the ground.

Hickok followed suit.

“Last chance to change your mind,” Captain Wargo said to Geronimo with a friendly smile, while his right hand crept under his bucket seat.

“I must stay here,” Geronimo replied.

Captain Wargo nodded. “Suit yourself. You’ll miss some great food, though.” He pressed the red button on the plastic ball and gently placed it on the floor under the seat. “See you later.” He clambered from the transport and closed the door.

Blade and Hickok walked to the front of the SEAL, next to the grill, their weapons at the ready, and waited for the Technic officer to reach them.

“You’re in for a treat,” Captain Wargo announced as he led the way toward the Central Core.

Blade glanced over his left shoulder and saw Geronimo locking the doors and rolling up the widows. Good. There was no way the Technics could break into the transport with the doors and windows secure, leaving Geronimo as snug as the proverbial bug.

The Technic police, all at attention, parted, allowing Captain Wargo and the two Warriors to cross the parking lot to the sidewalk and reach the gold doors.

“Is this real gold?” Hickok asked.

“We don’t believe in imitations,” Wargo cryptically responded. He extended his left arm and touched one of a series of buttons in a panel to the left of the doors. Immediately, the doors hissed open. “Pneumatically controlled,” he said for their benefit, and entered.

Blade paused, examining the layout. Ahead was a huge foyer or lobby, lavishly adorned, but oddly empty. Across the room was a row of cubicles with lighted numerals projecting from the wall overhead.

The gunman also noted the cubicles. “I know what they are,” Hickok said. “I’ve seen ’em before. They’re called elevators.”

Captain Wargo walked across the lobby toward the elevators.

Blade and Hickok tentatively tagged after the officer.

“We’ll take an elevator up to the reception room,” Wargo said. He strode to the righthand elevator and stepped inside.

Blade and Hickok, constantly surveying the lobby, staying side by side, stepped up to the elevator.

“Can’t we take some stairs?” Blade asked.

“Climb ten floors?” Captain Wargo replied. He snickered. “You can, if you want to. But I’m not about to climb ten flights when there’s an elevator handy.”

Blade hesitated, then entered the elevator.

Hickok strolled in, studying the overhead light, the bank of lit buttons on the right side, and the small grill in the center of the floor.

Captain Wargo smiled reassuringly. “There’s nothing to be nervous about. Believe me, you’ll never know this ride took place.” His right hand stabbed one of the buttons.

The elevator door started to close. And that’s when it happened.

Captain Wargo dived, his arms outstretched. His hurtling form narrowly missed the closing door.

Blade leveled the Commando, but the gunman was faster. The Henry boomed, but the closing door intervened, the slug hitting the edge of the door and careening outside.

The elevator door slammed shut.

“Blast!” Hickok fumed. “We’re trapped!”

Blade pounded on the right wall, then the door. “They’re too thick to break through,” he commented methodically.

Hickok stared straight up. “What about the light?”

Blade inspected the overhead light. It was rectangular, about two feet in width. A man might be able to squeeze—

There was a loud thump from underneath the elevator.

“What the blazes was that?” Hickok asked.

“I don’t know,” Blade said.

Another distinct thump sounded.

“I don’t like this, pard,” Hickok remarked.

“We walked right into this one,” Blade admitted, frowning. “I think they’re after the SEAL, but they’ll never get it. I left the keys inside with Geronimo.”

“I hope you’re right,” Hickok stated, bending over to peer at the buttons. “Should I push one of these?”

“Go for it.”

Hickok punched the button marked OPEN.

Nothing happened. “Uh-oh,” the gunman said.

Blade, scrutinizing the overhead light, felt a slight burning sensation in his nostrils.

“A bullet would ricochet off these walls,” Hickok was saying. “Say, do you smell somethin’?”

Blade glanced down.

Curling, wispy white tendrils were emanating from the grill in the elevator floor. They rose toward the ceiling, spreading, congealing into a cloudy mass.

Damn! Blade crouched and laid his hands over the small grill, striving to cover the slits with his fingers and stifle the smoke. He was only partially successful. The smoke continued to seep out, filling the elevator.

“What a lousy way to go!” Hickok said, and coughed. His eyes were watering, his nose tingling, and his lungs gasping for fresh air.

Blade was feeling dizzy. He weaved unsteadily and put his left hand over his mouth and nose.

“Do… you… think it’s… poisonous?” Hickok asked, doubling over and collapsing on his knees.

“Don’t… know,” Blade croaked, his throat parched and raspy.

The elevator was a muggy, misty white haze.

Blade’s legs buckled and he fell to the floor. He wished he could apologize to Hickok. He’d stupidly led the gunman into a trap any amateur would have avoided. There was only one consolation. The bastards would never get the SEAL. Geronimo was locked inside safe and sound.

It served the bastards right!

Blade struggled to rise, but his limbs refused to obey, and he pitched onto his face with a protracted sigh.