Twin Cities Run

Chapter Three

In the quiet hours of early morning, an hour before sunrise, a figure dressed in black, including a mask to conceal his face, hastily crossed the field west of the Home and reached the wall undetected. He took several seconds to listen, gripping the rope and the steel hook in his right hand. A black holster hung on his left hip, containing a special automatic pistol of indeterminate origin. Fastened to his belt above his right hip was a black pouch, filled with the essential items required for his nocturnal mission: the plastic explosive, the detonator, and the timer.

The saboteur knew a guard, one of the Warriors, patrolled the wall above his head, but the Warrior on duty was well north of his position and wouldn’t return for a minimum of five minutes, allowing ample opportunity for him to scale the wall.

Moving swiftly, expertly, the man swung the steel hook in an ever-enlarging circle. At the proper instant, maintaining optimum speed and calculating the precise angle, he flung the grappling hook upward and was rewarded for his effort when the hook caught in the barbed wire on top of the wall.

The man in black hurriedly climbed the rope, effortlessly hauling his powerful frame to the lip of the brick wall. He paused to ascertain the Warrior’s location, then deftly parted the barbed wire and crawled under the sharp barbs.

The compound below was deserted.

The saboteur was lying on the wall, only ten feet north of the drawbridge. On each side of the closed drawbridge, crossing over the flowing moat, supported by sturdy beams, wooden steps led from the wall to the ground. The commando ran down the nearest stairs and dropped flat, listening to determine if he’d been detected.

The Family Home was silent, except for the chirping of the crickets and the singing of the birds.

The figure in black knew the layout of the Home by rote. The six concrete blocks were spaced one hundred yards apart, forming a perfect triangle, with A Block, as the Family called the southernmost structure, forming one point. Next came B Block, one hundred yards to the northwest. Third, C Block, was another one hundred yards northwest of B Block, and the western tip of the triangle, situated the closest to the drawbridge. D Block was a hundred yards east of C Block, followed by E Block on the eastern point. One hundred yards southwest of E Block was F Block, and the triangle was completed by A Block. The commando also knew the purpose of each of the Blocks. A Block was the armory, B the sleeping quarters for unmarried Family members, C Block, the infirmary, D Block was the construction area and carpentry shop, E was the library, and F Block was used for storing agricultural supplies and preserving and preparing the Family food.

The saboteur darted across the compound and safely reached the corner of C Block. He entertained the notion of using his explosive on the Blocks, but disregarded the idea. His superiors were quite specific in their orders, and he dared not disobey. Not if he valued his life. No, the Blocks weren’t his target. He was after the SEAL. Cautiously, he peeked around the corner and spotted the vehicle parked in the center of the cleared area between the Blocks. It was exactly where the infrared had revealed it would be.

Smiling under his mask, the commando jogged toward the transport, keeping his body low, minimizing his profile. This assignment was proceeding smoothly. He’d be able to achieve his objective and depart before these dimwits knew what hit them!

Someone coughed, and the dark figure dropped and flattened. He could see a Family member coming from the direction of D Block, heading his way. What the hell was someone doing up so early? He held his breath and tensed, hoping the fool would bypass him.

The early bird continued walking directly toward him.

He could not afford to waste precious time. Slowly, he eased the pistol from its holster and sighted on the approaching person, a man. When the unsuspecting victim was fifteen yards distant, he squeezed the trigger and watched as the heavy slug ripped through the man’s chest and knocked him to the turf. The silenced pistol produced a slight whishing noise.

Satisfied with his shot and positive the Family member was dead, the commando bolstered the pistol and stood. Timing for this venture was critical. He’d been instructed to insure the explosion occurred an hour after sunrise, when the area would be packed with the members of the Family. They invariably congregated here after first light to engage in their morning worship.

The saboteur casually walked to the SEAL, forcing his nerves to remain calm. No one would realize he wasn’t a Family member until they were right on top of him, and he wasn’t about to let any of them get that close.

The Warrior on the west wall was gazing at the field and the forest beyond, unaware an intruder was in the compound.

Grinning, the commando reached the vehicle and crouched next to the front tire on the driver’s side. The tires were huge, the body of the SEAL resting several feet off the ground. He reached into his pouch and removed the packet of plastic explosive.

“Are you the new chauffeur?” a deep voice behind him asked.

Instinctively, the saboteur dropped the packet and whirled, going for his automatic. He recognized the wavy hair and massive muscles belonging to the one they called Blade, their chief Warrior, and he marveled at the stealth displayed, the skill necessary to sneak up on him, even as he drew the pistol.

Blade lunged, grabbing the man in black by the wrists and hauling him to his feet. His shoulders and arms rippling, Blade twisted his opponent’s left wrist. “Drop it, or I’ll snap your wrists!” he barked.

In response, the commando slammed his right knee into Blade’s groin area.

Blade grunted, then savagely wrenched on the left wrist he held, bending it back. The pistol fell to the grass, and Blade forcefully smashed his foe into the SEAL. “I want some answers from you, and I want them now!”

The commando was an expert at his craft. He swept his forehead back and up, driving it against Blade’s chin, momentarily stunning the Warrior and causing him to relax his grasp. The saboteur moved swiftly, putting his left foot behind Blade’s ankles and heaving, knocking the Warrior to the ground. He wrenched his hands free from Blade’s clutches and dove for his pistol.

Blade rolled to his feet, drawing his right Bowie and throwing, the keen blade imbedding itself in the commando’s left shoulder as he picked up the pistol. The man in black spun and fell onto his back, still clinging to the automatic. Before Blade could reach him, he tossed the pistol from his left hand to his right, flicking a small lever above the trigger from SINGLE to FULL AUTO.

His body moving with incredible speed for one so large, Blade dove under the transport, seeking the protection of the SEAL’S bulletproof body.

The commando fired as he rose to his knees, the bullets striking the vehicle and ricocheting off, the slugs missing Blade by a fraction as he disappeared from view. Leaning over, the saboteur peered under the transport, his pistol at the ready. There was no sign of the red-headed Warrior. Stymied, the man in black rose, resisting the excruciating pain in his injured shoulder, and alertly moved around the SEAL, surmising Blade was hiding behind one of the large tires.

The Warrior was gone.

The saboteur calmly scanned the area, puzzled. The closest cover, a stand of trees, was at least twenty-five yards away. Blade couldn’t possibly have reached those trees. But where could he be? The commando knew he must eliminate the Warrior before departing the Home. Leaving no witnesses was a prime directive. His shoulder was throbbing, but he ignored the agony, sweat beading his brow under the wool mask. An operative of his expertise was thoroughly trained, including intensive courses on the conscious suppression of pain. The mission came first; nothing else mattered.

The Warrior must be circling the vehicle.

Treading softly, the commando eased around the rear of the SEAL, his automatic ready.

Again, no one.

Stumped, the figure in black crouched and looked under the transport one more time. Where the hell was Blade? As he slowly straightened, the saboteur saw the ladder leading to the roof of the SEAL. At his briefing—was it just ten hours ago?—he was told the Family vehicle was solar powered, so the metal rungs must permit anyone to climb to the roof and inspect the collectors…

The roof!

Sensing he was too late, the commando spun, aiming his pistol upward.

The Warrior was perched at the edge of the roof, his other Bowie already in his hand. He swept his arm down, and the heavy knife flew, slicing into the saboteur’s throat and ripping through his jugular.

Gasping, the commando dropped the pistol and stumbled to his knees.

In vain, he attempted to pull the Bowie from his neck. Blood was flowing over his chest, thick, rich streams of red.

Blade jumped from the top of the SEAL, landing lightly beside his foe.

Gurgling, the man in black looked up at Blade, his eyes pleading for aid.

“There’s nothing I can do,” Blade informed him.

The saboteur sobbed, his eyes beginning to glaze.

“You shouldn’t have shot one of my Family,” Blade stated grimly. “I just spotted him from the roof. No one harms one of our Family and gets away with it!”

The man in black was past hearing. He toppled to the grass, the only sound the peculiar squishing noise his throat made as the blood continued to flow.

Blade turned and ran to the fallen Family member. The sun was beginning to make its presence known. Although the fiery orb was still below the horizon, the sky was becoming lighter.

Who was it?

Blade reached the man and stopped, sadness filling his heart. His assumption proved correct; poor Brian was shot in the heart. Brian was charged with keeping the drawbridge in flawless operating condition. Last evening, while enjoying conversation around a fire, he’d mentioned he was going to rise early and perform some work on the massive mechanism required for raising and lowering the drawbridge. His wife would be devastated.

Why?

Blade clenched his ponderous fists and glared at the rising sun. His sinewy body, fully recuperated after six weeks of rest and rehabilitation, assumed a posture of defiance, his square chin jutting outward. The late August air was cool and refreshing.

Why, Oh Spirit, was it necessary for Brian to die? Why was constant hardship and struggle the lot of those still toiling to wring a living from the hostile land? Maybe Hickok was right. A person should take what they could get while the getting was good. Look at Joshua. He was continually striving to live spiritually, and his inner turmoil never ceased. The run to Thief River Falls had been a horrifying experience for Joshua, yet Hickok had enjoyed himself immensely. Hickok craved action, Joshua longed for peace. They were living, sterling examples of diametrically opposed viewpoints. Which one of them was right? Hickok? Or Joshua? The preeminent gunfighter or the spirit child of a Cosmic Creator? Or was the answer lying somewhere between the two extremes, somewhere…

Footsteps sounded behind him.

Blade whirled, mentally lambasting himself for leaving his Bowies in the corpse. The Commando and the Vegas were in B Block, but he still carried the Solingens, the daggers, and his Buck knife. His right hand gripped one of the throwing knives as he turned, expecting another attacker.

It was Plato.

“Commendable reflexes,” Plato remarked. “I saw the body near the SEAL…” He stopped, his eyes resting on the form in the grass beside Blade. “Who…” he began, then he recognized Brian.

“It’s Brian,” Blade stated needlessly.

“Oh, dear Lord, no!” Plato said quietly, the wrinkles on his face etched in an expression of profound sorrow. “Not Brian!”

“Afraid so.” Blade placed his left arm around Plato’s narrow shoulders.

“How did it happen?” Plato asked.

“I didn’t see it,” Blade replied, “but I surmise the guy in black did it.

Brian was probably on his way to the shop. He said he wanted to get an early start on some work on the drawbridge, and you know how conscientious he was.”

“I know,” Plato affirmed sadly.

“It will be a while before the Family is all up and about,” Blade mentioned. “I better remove the body. No need for any of the children to be exposed to this.”

“We have some time first,” Plato said. “I need to talk with you.”

Blade nodded. “I have some things I want to say to you too, but you go first.”

“Any idea why the man in black was here?” Plato questioned.

“Not yet,” Blade admitted. “Let’s check.”

They walked to the body of the interloper and Blade knelt, searching the man’s pockets and his pouch.

“Anything?” Plato inquired.

“Nope.” Blade shook his head. “No identification of any sort. Just his pistol and these two devices in his pouch. One looks like a timing device of some kind. Don’t know what the other thing is.”

“What does he look like?” Plato asked, pointing at the mask.

Blade pulled the woolen mask over the dead man’s face. The stranger had been young, maybe thirty, with brown hair cropped close to his head and a scar on his left cheek.

“Reminds me of a military-style haircut,” Plato remarked.

Blade stood and stepped back. He spotted something lying near a front tire, crossed to it, and read the label as he picked it up. “Explosive,” he read aloud. “Issue number two-three-seven-seven.”

Plato took the packet and studied it. “Thank the Spirit you were able to prevent him from completing his task. We would be lost without the SEAL.”

“Thank yourself,” Blade corrected as Plato pocketed the packet.

“What do you mean?” his mentor inquired.

“You were the one who told me last night we were to leave today. I was here so early because I was too antsy to sleep. I decided to activate the solar panels so we would have a full charge in those unique batteries Carpenter spent a fortune developing.” Using his key, he unlocked the front door and threw a red lever located under the center of the dashboard.

Plato’s brow was furrowed as he contemplated the implications. Finally, he glanced at Blade. “I still want Alpha Triad and Joshua to depart this afternoon for the Twin Cities.”

“Are you nuts?” Blade countered.

Plato smiled. “Thoroughly sane, thank you very much.”

“You know what I mean,” Blade said, annoyed. “Think about the potential for harm to the Family with one of the Warrior Triads out on another run. Before we left the last time, you said there was a power-monger in the Family, an aspiring dictator, someone who wants to forcibly remove you from your position as our Leader. Then there are the Watchers. We know very little about them, except they’re deadly and engaged in some sort of containment strategy. They don’t seem to want anyone running loose over the countryside. Add these factors up and you’ll have to agree we should remain here.”

“I do not agree,” Plato replied.

“You are nuts!” Blade snapped.

“Bear with me a moment,” Plato patiently advised. “Granted, you voice serious concerns. I still refuse to reveal the identity of the power-monger, but if it will make you any happier, I promise I will give you his name after you return from the Twin Cities. I still feel he isn’t a grave threat at this time, and you’ll simply need to trust my judgment.”

“What about the Watchers?” Blade quickly interjected.

“They haven’t bothered us in the past, so why should they start now?”

“This guy could be a Watcher, for all we know!” Blade countered, irritated by Plato’s complacency.

“True,” Plato acknowledged. “But if the Watchers are after our transport, and you take the SEAL with you, we won’t pose a threat to them until you return.”

“Sheer speculation!” Blade rejoined.

“Granted.” Plato sighed and leaned against the SEAL, easing the strain on his arthritic legs. “Until we acquire sufficient data, speculation is all we have. You know how deeply I love you, and I feel you reciprocate. If so, you must trust me in this matter. I firmly believe our beloved Family will be safe while you make a trip to the Twin Cities. Don’t tarry. Locate the equipment and supplies the Family needs and get back here as expeditiously as feasible.”

“I don’t know…” Blade hedged, unwilling to agree.

“Why do I have a distinct feeling of deja vu?” Plato asked.

“I wasn’t eager to leave last time,” Blade conceded. “I don’t like the idea of leaving now any better. In fact, I like it less.”

“We’ll still have three Warrior Triads guarding the Home,” Plato reminded Blade.

“Have the Elders picked any candidates for the new Triad we want to add?” Blade inquired.

“We’ve selected two of the applicants,” Plato answered, “but we have yet to decide on the third. We’ll announce them as soon as we do.”

Blade faced east, watching the rising sun. “I better get this body out of here.”

“You can place it in C Block,” Plato suggested.

Blade stooped, lifted the saboteur from the ground, and placed the black-garbed figure over his left shoulder. He casually strolled toward the infirmary.

Plato opted to tag along. “You certainly appear recovered from your injuries,” he observed.

Blade whacked his chest with his right palm. “Never better.”

“Hickok is also healed?” Plato asked.

“Far as I know,” Blade stated. “He was fine yesterday when I saw him playing tag with Star, the Indian girl he rescued before we left for the Twin Cities the last time.”

“I’ve noticed,” Plato mentioned, “that Geronimo has been spending a considerable amount of time with Star’s mother, Rainbow.”

Blade grinned. “I think the whole Family has noticed.”

They walked in a northwesterly direction toward C Block. Some members of the Family were up, but none close enough to perceive Blade was toting a body.

“I’d best hurry,” Blade said. “I still have to get Brian.” He ran ahead of Plato.

The Family Leader stopped and waited, watching as Blade entered the infirmary and exited a moment later without the corpse. Plato dreaded the prospect of informing Brian’s mate, Catherine, about his death and announcing it to the Family. Some aspects of leadership were utterly distasteful.

“Let’s get Brian,” Blade announced as he approached.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you a question,” Plato quickly asked as they hastened to Brian’s body.

“What is it?”

“Have you observed any…” Plato hesitated, searching for the right word.

“Any what?” Blade urged him.

“Any peculiar behavior on Nathan’s part?” Plato finished.

“Peculiar?” Blade repeated.

“Yes. Abnormal. Unusual. Out of character,” Plato elaborated.

“None to speak of,” Blade stated as he reached Brian and hefted him onto his shoulder. “Why?” They headed for C Block.

“Don’t you think he recovered a bit too fast from Joan’s demise?” Plato questioned.

Blade considered the query. Joan, a Warrior, had been killed by the Trolls. According to the gossip, Hickok and Joan had been very much in love, both for the first time. “I was there, remember?” Blade said to Plato.

“I saw how her death tore him apart.”

“At first,” Plato agreed. “Oh sure, he moped for a while, about a month. He was severely depressed up to the time he saved Rainbow and Star. Don’t you recall?”

“Now that you mention it,” Blade admitted, “I do. Right after that incident, he became surprisingly cheerful. And on the ride to Thief River Falls he was downright happy. Odd. I never paid any attention to it until just now.”

“You had weightier matters to handle,” Plato said. “I probably wouldn’t have noticed either. It was Joshua who brought it to my attention.”

“Joshua?”

“Yes. He is an Empath, after all. Our youngest and most inexperienced, to be certain, but still talented. Joshua told me he believes Hickok’s soul is in danger,” Plato intoned gravely.

“I’ll keep my eye on him,” Blade promised.

“Please do.”

They reached C Block and stopped.

“I must go see Catherine,” Plato stated, frowning. “Will you insure adequate provisions are loaded into the transport for your departure this afternoon?”

“No problem.”

“And tell Hickok, Geronimo, and Joshua so they may bid adieu to their loved ones beforehand.” Plato added, walking off.

“I will,” Blade promised. He entered the infirmary and gently positioned Brian’s limp form on one of the dozen cots, next to the one containing the intruder.

Another run. Blade thought of his darling Jenny and grimaced. Twice he’d ventured from the Home in the SEAL, and each time he’d left the safety and security afforded by the encircling brick walls he’d nearly lost his life. Would it happen again? Would his luck fail him this time around?

He was finding it harder and harder to leave Jenny. Maybe he should tell Plato to send one of the other Warriors. Rikki-Tikki-Tavi would be the logical choice. Rikki was a supremely skilled fighter, and he was well liked by both Hickok and Geronimo.

Blade moved to the doorway and peered out at the budding day. Jenny would be overjoyed if he remained, but how would the other Family members react? Would they speculate he was losing his nerve? Would they question his ability to lead the Warriors and, perhaps one day, lead the entire Family as Plato intended him to do? More to the point, how would Hickok and Geronimo take the news? They were more than his best friends, companions since childhood; the three of them together were a highly trained unit devoted to the protection of the Home and the preservation of the Family. Everyone knew of the creeping senility affecting the older Family members. How could the future of the Family be assured, the Family itself be preserved, when they were confronted by the bleak prospect of eventual extinction within several generations?

Blade sighed.

No. He had to go. All of his training, all of his instincts, and the pricking of his conscience prodded him to go.

“I need an edge, though,” he said aloud.

And he had one.

Plato expected Alpha Triad and Joshua to make this run to the Twin Cities. Well, one other person was going to make the trip.

Whether she wanted to or not.