David Robbins - Green Bay Run

Typical.

Just once, he mentally noted, he’d like for a mission to unfold without a hitch. Something always went wrong. Always. Whether he was on a run for the Family or on an assignment for the Freedom Force, the sequence of events never proceeded exactly as he planned. If a mission ever did go smoothly, he might not be able to stand the shock. The thought made him grin.

“Enjoying yourself?” Samson inquired.

“Are you kidding?” Blade responded. “Who wouldn’t have fun on one of our missions? We get to travel hundreds, sometimes thousands of miles from the ones we love the most. We go up against every wacko who comes down the pike. And we have to watch our back every minute of every day while we’re away.” He paused. “Who wouldn’t enjoy himself.”

“Forget I asked.”

Blade transferred the .44 Magnum to his left hand and extended his arm backwards out the open window, pointing the barrel in the general direction of the three jeeps, not really expecting to hit any of the Technics but hoping to slow them down. He squeezed off a shot and the Technic drivers, predictably, reduced speed.

A curve appeared several hundred yards to the east.

“Do you want me to try and nail them?” Samson queried.

“Save your ammo,” Blade advised, withdrawing his arm and sliding the Dan Wesson into its holster. He intended to round the curve, brake, and execute a sharp U-turn. When the Technics came into view, he’d cut loose with the 50-caliber machine guns.

The jeeps were still in hot pursuit.

“Why are there so many Technics this far from Green Bay?” Samson wondered aloud. “Why are they concentrating in this area?”

“My guess is they’re searching for someone,” Blade speculated.

“So you think that business about looking for a fugitive was legitimate?”

“Yeah. And if we can find this fugitive before the Technics, maybe we can learn a lot more about their activities in Green Bay,” Blade said. He kept the pedal pressed to the floor, gauging the distance between the transport and the jeeps, estimate he would have ample time to complete his man-euver.

Several of the Technics opened fire and a few rounds whined off the rear of the SEAL.

Blade gripped the steering wheel tightly as he neared the curve. He swung the van wide, taking the turn at 60. The SEAL slewed sharply and seemed about to veer off the road into the trees, but came through the curve on all four tires. He went to slam his foot on the brake.

“Look out!” Samson bellowed.

Blade spotted her at the instant the Nazarite yelled, an elderly woman attired in a beige dress who stood in the center of the highway not 100 feet from the curve. He tramped on the brake pedal and jerked the wheel to the right, frantically hoping he could miss her. In the brief glimpse he had of the woman, she appeared to be in a daze, walking westward with her arms limp at her sides and her eyes wide. As the SEAL streaked toward her, a veritable juggernaut of doom, he could see her lined features and gray hair. The van hugged the outside of the road, and for a second he believed he would shoot past her.

And then she did the unexpected.

The elderly woman deliberately stepped into the transport’s path.

“Dear Lord!” Samson cried.

Blade wanted to echo his companion, but instead he gaped in sheer horror as the SEAL plowed into the woman, catching her squarely in the middle of the grill. He heard a loud thump, and then the van bounced, as if going over an obstruction. Dreading what he would see, he glanced over his right shoulder.

The woman had fallen onto her left side, and the SEAL’s heavy tires had crushed both of her spindly legs to a pulp. Astonishingly, she was trying to push herself up, and her face reflected the same dazed expression. She did not betray the slightest trace of pain.

No screaming.

No hysterics.

Nothing.

“We should help her,” Samson said.

Blade slowed, uncertain, bewildered by her demeanor, sensing an alien quality about her. How could anyone be run over by a vehicle weighing tons and not be a bit bent out of shape by the experience?

The Nazarite gazed at the giant. “What’s wrong? Why aren’t you turning around?”

“Look at her face.”

“What?”

“The woman’s face,” Blade reiterated. He continued to the east at 40 miles an hour, watching in the side mirror.

Moments later the first of the Technic vehicles screeched around the curve. The driver spotted the woman and brought the jeep to an abrupt halt within yards of her still-struggling form. Three other troopers bailed out and hurried to the woman. A lean man, a noncom with four black stripes on his uniform, knelt alongside her. The two other jeeps stopped nearby.

Blade slowed the transport even more, his curiosity getting the better of his prudence. He observed the noncom speaking to the elderly woman, and he was surprised the Technics were so solicitous. His surprise became amazement seconds later when the gray-haired woman reached up and clamped her right hand on the noncom’s throat.

“What is she doing?” Samson exclaimed.

The noncom tried to rise. He released his Dakon II and grabbed her wrist. His fellow soldiers came to his aid, attempting to yank her hand free. But she clung to the noncom tenaciously and endeavored to claw out his eyes with her left hand.

“She’s trying to kill him,” the Nazarite commented, astounded by the development. “Why?”

“I wish I knew,” Blade answered absently.

The woman was holding her own, resisting the efforts of the troopers, her fingers locked on the noncom. He beat her on the arm and face, striving to break her choking grip. Another trooper stepped in close and smashed the stock of his Dakon II on her head. She ignored the blow, concentrating on the noncom.

Blade brought the transport to a halt. He twisted and stuck his head out the window for a better view, confounded by the tableau.

The noncom had risen to a crouching posture, raining punches all the while, swinging his body from side to side, hauling her from the ground.

She clung to his neck, her mangled, bloody legs dangling under her, jagged pieces of bone protruding from her pulverized skin. Other soldiers pummeled her mercilessly, but she hung on and succeeded in ripping open the noncom’s left cheek.

Blade saw a heavyset trooper get out of the second jeep and walk over to the seemingly unequal contest, a pistol clutched in his right hand. The heavyset soldier placed the pistol against the elderly woman’s temple and fired. She stiffened, let go of the noncom, and collapsed on the asphalt.

Thinking the fight was over, Blade went to turn in his seat when the woman suddenly sat bolt upright .

“The Lord preserve us!” Samson breathed.

In complete consternation, Blade watched the heavyset trooper empty the pistol into the woman’s head. Only then did she topple over and stay down. He exchanged glances with the Nazarite.

“What have we gotten ourselves into?” Samson asked.

“I wish I knew.”

Yama took two strides toward the stairs.

“Don’t!” the brunette wailed, and snatched at his right arm.

The sincerity in her tone and the abject terror she conveyed drew Yama up short. He stared into her petrified eyes, and despite the circumstances of their meeting and the ominous situation in which they were embroiled, he found himself responding to her beauty instead of her fright. She looked past him and uttered a low groan. “Oh, no!”

Yama faced the stairway.

A man stood framed at the top of the stairs. His clothing consisted of grimy jeans and a faded white T-shirt. Scuffed brown boots covered his feet. His hair and eyes were brown, his hair worn in a crew cut.