David Robbins - Green Bay Run

They covered 20 yards without saying a word.

“There’s something I don’t understand,” Melissa mentioned tentatively.

“What?”

“If Alicia loved you so much—and I’m not implying she didn’t—then why did she send the signal to the demolition team? How could she want to see your Family harmed, your Home destroyed?”

The Warrior’s shoulders slumped. “She was under the mistaken impression I loved someone else, that I was using her.”

Melissa digested the information for a minute. “She must have loved you very much to betray the Technics. I’ve never heard of a Technic soldier disobeying orders before. The Technic bigwigs impose strict discipline on all their people.”

Yama gazed up at the blistering sun and mopped his left hand across his perspiring brow. “And now they’re up to their old tricks again.”

“Actually, they’re up to new tricks,” Melissa said, and grinned.

“Whatever it is, I’m going to put a stop to their scheme,” Yama vowed.

“Do you want revenge for Alicia’s death?”

“I’d like to see them suffer as I have suffered,” Yama admitted. “Thanks to the Technics, I experienced the greatest loss a man can know, the loss of the woman he loves. I’ve harbored resentment of them since Alicia was shot. Maybe if I can repay the Technics in some small measure, I can finally come to terms with her death.” He glanced at Melissa. “It’s time for me to get on with my life. I can’t mope forever.”

“We should live so long,” Melissa said, staring at the forest on the left side of the highway.

Yama looked in the same direction and saw the line of figures jogging toward them. He recognized the awkward gait instantly. The walking dead!

What should I do, O Lord?

Samson crouched under the sheltering branches of a towering pine tree and watched the Technics load Blade into a jeep. He observed other troopers pile into four other vehicles, and he knew they would depart at any second. The soldiers kept Blade covered at all times. If he tried to rescue his friend, the Technics would probably shoot Blade on the spot.

There were simply too many troopers, too many automatic weapons, for Samson to attempt to take them all on alone.

Where was Yama when he needed him?

The five jeeps roared to life. The drivers performed U-turns, and within moments the vehicles were speeding toward Green Bay. Twelve of the soldiers had stayed behind. They were huddled near three parked jeeps, listening to a noncom speak.

Samson couldn’t hear the words, but he suspected the squad was about to search the area for the SEAL. He would have done the same if the situation was reversed. Since Blade had told him to stay with the transport, he felt obligated to protect the van. Consequently, he melted back into the vegetation and headed to the north.

If only he could have reached the highway sooner!

He’d heard shots, the familiar thundering of the Commando, and raced toward Highway 54. By the time he’d covered the yards to the road, the Technics had already arrived and were watching Blade battle a deformed Lynx, their Dakon II’s trained on the giant.

There had been nothing Samson could do.

He came to a thicket and paused to look back. Sure enough, the 12 troopers were fanning out. Six were walking toward the forest bordering the south side of the highway and the rest were coming to the north, coming toward him.

Samson smiled and eased into the thicket. He lowered himself to the ground and waited. A beetle crawled past his right arm, and somewhere a cricket chirped. While he waited, to compose his mind, he mentally recited one of his favorite Psalms. “Save me, O God, by thy name, and judge me by thy strength. Hear my prayer, O God; give ear to the words of my mouth. For strangers are risen up against me, and oppressors seek after my soul: they have not set God before them. Behold, God is mine helper: the Lord is with them that uphold my soul. He shall reward evil unto mine enemies: cut them off in thy truth. I will freely sacrifice unto thee: I will praise thy name, O Lord; for it is good. For he hath delivered me out of all trouble: and mine eye hath seen his desire upon mine enemies.” He smiled, relaxed and ready, and added, “And grant this humble prayer, O Lord. Give me the strength of ten men that your loyal servant might smite those who have transgressed your ordained order.”

A pair of soldiers materialized 15 feet off, walking around a tree, their Dakon II’s held at waist level. They advanced warily.

Samson watched them intently. He gently placed the Bushmaster Auto Rifle on the ground, then snaked silently to the edge of the thicket.

Shielded by the branches and leaves, he put his hands underneath him and coiled his massive arms.

The soldiers came ever nearer, unaware of the proximity of the Warrior, his camouflage clothing rendering him invisible in the thick vegetation.

Samson let them come within a yard of the thicket before making his move. He shoved erect and burst from concealment, stepping between them and looping a brawny arm around each man’s neck. His sinews rippling, he swung them almost back-to-back and squeezed.

Both Technics were startled by the abrupt assault. Feeling their breath choked off and unable to employ their assault rifles, they instinctively clutched at the steel bands encircling their throats, endeavoring to break loose. But they might as well have been striving to pry off a boa constrictor.

Samson lifted both men effortlessly into the air, raising their wildly kicking combat boots six inches from the soil. He gritted his teeth and squeezed, squeezed, squeezed. The Technic on the right succumbed first, twitching and sputtering and then going limp. Seconds later the other soldier gasped loudly and stiffened. Samson applied pressure for an additional ten seconds, to be certain, then allowed both men to sprawl on the grass.

Had the other Technics heard the struggle?

The Warrior crouched and listened. Satisfied he hadn’t been detected, he retrieved his Auto Rifle and moved stealthily through the trees, seeking other foes. He didn’t have far to look.

A lone Technic stood next to an oak tree, yawning, plainly bored by the detail, wishing he was in Technic City instead of a godforsaken forest in the middle of nowhere. Because he considered their search to be a waste of his precious time, he failed to exercise the proper degree of caution.

Consequently, he was more than mildly astonished when a pair of iron hands clamped on the sides of his head and twisted sharply. The last sound he heard was the snapping of his own neck.

Samson released the trooper and continued his hunt. He spotted the three other soldiers two dozen yards to the east. They were moving northward, sticking close together, professionals in every respect. He realized he would be unable to catch them unawares, which left him little recourse. Unslinging the Bushmaster Auto Rifle, he sighted on the Technic on the left and fired.

To their credit, the trio displayed superb reflexes. Each man spun toward the Nazarite, and each man received a hail of lead for his effort.

They were flung to the earth to convulse and die.

There was no time to lose!

Samson turned and raced toward the highway, anticipating that the remaining six Technics on the south side of the road would hasten to the aid of their companions. He traversed ten yards and came abreast of the wide trunk of a deciduous tree. Stepping to the right, he slid behind the tree and pivoted sideways.

Now all he could do was wait some more.

“Where did it come from?” an anxious voice shouted from the vicinity of Highway 54.

“I don’t know,” another soldier responded.

“This way! This way!” cried a third.