David Robbins - Boston Run

“Bl—” Milton started to blurt out.

And Berwin pounded with the speed of a striking cobra, his seven-foot frame surging out of the closet, his left hand clamping on Milton’s throat.

He stepped into the clear, holding Milton at arm’s length. “Don’t move!”

he instructed the startled woman in the chair.

But Colonel Nancy Krittenbauer of the Soviet KGB was already in motion. She leaped erect and took two strides toward the office door, her mouth widening, about to yell for the guard.

Berwin intercepted her. He hauled Milton after him, his right arm flicking out, and his fingers locked on Krittenbauer’s hair. With a brutal jerk of his right arm he whipped her backwards, causing her teeth to snap together and stifling her cry for aid, then released his hold. The power in his bulging muscles sent her sailing into the desk, her right side bearing the brunt of the impact.

Krittenbauer gasped and doubled over, her right arm pressed to her ribs. Still game, she raised her head to shout.

Berwin reached her before she could. Acting instinctively, he backhanded her across the face, the blow twisting her sideways. She tried to run but her legs buckled and she fell to her knees. “Drug me, will you?”

Berwin said bitterly. He swept his right knee into her chin.

The KGB agent crumpled, unconscious.

“And now, Doctor Milton,” Berwin stated in a gravelly tone, swinging the terrified physician around to face him, “you’re going to tell me all I need to know or I’ll break every bone in your body.”

Milton wheezed and nodded, his hands feebly pulling on the iron vise constricting his neck.

“Now then,” Berwin said, intending to begin the interrogation, but a heavy pounding on the office door interrupted him.

“Doctor Milton? Doctor Krittenbauer?” the guard called. “Is anything wrong?”

Berwin glanced at the door, his fury mounting.

Hickok met the man bearing the white flag midway between the vehicles.

“Hey, dude. How’s it hangin’,” asked the other, and grinned broadly, exposing a gap where two of his upper front teeth had Been. Unkempt dark hair framed his dirty face. His beady eyes, thin nose, and oval chin gave him a rodentlike aspect. He wore a green, short-sleeved shirt and jeans, both of which had seen better days decades ago. From his right ear lobe dangled a large, circular diamond-studded earring. He also sported a silver safety pin through his nose. Adorning his left forearm was a tattoo, a depiction of a sneering skull and the words HEAVY DEATH RULES.

“What the blazes are you?” Hickok responded.

The scrawny man did a double take. “Whoa. Serious hostility. What a bummer.”

“What?”

“My name is Dezi.”

“I’m Hickok.”

“Cool name, dude,” Dezi said in a friendly fashion.

“Quit callin’ me ‘dude,’ pipsqueak,” Hickok stated testily. He glanced at the three vehicles, estimating the odds. In addition to the trio in the bed of the pickup, there were two in the cab, three men in the second car, and two more in the lead vehicle, all well armed.

Dezi made a clicking sound. “Man, what did you do in your last life to deserve such a rotten karma?”

“What are you babbling about?” Hickok asked impatiently.

“Like, you’re radiatin’ bad vibes,” Dezi said.

“And you’re one marble shy of brainless,” Hickok retorted. “What’s with the white flag? Who are you guys and what do you want?”

Dezi held the Winchester loosely in his left hand and placed his right on his hip. “You shouldn’t be rude, dude. I’m comin’ to the point.”

“This century?”

“We’re called the Cruisers, man. We’re from Motor City,” Dezi disclosed.

“Where’s that?”

“East of here a ways.”

“I’ve never heard of Motor City,” Hickok said.

“Oh, it was called something else before the major rumble.”

“The city you’re from was hit by an earthquake?”

Dezi cocked his head and cackled. “Get real, dude! I was talkin’ about the war. The city was called Detroit.”

“Detroit, huh?” Hickok repeated, and looked at the pickup. “You’re a long way from home.”

“We got tired of all the hassles, man. Tired of fightin’ for a worthless piece of turf. So we split, and we’ve been on the road ever since.”

“Doing what?”

Dezi frowned. “It’s not nice to intrude on somebody’s else’s space, dude.”

“Let me guess,” Hickok said. “You’re scavengers. You take whatever you want from whoever has it. How many folks have you killed? Twenty? Forty? Sixty?”

“Who keeps count?” Dezi responded, then added indignantly, “And we’re not scavengers, dude. We like to think of ourselves as road warriors. In fact, we get our kicks by wastin’ crummy scavengers. There’s a group of those scumbags in this area that we’ve hit a few times.”

Hickok suddenly understood the reason for the barricade. “So you go around the countryside killin’ scavengers. Women and children too, I’ll bet.”

“Hey, a brat grows up to be a full-grown scavenger. We do the world a favor by snuffin’ them. As for the women,” Dezi said, and smirked, “they’re our entertainment, if you get my meaning.”

“I get your drift, all right,” Hickok said scornfully.

“Then let’s get down to cases,” Dezi proposed. He gazed past the man in buckskins at the van. “Righteous wheels you’ve got there, bro.”

Hickok didn’t respond.

“You wouldn’t want to part with it, would you?”

A grin twisted the gunfighter’s lips. “Get real, dude,” he said, mimicking Dezi.

The scrawny man ignored the taunt. “What would you take for the van?”

“It’s not for sale.”

“Then how about a swap. Your wheels look to be in fine shape. We’ll swap you any two of ours for yours.”

“It’s not for trade.”

Dezi’s eyes narrowed. “We’re always in the market for newer, hotter wheels. We want yours.”

“No way.”

“You’d better think again,” Dezi warned, and motioned to the three vehicles to his rear. “You’re outnumbered, dude. If you don’t agree to our terms, we’ll take the van.”

Hickok sighed. “Never count your chickens until they’re hatched.”

“You don’t think we can take it?” Dezi asked arrogantly. “There are eleven of us. How many buddies do you have in the van?” He paused and snorted. “Hell, man. We’ve got hand grenades. If you don’t swap us, we’ll blow your wheels apart. Hot wheels like that either belong to us or they don’t belong to anyone. Get me?”

Hickok resisted an urge to plug the varmint in the head. The road warriors didn’t know about the SEAL’S capabilities; they figured they had the upper hand. He was of a mind to teach them the error of their ways. “I don’t want our van damaged.”

“There’s the spirit,” Dezi declared. “Why not make this easy on all of us? Agree to a trade and you can ride away unharmed.”

“I’ll have to talk to my pards.”

“Be my guest,” Dezi said graciously. “I’ll wait right here.”

Hickok wheeled and strode to the transport. He opened the door, nodded at Dezi, and climbed in.

“What’s up?” Geronimo asked.

“Those gents want to trade two of their buggies for the SEAL,” Hickok revealed. He laid the Henry on the console and shifted into gear.

“Did you tell them to get stuffed?” Geronimo queried.

“I told them I’d talk to you.”

“You what?” Geronimo responded in disbelief.

“They’ve got grenades.”

“Oh,” Geronimo said, and began rolling down his window.

Hickok gestured at Dezi. “The pipsqueak, there, thinks we have a hot set of wheels.” He chuckled. “I reckon I’ll show him just how hot.”