David Robbins - Boston Run

“Piece of cake!” Hickok stated. He angled the SEAL in behind the pickup and activated the 50-caliber machine guns mounted under the headlights.

The result was a slaughter. The slugs punched through the tailgate and the rear of the cab, drilling into the two Cruisers in the bed as they attempted to scramble to their feet and slaying the driver before he could take evasive action.

Hickok accelerated again, bypassing the pickup on the right. He saw the driver of the truck slumped over the steering wheel, and he stared at the van’s side mirror as the SEAL sped to the east. The pickup slowed to a crawl, then slanted to the north and left the road. It coasted to a stop a yard shy of the tree line.

“The Ford is still on our tail,” Geronimo declared.

Hickok shifted his attention to the rearview mirror. “I see it,” he said.

The armored car was 40 yards behind the transport and reducing the distance swiftly.

“These guys don’t give up easily,” Marcus commented.

“Just what we needed,” Hickok muttered. “Persistent psychos.”

“Do you have any more tricks up your sleeve?” Marcus asked.

“Just the obvious,” the gunman said.

“What’s that?”

“You’ll see in a bit, as soon as I find what I need,” Hickok said. He spotted an abandoned, dilapidated house 200 feet ahead, on the south side of the road. “And this could be it. Geronimo, get ready to grab the wheel.”

“Why?”

Hickok noted the overgrown weeds surrounding the house. He scrutinized the front yard, a stretch of tangled brush, and distinguished the curved contours of an asphalt driveway. “I’m bailin’ out.”

“You’re crazy,” Marcus interjected.

“We can’t afford any more blasted delays,” Hickok stated. “I want to end this nonsense and head for Boston.”

Thirty yards separated the SEAL from the Ford.

Hickok gripped the wheel tightly, gauging the distance of the driveway.

He wondered if the Cruisers in the Ford possessed hand grenades. A single accurate toss and the SEAL would be totaled. He would have to dispose of the Cruisers before they could throw, requiring split-second timing.

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” Geronimo said, then added with a smirk, “for once.”

“Are you kiddin’? Every move I make is planned,” Hickok fibbed.

“It’s getting deep in here,” Geronimo remarked, gazing at the Ford.

“Then I’d best leave before my moccasins get all smelly,” Hickok joked.

He braced for the turn and shouted, “Hang on!” Then he arrowed the transport toward the driveway and wrenched on the steering wheel at the very last instant. The SEAL took the corner on two wheels and almost flipped over. Hickok slid against the door. A moment later the transport settled on all four tires. He buried the brake pedal and the van lurched to a precipitate stop. “Take over,” he yelled, and vaulted from the SEAL, leaving the gearshift in Drive. Every second was crucial. He hit the ground running and dashed toward the highway, drawing the Colts as he ran.

The Cruiser driving the Ford was on the ball. Although the gunman’s maneuver caught the man by surprise, the driver only overshot the driveway by a few yards. A burly man carrying a grenade leaped from the armored car the second it halted.

Hickok reached the end of the driveway and swiveled toward the Ford, thumbing back the hammers, and he fired both revolvers as the burly man went to pull the pin on the grenade. The slugs slammed the Cruiser into the armored car and the man slumped to the road. Without slowing, Hickok sprinted to the Ford and moved along the driver’s side.

A Cruiser armed with a rifle stuck the barrel out the open rear window and snapped off a shot.

Hickok was already somewhere else. He dove for the ground a hair’s breadth before the rifle boomed, and he landed hard on his elbows and knees and rolled onto his back, aiming the Pythons straight up at the grimy face framed in the car window. The Colts cracked and the man was flung from view.

The driver, apparently deciding that his life was more important then revenge, floored the Ford.

The gunfighter rose, tracking the armored car, his arms extended, wanting to be sure. He could see the driver’s window, but he didn’t have a clear shot. If the man would look back once, just once, he could put an end to the Cruisers.

The man did. Grinning broadly, as if he was gloating, confident he had escaped, the driver glanced over his left shoulder at the Warrior.

A fatal mistake.

The Pythons discharged. Hickok felt the revolvers buck and saw the driver’s head snap around. The Ford cut to the right, doing over 50, crossed the edge of the highway, and smashed into the base of a towering pine tree with a tremendous crash. “Got you,” Hickok said softly.

Marcus dashed to the gunman’s side. “I thought you might need some help.” He gazed at the wrecked Ford. “I should have known better.”

Hickok twirled the Pythons into their holsters. “Let’s reload the rocket-launcher and the 50-calibers and get the heck out of here.”

“How long will it take us to reach Boston?” Marcus asked idly.

“At the rate we’re going, we’ll be lucky if we reach Boston before Christmas,” Hickok snapped. “We have to pick up the pace. I have a bad feeling that Blade is in a heap of trouble.”

“Doctor Milton? Nurse Krittenbauer?” the guard repeated. “Are you all right? I heard a noise.”

Berwin was livid. He glared at Milton and whispered instructions. “Tell him everything is fine. Tell him you dropped a book or something. If you try to shout, to alert him in any way, I’ll break your neck as if it was a twig.

Do you understand?”

The physician, his eyes wide, nodded.

“Your life depends on what you do next,” Berwin warned, and relaxed his hold on the man’s neck.

Milton licked his lips, then coughed. “We’re busy, Private Nelson. We don’t want to be disturbed,” he called out.

“Sorry, sir,” Nelson replied. “I thought I heard a loud noise.”

“I accidentally bumped a pile of books onto the floor,” Milton declared.

“If we need you, we’ll let you know.”

“Yes, sir,” Nelson said. “Sorry. I won’t bother you again.”

Berwin listened intently, allowing the guard time to return to his post near the elevator. “Okay, Doctor. Sit in this chair,” he commanded, and pointed at the chair Krittenbauer had used.

Milton promptly obeyed, rubbing his sore neck, clearly nervous. “I’ll do whatever you want.” He glanced at the KGB agent, at the blood dribbling from her mouth. “Just don’t hurt me.”

“You’re a brave man, Doctor,” Blade said sarcastically.

“I’m not accustomed to violence.”

“You’re in the military.”

“Yes, but I’m a scientist involved in medical research, not a fighter,” Milton said. His eyes narrowed and he regarded the giant carefully. “Wait a minute. How did you know I’m in the military?”

“You’d be surprised at what I know,” Berwin replied.

Milton sighed and folded his hands in his lap. “I dreaded this happening.”

“Dreaded what?” Berwin asked, sitting on the edge of the desk.

“Your natural personality asserting itself,” Milton said. “Your aggressive tendencies have negated the effect of the drug.”

“Tell me about the Memroxin.”

Milton frowned. “Memroxin is an experimental drug we’ve developed to extract information from recalcitrant subjects. You were administered a dose shortly after your capture.”

“My capture?”

“Yes. The HGP Unit captured you near the Home. If it’s any consolation, I heard that you resisted admirably,” Milton said. “They were flown to Minnesota by helicopter specifically for the purpose of taking you prisoner. The general was quite adamant about capturing you. He didn’t want anyone else.”