David Robbins - Boston Run

“How many did your research kill?”

Milton hesitated, torn between his fear of the giant and his resentment of the Warrior’s indictment of his professional ethics. He knew the smart thing to do was lie, but he also knew Blade wouldn’t accept his lies and might become angry. “A few unfortunates have perished during the course of scientific programs I’ve headed.”

“How many?”

Milton fidgeted, then shrugged. “I don’t recall the exact number.”

“Ten?”

“I don’t know.”

“Fifty?”

“I don’t know,” Milton snapped, forgetting himself.

“Eighty?”

“Certainly not that many,” Milton replied.

“How many died before you perfected the Memroxin? How many totally lost their minds? How many were turned into vegetables?” Blade asked, his left arm poised.

“No more than two dozen, I assure you,” Milton said shamelessly. “I always strive to keep the losses at a minimum.”

“Damn decent of you,” Blade declared, and swept the left Bowie out and around, spinning in a tight arc. He buried the knife in the center of Milton’s chest and held on fast.

The scientist stiffened and grunted, then gazed with unblinking eyes at the Warrior’s hand and the hilt, stunned. “Why?” he blurted out in a whisper.

“I could cite several reasons, Doctor. Because of what you did to me. Because of what you’ve done to so many others. Because you’re murdering scum who uses the cloak of science to justify his actions. But mainly because you’re a coward who inflicts torment on others without feeling the slightest degree of guilt,” Blade detailed, and looked into Milton’s eyes. He saw the man was fading rapidly. “You were talking about imbeciles earlier, Doctor. Do you remember? I want you to die seeing yourself as you truly are, bastard.”

Milton’s eyelids fluttered and blood trickled from the right corner of his mouth.

“You’re the worst kind of imbecile there is, Doctor,” Blade said. “You are a moral imbecile.” With that, he wrenched the Bowie free and stood back.

A crimson gusher flowed from Milton’s chest, and he gulped for air as if he was a fish out of water. His eyes alighted on the Warrior and his expression became comically quizzical. “I—” he managed to squeak. Then his features hardened into a death mask and he slowly sank forward until his chin rested on his legs.

“Now to get out of here,” Blade said to himself. He began to wipe the Bowie clean on Milton’s smock.

“You’re not going anywhere, you son of a bitch!” snarled a gruff female voice behind him.

Blade started to turn, but a hard object rammed him in the spine and he froze.

“Go ahead!” Nancy Krittenbauer stated. “Give me an excuse to put a hole in you. You deserve to die for what you did to poor Milton and for what you did to me.”

The Warrior held the left Bowie close to his waist. Annoyance at his stupidity made him scowl. He’d forgotten all about the KGB agent, and the carelessness could cost him his newfound liberty if he didn’t come up with a brainstorm, and quickly.

“Drop your knife,” Krittenbauer ordered.

Blade let the Bowie fall.

“Now put your hands on your head.”

Again the Warrior complied.

“Walk to the door,” Krittenbauer instructed him. “And don’t try anything stupid.”

Exasperated, Blade took a stride. In the back of his mind he wondered why the KGB agent hadn’t made him toss the other Bowie aside. He assumed she wanted to turn him over to the guard and have her injuries tended to promptly. Even so, a professional wouldn’t ordinarily permit an enemy to retain a weapon. She probably figured she didn’t need to worry because she had him covered.

Or did she?

A thought struck him and he almost halted in surprise. What if Krittenbauer wasn’t armed? If she really had a gun, why didn’t she pull it when he emerged from the closet? Why had she attempted to alert the guard instead?

What if Krittenbauer was bluffing?

Blade took another step, his mind racing. Once she enlisted the assistance of the guard, escape would become much more difficult. If he was going to make a move, then logic dictated he had to do it before they reached the door. But what if he was wrong? The odds were fifty-fifty that she had a gun. If he miscalculated, he’d wind up with a hole in his back the size of a cantaloupe.

Krittenbauer coughed several times, apparently clearing her throat to shout for the guard.

It was now or never.

The Warrior took one more pace, tensing his arms and legs, then surged into action, taking a step to the left even as he lashed his right fist around. A gun boomed and a bullet tugged at the bottom of his vest, but he ignored the retort and concentrated on completing his turn. He glimpsed Krittenbauer’s startled, battered visage, and then his right fist caught her full in the face and catapulted her backwards, her arms swinging wildly.

The KBG agent tripped and collided with the chair on which Milton’s corpse sat.

Blade’s right hand flashed to the right Bowie. He went to raise his arm for an overhead toss when he heard the office door opening. Instantly he swiveled back again and saw the guard. Nelson, come into the room with his pistol drawn. Blade let the knife fly, his arm a blur, then spun to confront Krittenbauer.

The KGB agent was just regaining her footing.

In the stress of the moment. Blade couldn’t afford to look at the guard.

All he could do was hope his throw had been on target as he took two swift steps and executed a spinning roundhouse kick, his right leg snapping out to connect with Krittenbauer’s face. The blow sent her into the chair again. Dazed, she sagged, a Falcon 45 ACP clutched in her right hand.

Blade moved in and delivered the coup de grace, a swordhand chop to the left side of her neck.

Something snapped and Krittenbauer’s head flopped to the left.

Blade whirled, ready for the worst, thinking he might have missed. But he hadn’t.

The guard was on his knees, his arms hanging limp, a Beretta Model 84

lying next to his left hand, his eyes glazing rapidly. Protruding from the base of his throat, sunk to the hilt, was the Bowie. His lips moved soundlessly. Blood seeped from his mouth and gushed from his throat.

Blade hurriedly retrieved his left Bowie and stuck Krittenbauer’s Falcon under his belt. He walked to Nelson, added the Beretta to his collection by aligning the pistol near his left sheath, then jerked the other Bowie from the guard’s neck.

Nelson swayed, the blood spurting from the wound, then fell onto his face with a muffled thud.

Time to haul butt.

The Warrior took a step toward the door, and only then did he see the horrified nurse standing in the doorway, her hands over her mouth. She suddenly darted to the right and he took off after her. As he came through the door he saw her press a red button mounted under the counter on a wide shelf, and all hell broke loose.

The nurse looked at him and screamed in terror.

A raucous din erupted, a cacophony of blaring klaxons, seeming to emanate from everywhere, filling the air with strident discord.

“Damn!” Blade exclaimed. He bounded to the nurse and slugged her on the chin, knocking her into the counter. She promptly collapsed, out to the world. Well aware that more guards would arrive at any second, Blade placed his hands on the counter and vaulted over it. He glanced at the elevator, chagrined to behold the floor indicator moving from the fourth floor to the third. The car was on its way down to pick up reinforcements!

Now what?

He recalled Milton saying something about stairs, and he sped to the junction and inspected each branch. Off to his right, perhaps 50 feet away, a small sign hung next to a closed door. On a hunch he jogged toward the door. Despite his predicament, despite being hopelessly outnumbered, and despite being half a continent from his loved ones, he felt oddly elated and strangely serene. He finally knew who he was and where he belonged, and the knowledge was a tonic to his troubled soul.