David Robbins - Boston Run

Major General Ligachev squared his shoulders. “All of our troops are bilingual. Why?”

“I want to be sure you’ll get my drift when I give you our answer.”

“Which is?” Ligachev snapped impatiently.

“Get stuffed.”

Blade executed a flying dive, his hands grabbing for the Falcon and the Beretta in midair. He came down hard on his elbows and knees, his body prone, and pointed the pistols at the three Soviet troopers.

The trio tried to bring their AK-47’s to bear. Impulsively, the foremost Russian elevated his barrel and fired from the hip, the blasting of the AK-47 being added to the wail of the klaxons. In his haste he missed.

Blade squeezed off a shot from the Falcon in his right hand, and he saw the round catch the soldier between the eyes and send the man stumbling backwards into one of the other troopers. The unaffected soldier raised his AK-47 to his shoulder, apparently foolishly intending to take the time to aim, but in the interval of less than a second that it took him to lift the assault rifle, a slug from the Beretta bored into his brain and burst out the rear of his skull.

The second Russian dropped.

Leaving only the third, who had shoved the first man aside and was bringing his AK-47 to bear on the giant when the Falcon and the Beretta both boomed. As one, the twin shots ripped through the soldier’s head and he spun around into the wall, then collapsed, leaving a crimson stain where his head made contact.

Blade heaved erect and sprinted to the three men. He wedged the pistols under his belt, then claimed two of the AK-47’s for his own, slinging one over his left shoulder and cradling the other. Moving fast, he walked to the door, glanced at the small sign that read STAIRWELL, and shoved the door wide. He entered the stairwell and paused on the landing.

The stairs continued upward, but there was no reason for him to ascend them. He started down at a brisk pace, taking three steps at a stride, thankful the blaring klaxons weren’t as loud in the stairwell. Two floors passed without any problems arising, and then a Russian soldier appeared on the next landing, hastening toward the Warrior.

The trooper’s eyes were on the steps.

Blade halted and leveled the AK-47. “Freeze,” he barked.

Startled, the Russian looked up. He made a desperate attempt to train his AK-47 on the giant.

The Warrior sent a short burst into the soldier’s chest, and the impact hurled the man rearward to crash onto the landing with his arms outflung. The trooper’s AK-47 sailed over the edge of the landing and plummeted to the bottom of the stairwell, clattering noisily when it hit the bottom.

Blade took the steps four at a time now, dominated by an urgent feeling to get well clear of the hospital before more reinforcements than he could handle arrived. He grinned when he saw the final landing below, and he dashed to the door and pressed his left ear to the panel.

Just as someone barreled into the door from the far side.

The door struck the Warrior in the temple and he threw his left forearm against it in sheer reflex, stopping its movement.

“What the hell!” someone blurted out on the other side.

Blade grabbed the edge and heaved, yanking the door open as he side stepped, aiming the AK-47 at the stocky figure in front of him.

Another Soviet soldier, a young officer armed with a pistol in a holster on his right hip, gaped at the giant. “You!” he cried.

“Me,” Blade said, and blasted the Russian at near point-blank range.

The man crumpled in a disjointed heap.

Somewhere a woman screamed.

The Warrior stepped over the officer and hurried down the corridor.

Unlike the sixth floor, this floor was crammed with people: nurses, doctors, patients, visitors, and other hospital staff, most of whom decided to make themselves scarce. They darted into rooms and slammed the doors. Those too scared or astonished to gather their wits simply flattened against the wall and watched him with wide eyes.

A man dressed in a white smock, a notebook in his left hand, stood his ground defiantly in the center of the hall and blocked the Warrior’s path.

“Who the hell are you?” he demanded angrily. “What do you think you’re doing? You’re not going anywhere!”

“Bet me,” Blade responded, and planted his left fist on the man’s mouth. Teeth crunched, blood gushed from flattened lips, and the fool tottered rearward and fell, whining and gurgling.

A different woman screeched in terror.

Blade increased his speed, running as fast as he could, dodging people, carts, and wheelchairs. Thirty feet ahead he spied glass doors. Beyond the doors, beckoning him with the implied promise of freedom and hope, was sunlight.

A nurse built like a tank, over six feet in height and almost as wide, endeavored to intercept him. She moved to the doors and faced him with her hands on her broad hips. “Stop!” she shouted.

The Warrior slowed and motioned for her to step out of the way.

“You’ re not leaving, you son of a bitch!” she growled. Then, incredibly, she charged him.

Blade shifted the AK-47 to his left hand and halted, his right fist clenching tightly, amazed at her behavior, amazed that an unarmed nurse would needlessly risk her life trying to stop him. Unless, as with Milton and Krittenbauer, the nurse wasn’t as she seemed.

She assumed a boxing posture and waded into him swinging, her punches controlled and demonstrating a practiced rhythm.

Successfully dodging the first few blows, Blade was jarred by a clip on his jaw. He set himself and retaliated with a sweeping right to her nose.

The nurse clutched at her face and straightened, roaring in pain but still on her feet.

Blade frowned and went to skirt her, but her right hand flicked out and snagged his right forearm. Seething at the delay, he gripped the AK-47 and whipped the stock into her head with all of his might. She let go and wobbled to the right, her eyes fluttering. He promptly raced to the glass doors and pushed through to the outside, blinking in the bright sunshine, and inhaled the odorous city air gratefully.

He was out!

Below the concrete steps leading to Kruschev Memorial, running from north to south, was a bustling street packed with pedestrians and traffic.

A few of the passersby stopped to gawk at him as he emerged, but the majority were too involved in their own affairs to pay him much attention.

That all changed a moment later.

Blade headed for the sidewalk, and he was only halfway down the steps when a man attired in a blue uniform, a policeman, materialized off to the right.

The policeman took one look and clawed at his service revolver. “You there! Halt!” he yelled.

Growing increasingly perturbed by the constant obstacles to his escape, Blade crouched and swung the AK-47 around to bear on the officer.

“Don’t!” Blade warned, but his shout went unheeded. He saw the service revolver begin to clear the holster and he squeezed the trigger. The AK-47 chattered and a half-dozen rounds thwacked into the policeman and flattened him on the spot.

Pedestrians shrieked and clamored in alarm. They pushed and jostled one another in their haste to vacate the vicinity of the concrete steps.

Blade cleared the remaining steps in three leaps and alighted on the sidewalk. The traffic in the street flowed at a slow pace because of the congestion and the fact that a few of the drivers had witnessed the death of the policeman and then braked to stare at the Warrior in dumbfounded shock. Off to the north a siren blared, and Blade could see a flashing red light in the distance, coming closer rapidly.

He needed to get out of there!

But which way?

Instinct more than anything else made him suddenly whirl toward the hospital entrance. He hadn’t heard any unusual sounds. He hadn’t detected any motion out of the corners of his eyes. He simply sensed that there were adversaries to his rear and the short hairs at the nape of his neck prickled his skin. His instincts served him in good stead.