David Robbins - Boston Run

Hickok grabbed the dashboard as a section of sidewalk to the south blew up, spewing concrete skyward. He kept his eyes on the helicopter, tracking the chopper as it flashed overhead and flew to the south. “Blast!”

“Sooner or later they’ll nail us,” Geronimo said.

“Too bad we can’t ram ’em,” Hickok responded. He scrutinized the highway ahead and spotted a huge building off to the left, perhaps an abandoned warehouse or a factory. Gigantic metal double doors hung wide, disclosing a gloomy interior. “Drive in there,” he instructed.

Without an instant’s hesitation Geronimo complied, steering deep into the bowels of the building, bypassing stacks of crates and cartons, and abruptly braked. “What now?”

“Everybody out,” Hickok said, and shoved his door open. He jumped to the cement floor, cradled the Henry, and sprinted toward the metal doors.

He spied a pile of metal drums along the right-hand wall.

Geronimo and Marcus raced on the gunman’s heels.

“What are we doing?” Marcus asked.

“Hickok has a clever plan,” Geronimo said. “Don’t you, Nathan?”

“Nope,” the gunfighter answered. “I’m wingin’ it.”

Geronimo looked at Marcus. “I trust you’ve made out your will?”

Hickok led them to the right and up to the corrugated metal wall, near the double doors. He placed his back to the wall and inched to the edge, then peered out. There was no sign of the Russian helicopter.

Yet.

“We’ve lost it for the time being,” Hickok said.

“They’ll figure out where we are eventually,” Geronimo commented.

The gunman glanced at his friend. “Why do you always look on the bright side of things?”

Geronimo shrugged. “Just habit, I guess.”

“Spread out,” Hickok stated. “Check this whole place and let me know what you find.”

“What are we hunting for?” Marcus wanted to know.

“I’ll know that when we find it,” Hickok replied, and darted away from the sunlight, into the building, making for the left side, inspecting every item he found. There was a lot of litter and trash. In one spot he found a heap of old tires. Elsewhere he came across a mound of cinder blocks, once apparently arranged in a tidy stack, now lying in a jumble. He also discovered more crates and disintegrating cardboard boxes.

From outside, from far away, arose the muted sound of the helicopter’s rotors. The Russians were searching for them.

Hickok returned to the front of the warehouse where Geronimo and Marcus awaited him. “Well?”

“I found a lot of boxes, some chairs, and lumber,” Marcus detailed.

“What kind of lumber?”

“Oh, planks, boards, a few shorter pieces.”

“Is the wood rotten or sturdy?”

“I didn’t test it,” Marcus said.

“See if you can find me two sturdy boards about six feet in length and two feet wide,” Hickok ordered.

“On my way,” Marcus responded and hastened off.

The gunman faced Geronimo. “What about you?”

“Crates containing nails. Cartons containing cans of paint. A half-dozen antique washing machines. And metal strands of some sort.”

Hickok’s interest was piqued. “Metal stands?”

“Yeah. I have no idea what they were used for. They’re flat on the bottom and the upper part slants to a peak.”

“How high are they?”

“I’d say a foot and a half at the most.”

“Go get a couple.”

Geronimo nodded and jogged into the depths of the structure.

An idea was forming in the gunfighter’s mind, an elaborate ruse to lure the Russians into an ambush. He moved to the doorway and listened but couldn’t hear the chopper. Good. The Russians were undoubtedly puzzled by the disappearance of the SEAL, and they were likely scouring the highway to the east, mistakenly thinking that the van was speeding from Strawberry Point. Their mistake. He wheeled and hurried to the metal drums he’d observed earlier. They turned out to be empty. After slinging the Henry over his left shoulder, he proceeded to roll one of the drums to the front of the warehouse. Back he went for another, and by the time he had three of them positioned in a line extending from the right-hand door across the doorway, Geronimo and Marcus came back bearing the items he’d requested.

“Where do you want these boards?” Marcus inquired. He had hauled a pair of seven-foot-long boards, each three inches thick and two and a half feet wide, to the entrance. The exertion had hardly fazed him.

“Lay them right there,” Hickok said, and Marcus complied.

Geronimo deposited the two strange metal stands. “What next, fearless leader?”

The gunman nodded in the general direction of the cinder blocks.

“There’s a bunch of heavy blocks back that-a-way. I don’t know how many I’ll need yet, so lug about six of them over here.”

Geronimo and Marcus began to walk off.

“Not you, Marcus,” Hickok said. “You can lend me a hand with the drums.”

“How many do you want?”

“Enough to make a wall.”

“A wall?”

“You’ll see,” Hickok stated.

Together they carted fifteen more metal drums to the front and stacked them three high and six across, constructing a makeshift wall.

“We’ll need six more,” Hickok declared after gazing at the SEAL.

Yet another layer was added to the top. Geronimo finished with the cinder blocks and assisted in carrying the last drum.

“That ought to do it,” Hickok said, surveying their handiwork critically.

“Do what? That dinky wall won’t stop the copter,” Marcus noted.

“It’s not supposed to stop that overgrown dragonfly,” Hickok stated. He looked at Geronimo. “Would you drive the buggy on over here, pard?”

“No problem.”

The gunman motioned at Marcus. “Give me a hand with these boards and the rest.”

Working rapidly under Hickok’s guidance, the two Warriors placed the metal stands six feet from the wall of gray drums, positioning the stands about ten feet apart. Then they aligned three cinder blocks in a row behind each of the stands, leaving a foot of space between each block.

Marcus studied the arrangement and snickered. “What in the world are you doing?”

“I’m not done yet,” Hickok said, and picked up the first board. He carefully set the end of the board on top of the left metal stand and positioned the full length over the cinder blocks, then set the board down.

He repeated the procedure on the right side.

Perplexed, Marcus scratched his head. They had fabricated a crude ramp with the high end near the makeshift wall of drums. He could see that much. But he still didn’t comprehend how the wall and the ramp would enable them to defeat the last helicopter. “Care to explain what you intend to do?”

“In a bit,” Hickok replied. He stood next to the metal drums and watched the SEAL approach at a crawl. Motioning with his arms, he directed Geronimo, insuring the transport’s tires were perfectly in line with the board.

Marcus glanced from the board to the SEAL and back again. His eyes widened and he looked at the gunman. “I get it! But those boards will never support the entire weight of the SEAL.”

“They only have to support the front end,” Hickok said, crossing his fingers. He beckoned Geronimo onward.

The van crept forward until the tires touched the lower edges of the boards.

Geronimo poked his head out of the SEAL. “How am I doing?”

“Just fine,” Hickok said. “Take it real slow and easy. I’ll let you know when to stop. And hurry. That chopper will return soon.” He riveted his gaze on the boards as the transport crawled onto the ramp. Please hold! he prayed. The boards creaked and sagged, but they didn’t break. He measured the progress mentally, scarcely breathing, anxious to dispose of the Russians so they could go to the aid of Blade.