David Robbins - Boston Run

One inch.

Two.

Four.

At five inches the boards sagged even more, but they still held.

Six.

Seven.

Nine.

Hickok gestured for Geronimo to stop, then walked around to the driver’s side. “Nice job.”

“As a certain friend of mine is so fond of saying, it was a piece of cake,” Geronimo said.

“Sit tight and wait for Marcus to give you the signal to fire the rocket.”

Geronimo stared at the wall of metal drums. “But those things are blocking my view. How can I fire the rocket if I can’t see the target?”

“You let me worry about that,” Hickok replied. “Just be ready.”

“What are you going to do?”

Hickok ignored the question and stepped to the drum wall. He looked at the SEAL, at the middle of the front grill where the secret compartment housing the rocket was located, then envisioned the trajectory the rocket would need. He removed two of the drums from the center and pulled them aside. Now the SEAL had a clear shot at the airspace just outside the warehouse. “Marcus.”

“Yeah?”

“Stand here and keep a watch. When the chopper gets within thirty feet of the front of this building, when you think the angle is right, signal Geronimo to fire.”

The gladiator came over. “I doubt the pilot will fly the helicopter so close.”

“You let me worry about that,” Hickok said, and stepped to the left of his improvised wall.

“What are you planning to do?” Marcus said, echoing Geronimo’s question.

Again the gunfighter ignored the query. “Be ready,” he ordered, and darted into the open, making for the middle of the highway. He looked back at the warehouse, assessing the trap. The drum wall effectively screened the SEAL from any casual scrutiny, although the grill was visible where he had removed the two drums. Now everything depended on him luring the whirlybird into position. The ramp had elevated the transport enough so the rocket would speed on a slight trajectory. Not much of a trajectory, granted, but it would have to do the job.

Now where the blazes were the Russians?

Hickok slowed and strolled to the faded yellow center line. He surveyed the horizon in every direction. If the pilot had flown to the east after the SEAL, then the helicopter should return shortly. He unslung the Henry and walked eastward, his nerves on edge, feeling exposed and terribly vulnerable. A rifle and a pair of revolvers were no match for the flying arsenal.

Several minutes elapsed.

The Warrior halted and gazed at the warehouse, deciding he’d gone far enough. All he could do was wait.

And wait.

Hickok began to wonder if the Russians had called it quits and flown toward their lines. Why else would they be taking so long? He sighed and stared to the south.

The helicopter came at him from the north.

One moment he was alone, the breeze on his cheeks, the sun warming his skin, and the next an aerial demon rushed out of the blue, zeroing in on him, its machine guns blazing.

To Hickok the sound of the machine guns resembled the din of thunder.

He inadvertently flinched and crouched, shielding his face with his arms as the highway was stitched to the right and the left by the powerful rounds, the shots missing him by inches. In the space of seconds the chopper was past him and flying to the south. He spun and raced for the warehouse, following the copter with his eyes, watching the pilot execute a wide loop and swing back toward the town.

Toward him.

He covered ten yards and saw the familiar puffs of smoke under the fuselage. His arms outflung, he dived for the ground. A volcano seemed to flare into life at the very spot he’d vacated, and he was pelted with bruising fragments of the road.

The helicopter arced overhead.

Hickok pushed himself up and ran for his life, his moccasins pounding hard on the asphalt, his heart pounding even harder, his ears ringing from the explosions.

This time the chopper swung to the west and banked, zooming at him once more, soaring over the warehouse. The pilot tilted the craft for a better view.

In desperation Hickok threw the Henry to his shoulder and banged off three shots, working the lever as fast as he could, aiming at the cockpit.

He must have struck it too, because the helicopter slanted to the south a few dozen feet, which wasn’t enough to interfere with the pilot’s aim.

The nose cannons boomed.

The Warrior flattened and hugged the roadway, his left cheek scraping on the rough surface, and he thought of his wife and son as an earthquake caused the earth around him to buck and heave. Dirt and dust cascaded upon him. He heard the copter fly to the east.

Go! Go! Go!

The word screamed over and over again in his mind as he rose and sprinted toward those inviting double doors, toward the makeshift wall, toward the friends he might never see again. The hair at the nape of his neck prickled and he imagined the Russian pilot closing the distance swiftly, the machine guns set to fire. He zigzagged, expecting bursts that never came. Confused, he glanced over his right shoulder and nearly tripped over his own feet.

A ten-ton arrow whizzed at him, the chopper almost skimming the highway. In clear sight in the cockpit, beaming maliciously, sat the enemy pilot. His intent was obvious.

Hickok stopped, stunned. The prick was going to ram him, to bowl him over and reduce him to so much crimson-soaked pulp! Enraged, he managed to squeeze off a single shot and dropped prone for a third time.

A vortex of wind pummeled his back, causing the fringe of his buckskins to flap wildly. He peered skyward and saw the underbelly of the craft streak by within two feet of his head. Every nut and bolt was visible. He could have sworn he heard mocking laughter. But that was impossible.

The helicopter rose and flew to the south, performing a circular maneuver.

This was it!

Licking his lips, Hickok leaned erect and dashed all out for the warehouse. He had to be in the proper position, directly in front of the double doors, when the chopper reached him. Any mistakes now meant certain death. The Russians had missed him three times; evading them a fourth time would be extremely unlikely. Unless, as he suspected, they were toying with him.

The copter came toward the gunman at a leisurely speed, the pilot apparently convinced he had the Warrior dead to rights.

Hickok reached a point in the middle of Highway Three and 20 yards from the wall of gray drums. He faced the chopper, appalled to discover the craft hovering at least ten yards too far to the west.

Blast!

The Warrior sighted the Henry on the cockpit and squeezed off a shot, the 44-40 recoiling in his arms. In response the pilot banked the helicopter to the east a dozen yards, where the chopper hung poised over the roofs on the opposite side of the street.

What was the polecat waiting for?

Hickok lowered the rifle and fumed. He needed to draw the helicopter in closer to the warehouse.

The aircraft didn’t budge.

How could he goad the pilot into coming nearer? Hickok asked himself, then smirked. He extended his left hand, made a fist, and flipped his middle finger up.

Evidently the pilot got the message, because the next instant the helicopter swooped down at the Warrior, its machine guns chattering.

Hickok whirled and scampered toward the entrance. Bullets smacked into the ground all around him, and bits of the road and dirt peppered his buckskins. Midway to the drum wall he stumbled when a searing pain racked his left thigh, and he went down on his knees. He glanced at the descending chopper, then at the drums, at the gap where the SEAL’S grill was visible, and wondered why Geronimo hadn’t fired. A few more seconds and the craft would be too close to the warehouse to risk trying to destroy it.