David Robbins - Boston Run

Fire! he was tempted to shout.

The machine guns abruptly ceased.

Which could only mean one thing. Hickok dove to the right and rolled, his intuition warning him that the Russian pilot was about to employ a rocket, and after two yards he came to a rest on his back in time to witness an event he hadn’t anticipated.

The SEAL launched its rocket.

But so did the chopper.

Geronimo unleashed the van’s rocket a millisecond before the pilot fired. Right on target, the rocket flashed into the copter’s cockpit and exploded. A heartbeat later the Soviet rocket struck the drum wall.

It all happened so incredibly fast, Hickok could do no more than shout a horrified “No!” He automatically curled into a fetal position, his arms over his head. Caught in the open between the twin blasts, he felt as if a colossal invisible hand smashed him into the depths of an enormous furnace. The heat and the force took his breath away, and for several seconds he thought he would burst into flames. Even with his eyes shut tight, brilliant light engulfed him, penetrating hues of red, orange, and yellow. For the span of 30 seconds he endured the torment of being immersed in a veritable sun. His hair and exposed skin were singed. His lungs were on the verge of rupturing. He thought he was dying.

The sun blinked out.

As suddenly as it began, the ordeal ended. The heat and the wall of force evaporated. Smoke shrouded the area, as thick as the heaviest fog.

An acrid scent permeated the air.

Hickok rose to his knees, coughing and rubbing his stinging eyes, ignoring the agony in his left thigh. He placed his left hand on the ground and bumped the Henry, which he scooped up to use as a brace. Propping the stock firmly on the asphalt, he stood. “Geronimo! Marcus! Are you all right?” he yelled.

There was no response.

For one of the few times in his action-packed life, the gunman felt a surge of genuine fear. He hobbled in the direction of the warehouse, swatting at the smoke with his right hand. “Geronimo! Marcus! Where are you?”

They didn’t answer.

Hickok’s right foot thumped against a jagged piece of metal drum. He angrily kicked it aside and advanced to the verge of the doorway, where the smoke abruptly thinned, permitting him to see the interior. “Dear Spirit!” he breathed, aghast.

The metal drums had taken the brunt of the impact and been blown to pieces. They had served as a buffer, cushioning the SEAL from the full fury of the explosion, enabling the transport to survive relatively intact. The destructive energy had demolished the ramp and knocked the SEAL a good 15 feet backwards.

Hickok hardly glanced at the van. His attention was riveted on the blood-splattered form lying on the floor eight feet away. The tattered brown clothing, the scorched, lacerated flesh, and the wisps of smoke rising from the blistered scalp brought a lump to his throat. “Marcus!” he croaked, and limped over to the fallen Warrior.

Marcus was flat on his back, his eyes shut, breathing shallowly in ragged breaths. His arms were bent at the elbows and suspended at grotesque angles. Blood flowed from a score of wounds.

“Please. No,” Hickok said weakly, and sagged to his knees. “Don’t die.”

Marcus’s eyelids fluttered and his eyes opened. He focused on the gunfighter with a supreme effort. “Hickok?”

“It’s me, pard,” Hickok assured him, resting his right hand on the gladiator’s shoulder. “I’m here.”

“I’m glad. I don’t want to die alone.”

“Don’t talk like that,” Hickok stated, his voice rasping, sorrow pervading his being.

A door slammed.

The gunman looked up and saw Geronimo walking unsteadily toward them. Blood trickled from a five-inch gash in Geronimo’s forehead.

“Hickok?” Marcus said.

“I’m still right here,” the gunfighter stated, squeezing Marcus’s shoulder gently.

“It’s my own fault. I didn’t give the signal soon enough. I wanted to be sure.”

“You did just fine. We got the damn Commies.”

“Good,” Marcus said, the word barely audible.

Geronimo joined them, swaying slightly as he halted next to Marcus’s head. He took one look and shuddered.

“I feel so tired,” Marcus commented.

“Hang in there. I’ll get the medicine bag from the buggy,” Hickok offered, and started to push himself erect.

“Don’t bother,” Marcus said softly. A wry grin creased his lips. “You know, I’ve always wondered what it looks like.”

“What?” Hickok asked.

“The other side. The afterlife. Heaven. The mansion worlds. Whatever you want to call it.”

Hickok tried to adopt a lighthearted tone. “Don’t talk like that,” he reiterated. “We’ll have you back on your feet in no time.”

There were a few seconds of silence.

“You’re a rotten liar, Hickok.”

The gunman and Geronimo exchanged tormented expressions.

“Give my mom and dad my love,” Marcus said. “And tell Blade I’m sorry. I—” he began, then stiffened and arched his back. His gaze seemed to center on something far, far away, and his mouth relaxed in a peaceful smile. He went into eternity with that smile as his parting farewell.

Hickok leaned down and felt for his pulse. He looked up at Geronimo and shook his head.

“I liked him,” Geronimo said sadly.

“Are you okay?”

“I cracked my thick skull on the steering wheel, and I keep getting dizzy. I might have a concussion.”

“Then you take it easy and I’ll handle the burial,” Hickok stated, putting his right palm on Marcus’s forehead.

“Burial?”

“We’re not leavin’ him lying here like this.”

“You’re right,” Geronimo said. “We’ll take him back with us.”

Hickok glanced up. “What are you talkin’ about? We’re not going back to the Home yet. We’ve got to rescue Blade.”

“We’re in no shape to rescue Blade. Look at yourself,” Geronimo declared, and pointed at the gunfighter’s thigh.

Hickok looked at his leg and grimaced. A pool of blood had formed under him, and the hole in his thigh was large enough to accommodate two of his fingers. “I’ll bandage this scratch and we’ll head out.”

“We’re returning to the Home.”

“Like hell we are.”

Geronimo leaned down and locked his eyes on his best friend. “I don’t want to go back either, but we don’t have any choice, Nathan. We’ve lost Marcus. I’m groggy and ready to keel over. And you’re bleeding to death.

The Healers can take care of us if we return to the Home, but if we try to press on now, in the condition we’re in, we’ll be committing suicide. We’ll never reach Boston.” He paused. “You can see I’m right, can’t you?”

“But Blade—”

“Blade has been their prisoner for over a week. Another few days won’t make a difference if he’s still alive. We need to have our injuries tended to and select another Warrior to accompany us,” Geronimo said, and sighed.

“Do you think I want to go back? Do you think I like the idea of leaving Blade in their hands? You know me better than that.”

Hickok began to object, then changed his mind. He gazed at the blood coating Marcus, the blood seeping down Geronimo’s brow, and the blood pumping from his thigh, and his shoulders slumped in agonized resignation. “Damn,” he said bitterly.

“We go back?”

“We go back,” Hickok stated reluctantly. “Until we heal up. Blade’s on his own. I just hope the Big Guy can escape without our help.”

The guard was as easy as pie.

Blade came over the fence at the northwest corner of Gorbachev Air Force Base, scaling the eight-foot-high chain-link barrier effortlessly. The three strands of barbed wire at the top gave him momentary pause, but all he had to do was unsling one of the AK-47’s, the one over his left arm, and use the weapon to press down on the strands until they were nearly level with the chain-link portion, then ease his legs over, balancing on his steely arms. A short drop to the ground and he was inside the base, crouched in the inky shadows.