David Robbins - Boston Run

The man addressed the woman, who shrugged. They continued to walk around the rear of the barracks, past a closed door and a blackened window, and passed out of sight when they sauntered between the barracks and the first hangar.

Instantly Blade stood and raced to the northwest corner, his eyes on the window. The lights in the barracks were all out, and for all he knew there could be someone standing in there, watching him. He reached the building without incident and leaned against the wall, pondering. Perhaps the supersoldiers didn’t trust the ordinary base guards to protect them properly, or maybe the supersoldiers were required to perform such mundane chores as part of their typical duties. In any event, he had to take them out quickly. He searched the ground and found gravel underfoot. Just what he needed. He grabbed a handful and moved to the northeast corner, doubling over when he went by the window, staying below the sill. At the corner he straightened and peeked past the edge.

The pair were just going around the southeast corner.

Blade slid to the east side of the building, then swiftly laid the three AK-47’s alongside the foundation. He inched his right eye to the corner and held his right arm poised to throw the gravel. If the man and woman were making a circuit of the barracks, they’d soon appear at the northwest corner again.

The seconds dragged by, became a minute.

And then they were there, coming slowly around the building, engaged in a quiet discussion.

Blade stepped back, then cast the gravel overhand with all of his strength out over the runway. He drew the Bowies and pressed closer to the building.

The gravel spattered onto the tarmacadam.

An exclamation in Russian came from the male supersoldier. The Warrior heard them talking in hushed tones, and he eased his right eye to the edge once more and peered at the rear of the barracks.

Their hands on their pistols, the pair were advancing across the runway, proceeding carefully, searching for the source of the noise, their backs to the building.

Blade crept after them, doubled in half, the Bowies at his waist, treading lightly. They were engrossed in scrutinizing the runway, exchanging whispered remarks, obviously perplexed but not unduly concerned.

Their mistake.

The woman intuitively sensed Blade’s presence when he was a stride off, and she spun and started to draw her pistol. He was on her in a flash, his right hand sweeping up and in, the Bowie tearing into her abdomen and carving a grisly path up to her sternum. She grunted and sagged, and Blade had to release the right Bowie in order to confront the man, who had whirled and was just clearing his holster. Knowing he couldn’t afford a gunshot, Blade speared the left Bowie into the supersoldier’s right wrist and the pistol fell to the ground. Before he could follow through with a body slash, the Russian retreated a pace, then executed a superb spin kick.

Lightning fast, the supersoldier’s boot smashed into the left Bowie and knocked the knife from the Warrior’s hand.

Surprised by the power in that kick, Blade adopted the horse stance and formed his hands into tiger claws, intending to use a Hung Gar offense to swiftly break through the Russian’s guard and dispatch his adversary. But any hopes he entertained of disposing of the supersoldier easily were dashed in the opening moments of their hand-to-hand combat.

Although his right wrist was injured and dripping blood, the HGP commando assumed the Neko-ashi-tachi, the cat stance, and met the Warrior head-on.

Blade let fly with a series of hand and foot strikes, and every one was countered or blocked. He went for the throat repeatedly, and repeatedly his blows were deflected. He tried again and again to shatter a kneecap, and again and again he was thwarted. To his amazement the commando took the initiative, launching a flurry of superlative karate kicks. Blade blocked a Hidar-mawashi-geri, a left roundhouse kick, then an upper side kick, on the defense now and giving ground to evade the supersoldier’s whirling feet.

The commando was a master. He refused to be daunted by the giant’s superior size. Any one of his blows would have shattered a brick, and had he been able to land a crippling strike to a nerve center, to a pressure point, to any vulnerable part of the giant’s anatomy, the battle would have been promptly ended. But he couldn’t and frustration made him uncharacteristically careless. He tried a low kick, aiming at the giant’s right shin, and for once his kick landed. The giant started to buckle, his left hand grabbing for his injured leg, exposing the left side to an attack.

Which was exactly what the commando wanted. He stepped in close and whipped a Nukite, a piercing hand strike, at the giant’s throat.

As Blade hoped he would. The Warrior had deliberately absorbed the punishing kick to his shin to trick the supersoldier into making a fatal mistake. Now he simply snapped his left hand up, batting the Nukite aside, and uncoiled, ramming a palm heel thrust into the commando’s jaw.

There was a loud snap and the soldier went rigid as a pole, then collapsed without a sound.

Blade straightened and breathed in deeply. If all the genetically bred commandos were as stalwart and formidable, it was no wonder the Soviets wanted to create as many as they could. A battalion of such supermen and superwomen would be virtually invincible. But all the Soviets had were 16 others, and if Blade had his way they wouldn’t have any. He retrieved his left Bowie, walked to the woman and wrenched out his right Bowie, then hurried to the barracks.

The lights were still out inside.

Blade wiped the knives clean on his pants and slid them into their sheaths. A moment later he had two AK-47’s slung over his arm and the third gripped in his hands. A cool breeze caressed his skin as he moved to the southeast corner of the barracks and surveyed the structures.

The white front door of the barracks was closed. To his left, parked in front of the nearest hangar, sat a huge tandem helicopter. He remembered Milton saying that the HGP Unit was on alert status 24 hours a day, which meant the Unit had to have a copter ready to go at any hour of the day.

Therefore, Blade deduced, the tandem job must be on line and fueled for immediate lift-off.

How convenient.

Blade stalked to the front door and paused. Should he bust it in or try a sneak attack? If he kicked in the door, he’d awaken every commando inside and give them precious seconds to react. The element of surprise was essential to his success.

Oh, well.

Blade tried the knob and found it unlocked. He opened the door slowly to the accompaniment of loud snoring. Since, if an alert sounded, they had to be out the door in minutes, all of the commandos must be asleep within a short distance of the doorway. He slipped into the barracks and eased the door shut, vowing that none of the HGP Unit would get past him alive.

Somewhere someone farted.

The Warrior groped the wall to his right for a light switch. In seconds his probing fingers found it. He stood stock still, girding himself, asserting control over his emotions and his body, willing himself to relax, counting in his mind.

One.

Sixteen to one weren’t such bad odds. He’d have the jump on them. The crucial edge.

Two.

If he did die, it wouldn’t be without a fight the Russians would long remember. Either way they would require years to rebuild their HGP Unit.

Three.

Blade flicked the switch and overhead lights came on all along the length of the barracks, revealing a desk and several chairs to his left and to his right a room containing sinks, toilets, and showers. Ten feet from the entrance was another door, ajar about eighteen inches, and from behind it came the snoring.