David Robbins - Cincinnati Run

“Look, we know the Russians patrol this stretch of road daily. This is the only road connecting Highway 127 to Dunlap, and this spot is ideal for our purposes. It’s secluded, so we won’t need to worry about witnesses.”

Hickok placed his elbows on the asphalt and rested his chin in his hands. “How do you know we can trust that Eberle lady?”

“I trust my instincts.”

“Oh, now I’m relieved.”

“Holly was grateful to us for taking care of Gus Seuell. She offered to help us in any way she could. Thanks to her we have a map of the city and we learned about this daily patrol.”

“I hope the map she drew for you isn’t a phony,” Hickok commented. “I wouldn’t want to think that Geronimo and I were wastin’ our time burying all those flea-ridden mutts while you were in her kitchen sippin’ hot coffee.”

“Her dogs weren’t flea-ridden.”

“How would you know?”

Blade sighed and took several strides toward Geronimo. “We’ll signal you when we see a vehicle.”

“Thanks heaps. My missus would really be ticked if you let someone put tread marks on my buckskins.”

“I hope they’re on time,” Blade stated.

“How’d Holly know about this patrol?”

“The underground movement her husband belonged to keeps tabs on the Soviets,” Blade said. “A farmer living a mile west of here is also part of the underground. He told Tim, and Tim told her before he was executed.”

“Can’t I hold onto my AR-15?”

“Nope. The patrol has to get right on top of you. You’ve got your Pythons. What more do you want?”

“I want to hold Sherry in my arms and hear her tell me how adorable I am. I want to take Ringo fishin’ and watch him get his line all tangled. I want to be at the Home, where I don’t have to watch my back every blasted minute of the day. I want—”

“Sorry I asked,” Blade said, cutting him off. He took a pace, then paused and looked at the gunman.

“What’s the matter?” Hickok inquired.

“Is it my imagination, or are you as homesick as I am?”

“I am gettin’ tired of all this gallivanting around the country,” Hickok replied. “And I’ve been feelin’ a bit grumpy.”

“First me, then Geronimo, and now you,” Blade said. “Maybe all we really need is an extended vacation.”

“Sounds great, pard. Where do you want to go?”

“I don’t know. I’ll give it some thought.”

“Our wives will go for the notion. Sherry’s always gripin’ that we never have enough time to ourselves,” Hickok mentioned. “A holiday would do all of us a world of good. The wives can cook us some grub and set up a picnic somewhere and watch the young’uns while we kick back and shoot the breeze.”

Blade glanced at the gunfighter. “That’s your idea of a vacation?”

“Yep. What’s wrong with it?”

“Oh, nothing. But I want to be there when you tell Sherry.”

Geronimo suddenly whistled and waved his right arm.

“Here they come,” Blade said. “Now remember my instructions. I don’t want bullet holes in their uniforms.”

“Piece of cake.”

Blade hurried to Geronimo’s side. “What did you see?”

“There,” Geronimo said, pointing.

A green vehicle was cresting a low hill 300 yards to the east.

“Think it’s the Soviets?” Geronimo queried.

“We’ll soon know,” Blade said, and jogged back toward Hickok. Ten yards from the gunman, he veered to the left and took cover in the underbrush.

Geronimo stayed right beside him. “What’s Nathan doing?” he asked as he crouched down.

Blade gazed at the road.

Hickok was lying on his right side, his head propped on his right arm, twirling a Colt Python in his left hand and humming.

“Lie down!” Blade ordered.

The Family’s supreme gunman sighed and flattened. He drew his right Python, then tucked them both under his chest, screening the Magnums from view. He angled his body slightly so his back was to the east.

“This will never work,” Geronimo remarked.

Blade trained his eyes eastward. “Why not?”

“They won’t stop. The Russians will take one look at Hickok and run him over.”

“Wishful thinking.”

The sound of an engine reached their ears.

“Hey,” Geronimo declared, as if an idea had just occurred to him.

“What?”

“They really might not stop,” Geronimo stated, his tone reflecting his worry. “Or they might pump a few rounds into him instead of checking him out. What do we do then?”

“If they don’t slow down, or if one of them so much as lifts a weapon, we waste them.”

“Good,” Geronimo said, clearly relieved. “Not that I care, of course.”

“Of course.”

The growl of the motor grew louder, and a jeep filled with Soviet soldiers appeared 70 yards to the east.

Blade fingered the Commando’s trigger. The sight of the familiar brown uniforms reminded him of the run he’d taken to Philadelphia with Sundance and Bertha. They’d been lucky to escape with their lives. The Russians were a perennial threat to the Family and the Freedom Federation. Perhaps Holly Eberle had the right idea. Perhaps the Freedom Federation should give serious consideration to invading Soviet territory and driving the Communists into the Atlantic Ocean.

Geronimo pressed the SAR stock to his right shoulder and sighted on the vehicle.

The jeep was 40 yards from Hickok’s prone form when the driver braked. Seconds later the door on the passenger side opened and three Soviet soldiers climbed out, each one armed with an AK-47. They engaged in a brief discussion, with the tallest gesturing repeatedly at the figure blocking their path. Finally they advanced, spreading out, the tallest moving down the center of the road flanked by his companions. The jeep stayed where it was, the engine idling, the driver leaning forward to peer out the windshield.

Blade glanced at Geromino and nodded at the jeep.

Geronimo melted into the undergrowth.

The trio of troopers halted 15 yards from Hickok and the tallest shouted a few words in Russian, then switched to English. “You there! Stand up!”

Hickok did not budge.

“Did you hear me? Stand up!” the tallest soldier instructed warily.

Hickok remained motionless.

Cautiously, their AK-47s trained on the buckskin-clad form, the three troopers walked forward slowly. Two yards away they stopped again.

“If this is a trick, you will live to regret it!” the tallest soldier declared.

“Roll over so we can see your hands!”

Hickok was like a rock.

“You have been warned,” the tallest soldier said, and stepped up to the gunman and rammed the AK-47 barrel into Hickok’s back.

Still Hickok did not move.

The tallest trooper looked at his comrades, both of whom edged closer.

Blade watched as the tallest soldier reached for Hickok’s right shoulder.

He rose and started toward the road, intending to burst from cover and take the Soviets unawares. Capturing four prisoners increased the likelihood that one of the Russians would know something about the Soviet superweapon. He hoped to interrogate all four, but his hopes were dashed by, of all things, a tangled clump of weeds. As he darted into the open his right combat boot caught on the clump and he tripped, pitching onto his knees, using the Commando stock to catch himself,—but the damage was already done. The muted thud of his knees striking the earth alerted the four Russians.

The soldiers spun, swinging their AK-47s around.

Blade saw the barrels swiveling in his direction and tensed, expecting to feel searing agony as dozens of rounds perforated his torso. In the fleeting instant before the troopers went to squeeze the triggers on their AK-47, he thought of Jenny and Gabe.