David Robbins - Cincinnati Run

“Look out!” Geronimo suddenly cried, pointing straight ahead.

Fedorov, fascinated by the monstrous gate and walls, had neglected to keep his eyes on the road. He swung around to find a panel truck had braked not 15 feet away, and he slammed on the jeep’s brakes in a frantic bid to avoid a collision. The jeep slewed to the left, slowing rapidly, its tires squealing.

Blade clutched the dashboard. For a moment he thought they would miss the truck, but seconds later the front fender slammed into the rear of the bronze-colored panel truck. There was a loud crunch and a crash as the front headlight on the driver’s side was smashed by the impact, then the tinkling of broken glass falling to the asphalt.

“No!” Fedorov wailed. “No! No! No!”

All the vehicles behind the jeep had stopped, and those in the other lane were slowing so the occupants could gawk.

“We must get out of here!” Federov cried.

“Stay calm,” Blade stated. “Don’t lose your head.”

The driver of the panel truck hopped out and stalked toward their jeep, his fists clenched at his sides. A burly man, he wore a blue flannel shirt and brown pants.

“That guy looks like he sat on a broom handle,” Hickok quipped.

“What do I do?” Fedorov asked, panic-stricken.

“Calm down,” Blade reiterated in a quiet tone.

“You don’t understand…” Fedorov started to respond.

The driver of the panel truck reached the rear corner and glared at the dent in his vehicle. He shook his right fist at Fedorov. “Where did you learn to drive? New Jersey?”

“We’re dead,” Fedorov declared.

“What are you talking about?” Blade responded. “You’re a soldier. Get out and talk to him, but just remember we’ll have you covered. There’s no reason to get all bent out of shape.”

“I think there is, pard,” Hickok commented, and jerked his left thumb toward the gate.

Blade looked at the front entrance to the L.R.F. and felt the hair on the nape of his neck tingle.

An officer and six troopers were heading their way!

“What am I going to do?” Fedorov whimpered, gaping at the approaching officer, a lieutenant.

“Don’t overreact,” Blade cautioned. “We can bluff our way out of this mess.”

“They’ll kill me if they find out I was helping you,” Fedorov said.

“They won’t find out,” Blade assured the Russian.

“Yes, they will,” Fedorov disagreed. “You don’t know them like I do.”

The lieutenant and the six soldiers were 12 feet distant.

“I’m getting out of here!” Fedorov unexpectedly cried, and shifted into reverse. He tramped on the accelerator, sending the jeep flying backwards to crash into a brown automobile, then wrenched on the wheel and tried to maneuver into the opposite lane, an impossible feat because the other lane was crammed with vehicles.

“What the hell are you doing?” the driver of the panel truck shouted.

“Don’t!” Blade snapped. “We’re already boxed in. You’re only making it worse.”

Fedorov wasn’t about to let up. He pounded on the horn, frantically striving to clear the obstructing traffic.

The detail from the gate halted, and the officer cupped his hand around his mouth. “You there! What do you think you’re doing! Do not move your vehicle!”

“We’re in for trouble now,” Geronimo predicted.

Blade was furious. Fedorov’s stupidity was attracting precisely the attention he wanted to avoid at all costs. “Quit using the horn!” he growled.

“I don’t want to die!” Fedorov blubbered, his fleshy features trembling.

The driver of the panel truck stepped over to their jeep and kicked the grill. “Turn it off and step out here!”

“I figure we should make a break for it,” Hickok advised, holding the AR-15 in his lap. His prized Pythons were concealed under his uniform shirt, the barrels held fast by his belt, with the pearl grips reversed. To draw he first had to unbutton the shirt and reach in, and he disliked the delay the unbuttoning would cause. In an emergency he wanted to be able to reach his Pythons as quickly as possible, and by his reckoning the current situation qualified as the genuine article.

“For once I agree with Hickok,” Geronimo concurred.

The lieutenant and the six soldiers were on the far side of the opposing lane of traffic, blocked by a truck and a car that were touching bumper to bumper. Gesticulating and barking orders, the officer was attempting to get them to separate.

“This sucks!” Fedorov declared, and yanked on the door handle.

Blade lunged, trying to restrain the trooper, his left hand catching hold of Fedorov’s right wrist.

“Let go of me!” Fedorov yelled, tugging and thrashing, his left leg and arm outside the jeep.

“What is happening?” the officer demanded. “Private! Answer me!”

Fedorov glanced at the officer. “Comrade Lieutenant, help me! These men are enemies of the State! They’ve been holding me prisoner!”

“This is gettin’ ridiculous,” Hickok said, and jabbed the AR-15 into Fedorov’s ribs and squeezed the trigger.

The burst tore Fedorov from Blade’s grasp and flung him against the car in the opposite lane, his chest riddled, oozing blood, his face a mask of astonishment. His lips twitched feebly and he slumped to the asphalt.

Hickok was already in motion, firing as he climbed from the jeep, sending a round into the stunned lieutenant’s forehead and catapulting the officer backwards into two troopers. He shot a soldier who was endeavoring to unlimber an AK-47, then a private who looked like he was trying to catch flies with his mouth.

“What the hell!” the driver of the panel truck blurted out, then dove for the ground when a giant and another guy popped from the jeep that had hit his truck.

Blade saw the Russians near the gate start toward Delhi Road. He raised the Commando and cut loose, swinging the weapon in a tight arc, and he was gratified to see five of the soldiers go down. The Commando Arms Carbine was a devasting piece of firepower; three feet in length, only eight pounds in weight, with a fully automatic capability thanks to the Family Gunsmiths. Using its 90-round magazine of 45-caliber ammunition, the commando was lightweight, versatile, and supremely deadly.

The driver’s door on a truck 30 feet to the east opened, and a soldier materialized with a pistol in his right hand.

Geronimo shot him through the chest.

The guards at the gate were hitting the dirt. Screams arose from women in several of the vehicles. The four remaining soldiers who had accompanied the lieutenant ducked behind the car in the other lane.

For several seconds the pressure was off the Warriors.

“Which way, pard?” Hickok asked, swiveling from right to left, trying to cover every direction at once.

Blade backed toward the sidewalk. The decision was already made for him. They were entirely hemmed in by vehicles on three sides. Attempting to assault the installation would be virtual suicide. Their sole avenue of escape lay to the north. A row of dilapidated buildings bordered Delhi Road on the north side, most with peeling paint and dirty windows, all of them apparently vacant. Which figured. The Soviets wouldn’t want anyone living or working in close proximity to their top-secret facility where their activities could be monitored. “This way!” he shouted.

Geronimo dashed to Blade’s side.

A trooper appeared above the hood of the car, an AK-47 pressed to his shoulder.

Hickok was faster, the AR-15 chattering instantly, and the trooper screeched and fell from view. The gunman whirled and clambered swiftly over the jeep’s hood, then back pedaled to his friends. “Let’s skedaddle,” he declared.