David Robbins - Cincinnati Run

People lined the sidewalks, watching the soldiers bustling to and fro. An ambulance was parked in the drive to the L.R.F., its red lights flashing.

Stars sparkled in the heavens.

“We’ll mingle with the crowd,” Blade whispered over his left shoulder.

“Then head for the downtown area.”

“We’re right behind you,” Geronimo assured him.

Blade jerked the door open. A sign was attached to the wall to his right, within a foot of the jamb, its black lettering illuminated by the combined glare of the numerous headlights and spotlights.

Blade strolled casually down the concrete steps to the sidewalk and took a left. He glanced at Geronimo, who was right behind him, then at the partially open door to the condemned building. “Where’s Nathan?” he asked, and halted.

Geronimo stopped and turned. “Hickok?”

“He was with us a minute ago,” Blade mentioned.

They waited expectantly for the gunman to emerge.

“Do you think he got lost?” Geronimo queried after a minute.

“If he took a wrong passage, all he had to do was give a yell,” Blade said.

“What else could have happened?”

“Beats me,” Blade responded.

“Maybe he walked into a wall and knocked himself out,” Geronimo suggested.

“Be serious.”

“I guess I should have held his hand,” Geronimo said.

Blade sighed and started up the steps. “Stay put. I’ll go find him.”

“Hold it right there, Private!” commanded a stern voice.

The Warriors pivoted to the west.

A tall Soviet officer stood eight feet away, his hands at his sides, his countenance haughty, his green eyes regarding them critically. A holstered pistol rode on his right hip. “What are you men doing?” he demanded.

“Conducting a search of these buildings, sir,” Blade replied, holding the Commando next to his right leg and hoping the officer would not notice the firearm’s unique contours.

“What unit are you men with?”

“We’re perimeter guards at the L.R.F.,” Blade said, taking a gamble.

The officer twisted and stared at the commotion surrounding the damaged jeep. “They have every available soldier out here,” he said, his right arm obscured by his body. There was a sudden motion and he whirled with the pistol clutched in his right hand. “But the two of you are not perimeter guards. You will lower your weapons to the ground now!”

Blade placed the Commando on the concrete. Out of the corner of his left eye he saw Geronimo also complying.

“You will be so good as to raise your arms,” the officer directed.

Frowning, Blade obeyed. Several of the spectators had witnessed the officer pulling his gun and were staring at the Warriors. None of the other Russian soldiers were aware of the situation yet, but that would change any moment. The distance was too great for Blade to try and employ his Bowies; the officer would shoot him before he could grab either knife. He knew Geronimo was in the same boat with respect to the Arminius and the tomahawk. They needed a break, a distraction, or for the officer to make a mistake.

The Russian unwittingly obliged.

“Come here,” the officer said. “Slowly.”

Blade walked down the steps, his hands next to his shoulders, and deliberately stepped in front of Geronimo, obstructing the officer’s view.

“Don’t!” the Russian snapped, wagging the pistol. “Stand aside!”

Blade stared blankly at the officer.

“Move, damn you!” the Russian barked.

“Sorry,” Blade said politely, and flattened.

His shirttail hanging out, Geronimo had the Arminius extended and cocked, and he fired a single shot.

The slug caught the officer between the eyes and knocked him five feet to tumble onto his back. Screams and shouts erupted from the spectators, and all eyes suddenly focused on the Warriors and the figure on the ground.

Blade was up and bounding to the Commando.

“Do we go find Hickok?” Geronimo queried, hastily retrieving the SAR as he slid the Arminius under his shirt.

A half-dozen AK-47’s thundered simultaneously before Blade could answer, and he was forced to drop to the sidewalk, hearing the repeated smacking and zinging of the heavy slugs as they struck the building. Their position was untenable. If a live round didn’t get them, a ricochet just might. “On me!” he cried, and dashed between a pair of green trucks.

“Don’t shoot!” someone was shouting. “Don’t shoot! You’ll hit civilians!”

Blade turned to the east, jogging down the center line with a row of vehicles on both sides, heading toward the heart of the city. Although many of the drivers and passengers had vacated their vehicles to catch a glimpse of the bustling troops, there were still dozens patiently waiting in their cars or trucks for the military to allow them to drive on. A man in a blue car saw Blade coming and poked his head out the driver’s window.

“Hey, buddy. What’s happening?”

“Some big guy is shooting people,” Blade replied as he came abreast of the car, and grinned wickedly.

“No shit?” the man said, then did a double take and frantically rolled up his window.

Blade sprinted past the blue car. The mission was rapidly dissolving into a first-rate farce. The element of surprise was totally lost, the odds of completing the assignment were less than nil, and to compound their predicament, Hickok was missing. He looked to the east, amazed at the size of the traffic jam caused by a mere fender-bender, and increased his speed.

“They’re twenty yards behind us,” Geronimo stated.

“Let’s hope we can outrun them,” Blade said over his left shoulder. He passed the last of the vehicles occupying the right lane.

“I don’t like leaving Nathan.”

“Can’t be helped. We’ll go back for him later.”

“Provided we’re alive.”

“Cheer up,” Blade quipped, breathing heavily as his boots pounded on the pavement. “What else could possibly go wrong?”

A pair of helicopters abruptly streaked in low over the L.R.F.

installation, angling above Delhi Road. Each chopper was outfitted with a spotlight mounted on the nose, and they banked to direct the bright beams at the road.

“I had to open my big mouth,” Blade said, slowing so as not to attract the attention of the pilots.

“Maybe they have no idea where we’re at,” Geronimo remarked.

The helicopters unexpectedly fixed their spotlights on the Warriors, bathing them in a brilliant glow.

Blade stopped and held his left arm in front of his eyes to reduce the glare.

“I never did like being the center of attention,” Geronimo said, and sighted the SAR. He fired a half-dozen rounds and one of the spotlights went out. The choppers swerved and danced in the sky.

Shadowy forms were bearing down on the Warriors from the rear.

“Drop your weapons!” a raspy voice commanded.

In response, Blade spun and squeezed the trigger, the Commando booming and bucking.

Someone screeched.

The pursuing Russian soldiers dove for cover.

Blade nudged Geronimo’s right shoulder and took off, racing to the east, a feeling of impending doom gnawing at his consciousness. Sooner or later the Soviets would hem them in. He needed a bright idea, and he needed it right away. To the left were idling vehicles and a block or two of condemned buildings. To the right was the L.R.F. facility. Scores of soldiers were to the rear. The persistent helicopters hovered just out of effective gun range. One of the choppers still had a spotlight trained on them. Frustration and a sense of helplessness welled within him.

“Surrender!” bellowed the raspy, metallic voice.