David Robbins - Cincinnati Run

So much for the leeches.

Now he had a score to settle with the Russians.

But wasn’t that the way it always was? There were always scores to settle. A death for a death. Tit for tat. And there were always those innocents who wound up caught in the crossfire.

The thought gave him pause.

The Butcher reached out and patted the top of the laser. “Perhaps I should start with one of your ears,” he said, and grinned.

Geronimo looked at the small hole through which the laser beam would be fired, and tensed. The two soldiers had his stocky body bent at the waist, with his shoulders and head above the tabletop. His arms were twisted up and back, and his sockets ached terribly.

“Move his head to the left,” General Stoljarov ordered.

The tall trooper gripped Geronimo’s chin in his right hand and pushed, but Geronimo jerked his head away.

“Not like that, imbecile!” the Butcher snapped. “Move his entire body.”

By increasing the pressure on his arms to compel compliance, the soldiers sidled their captive to the left.

“Now hold his head steady,” Stoljarov instructed.

Again the tall trooper grasped the Warrior’s chin.

General Stoljarov leaned down, gauging the alignment, and motioned at the tall guard. “Your body is too close to his ear. You’re in my line of fire.”

The trooper stepped back, arching his spine to ensure his abdomen was out of the beam’s projected path.

“So what will it be?” the Butcher asked Geronimo. “Will you sketch the complete layout of the Home for me?”

“Give me a pencil—” Geronimo said.

General Stoljarov smiled in triumph.

“—and I’ll shove it up your ass,” Geronimo finished.

The Butcher frowned, his eyes narrowing. “Very well. You have brought this on yourself. I’ve heard many stories about how brave the Warriors are supposed to be. Now let’s put your bravery to the test.” He adjusted the dials, then smirked. “This will hurt you more than it will me.”

Geronimo focused on the second dial, the one the Butcher would turn to activate the laser. He must make his move the moment before the dial was rotated. His best hope lay in grabbing the AK-47 propped against the right side of the table, and first he had to break free of the guards. The trooper on the left stood in a firm stance and would be difficult to dislodge, hut the tall soldier on the right was standing awkwardly.

Geronimo tensed his legs, his eyes on the laser.

“After I burn a hole in your ear, I think I’ll work on your forehead,” General Stoljarov said.

Geronimo said nothing.

“Have you ever smelled burning flesh?” the Butcher asked, and touched the second dial.

Concentrate on those fingers! Geronimo told himself. He saw the fingertips grip the dial and start to turn, and he threw himself to the left, against the shorter trooper, while yanking his right arm downward, feeling as if he tore every muscle in his arm. The unexpected tactic took the tall guard by surprise and he was pulled off balance, directly in line with the laser at the distant the red beam flared.

The tall soldier uttered a petrified shriek as the beam seared into his groin, flaming through his pants and underwear and scorching his gonads. He released Geronimo and stumbled backwards, automatically lowering his hands over his genitals, and cried out when the laser burned off two of his fingers.

Geronimo wrenched his right arm loose and pivoted, driving his fist into the short guard’s stomach, then extended his right thumb and spiked it straight up, burying the digit in the fleshy folds of the man’s throat. The hold on his left arm slackened, and he dove for the floor, tearing his left arm from the trooper’s grasp, and scrambled to the right side of the table.

He surged erect, his hands closing on the AK-47 and sweeping the gun to his right shoulder.

The tall Russian was staring down at himself in terror as the laser penetrated his body, while the short soldier gurgled and wheezed, his features livid. Only the Butcher saw the Warrior grab the weapon, and he reacted by taking hold of the laser and attempting to swivel the device at the Indian.

Geronimo shot Stoljarov first, smiling as he squeezed the trigger, seeing the Butcher’s head dissolve into chunks and pieces of flesh and hair. He spun, the next rounds slamming into the short soldier’s chest and flinging him against the wall.

Bubbling blood out his mouth, the tall Russian was sinking slowly to the floor, the red beam slicing his torso up the center, splitting him in half.

Shooting him would be a waste of ammunition, Geronimo decided, and ran for the door, skirting the dying soldier. He entered the Control Room, heading for the elevator, and shot a pair of technicians on a console to his right, then a third man in red seated at a computer to his left.

“Look out!” a woman yelled.

“Get down!” bellowed another.

Geronimo advanced toward the elevator, shooting any technicians foolish enough to show themselves, and when he was within ten yards of the elevator door he began firing at the equipment, reducing a bank of complicated instruments and panels to smoldering, sparking ruins.

“No! Don’t!”

Geronimo stopped, staring at the skinny man with the wire-rimmed glasses coming toward him down an aisle on the right.

“You don’t realize what you’re doing!” Leonid Grineva declared. “This is a work of a lifetime!”

His lips compressing, Geronimo trained the AK-47 on the scientist.

Leonid Grineva blinked rapidly and extended his arms, palms out.

“Wait! You can’t!”

“Watch me,” Geronimo said.

“But I was just doing my job!” Grineva declared.

“So am I,” Geronimo responded, and stitched the genius from his navel to his neck. Without a backward glance he walked to the elevator and went to press the button.

The door opened.

“Going down?”

Geronimo’s mouth dropped as his gaze alighted on the speaker.

“Are you going to stand there all night catching flies, or will you join us?” Blade asked.

Geronimo entered the car.

“Nice to see you again,” Captain Stuart commented.

Blade pressed the button for the ground floor. “Where have you been?”

he queried Geronimo as the door shut and the elevator began its descent.

“I took the shortcut.”

“Here are some presents for you,” Blade said, unslinging the SAR.

Geronimo leaned the AK-47 against the rear wall and took the Springfield, the Arminius, and the tomahawk. He hefted the latter and grinned. “I’m ready to go on the warpath now.”

“What have you been doing? Goofing off?”

“I’ll tell you all about it some year.”

Blade stood next to the door and started reloading the Commando’s magazine. “We’d be wiser taking the stairs, but we can’t.”

“Why not?” Geronimo inquired.

“My left leg is injured,” Lyle disclosed. “There’s no way I could handle twenty-five flights of stairs.”

“This way is quicker,” Blade commented. “But stay frosty in case the elevator stops on the way down.”

“How about you?” Geronimo questioned. “Did you run into much trouble?”

“A few minor inconveniences.”

They fell silent, glued to the control panel, watching tensely as the numbers ticked off one by one. At the 11th floor the car commenced rocking back and forth.

“What’s happening?” Geronimo inquired in alarm.

Blade stared at the panel, waiting to hear a crash or a crunch and feel the elevator drop like a rock. If the grenades had damaged the shaft at the tenth floor, the car might fall or become wedged tightly. Neither prospect was appealing. He held his breath and saw the number ten light up, then the number nine.