David Robbins - Memphis Run

General Thayer stepped from the Command Center and crossed to the jeep. “Let’s go,” he said to the driver as he climbed in. “We’re taking our prisoner to the King.”

“Here’s a laugh for you, sir,” Sergeant Boynton said. “This guy is religious.”

Thayer glanced at the Warrior. “You are? Then you’d better start praying to whatever deity you worship. You’re going to need all the help you can get.”

Blade felt goose bumps prick his skin as the Caspian barrel poked into his genitals. In the instant before she squeezed the trigger, instinctively, fleetingly terrified at the prospect of losing his organ, he involuntarily flinched, his breath catching in his throat.

But nothing happened.

The gun didn’t fire.

“What the hell!” Bonnie exclaimed, lowering the Caspian and gazing at the firearm in disbelief. “I loaded it myself!” Her astonishment over the auto pistol’s presumed failure to discharge was abruptly changed to fear for her personal safety when the giant clamped his left hand on the front of her green shirt and hauled her into the air.

“Put her down!” Clyde shouted, running toward them, the bazooka flapping on his shoulder.

“Put me down, you big ox!” Bonnie shrieked, kicking and thrashing.

“Let me sock her on the jaw?” Hickok asked.

Blade pressed the M-10 up to Bonnie’s mouth. “Drop the damn gun. Now !”

Frightened by the fury on his features, Bonnie released the Caspian and ceased struggling.

“Let go of her!” yelled Clyde, still 15 feet off.

“How about lettin’ me sock him on the jaw?” Hickok requested.

Ignoring the gunfighter’s cracks. Blade dumped Bonnie onto the asphalt. “Don’t move,” he growled.

“I’d like to sock somebody in the jaw,” Hickok mumbled.

Clyde pounded to within four feet of the Warriors and pointed the bazooka at Blade. “Run, Bonnie! I’ll protect you.”

Annoyed to the limits of his endurance, Blade glared at the bespectacled bantamweight, then glanced at Hickok. “Him!” he ordered.

Grinning in delight, the gunman twirled the Pythons into their holsters, the sunlight glinting from the steel.

Distracted by the spinning revolvers, Clyde shifted his gaze from the giant to the gunman. As he did, he accidentally tilted the bazooka upward and fired. A thunderous blast accompanied the launching of the finned rocket and hot gases were expelled out the rear of the smooth-bore tube, scorching the ground behind him. Clyde fell onto his posterior.

Five pairs of eyes gaped at the rocket’s trajectory as the projectile arced skyward, then descended in a graceful loop and struck the earth 300 yards distant, disappearing in the forest on the right side of the highway. The explosion sent shredded leaves, bits of bark, dirt, weeds, and the feathers from a roosting flock of starlings swirling into the atmosphere.

Blade smacked his left palm against his forehead and closed his eyes.

“You idiot!” Bonnie snapped at her defender.

Clyde appeared on the verge of tears.

His right fist clenched in preparation for delivering a blow to Clyde’s jaw, Hickok watched three injured starlings striving to become airborne.

“Wow. I’d like to take this guy fishin’ sometime,” he quipped.

“Yippee!” enthused an unexpected spectator, applauding. “Do that again!”

Everyone glanced at the half-track.

“How did you do that?” Chastity asked. She was sitting on the hood next to the windshield, her wondering gaze on the bazooka.

“What are you doing up there?” Hickok demanded.

“Watching the fireworks,” Chastity answered. “We had fireworks in Atlanta once a year on Civil Rights day.”

“How did you get on the hood?” Hickok inquired.

“I crawled through the window,” Chastity said, gesturing at the missing windshield.

“Get down from there,” Hickok directed, stepping close to the fender and extending his arms. “I’ll catch you.”

Giggling. Chastity slid down the hood into his waiting hands. “Who is the pretty lady?” she inquired.

Bonnie was staring at the girl in transparent bewilderment. “You have a child with you!” she blurted.

“What was your first clue?” Hickok responded.

Her eyes widening, Bonnie studied the gunman and the giant. “Hey! Where are your uniforms?”

“We don’t wear uniforms,” Blade said.

“But Hounds always wear black uniforms,” Bonnie reiterated.

“We’re not Hounds, dingbat,” Hickok stated.

“Not Hounds?” Bonnie shook her head and gazed at her companion.

“They’re not Hounds!”

“Apparently we committed a slight blunder,” Clyde said.

“You boneheaded cow chip! You could’ve killed us,” Hickok snapped.

“We thought you were Hounds,” Bonnie declared.

“If we’d been Hounds, you’d both be dead,” Blade informed her. He leaned over and snatched the Caspian from the roadway. “The two of you should seriously consider another line of work.”

“This isn’t our vocation,” Clyde said, and giggled.

Blade tucked the M-10 under his left arm and proceeded to inspect the Commander. “Have you ever shot one of these before?” he asked Bonnie.

“No,” she admitted.

“Thank the Spirit,” Blade remarked, glancing at Hickok.

“I’ll be able to have more children because she didn’t know a round has to be fed into the chamber before the gun will fire.”

“Let’s hear it for stupidity,” the gunman joked.

“Who are you calling stupid?” Bonnie retorted.

“If the shoe fits…” Hickok said.

“I want some answers,” Blade announced, squatting and looking from Bonnie to Clyde and back again. “Why did you jump the half-track? What were you trying to accomplish?”

“Don’t tell him a thing,” Clyde stated. “He could be working for the King.”

“We’re not,” Blade said. “We’ve never even met this King.”

“Then why are you driving the Hounds’ half-track?” Clyde demanded.

“We stole it from them,” Blade replied. “We’re after the Hounds. They’ve taken a friend prisoner.”

“You can kiss him good-bye,” Bonnie remarked.

“Not on your life,” Hickok vowed. “Warriors never desert their pards. And if the Hounds hurt our sidekick, I won’t leave a Hound alive.”

“I’m still not convinced we can trust you,” Clyde commented.

Hickok deposited Chastity on the ground. “Is that a fact?” he said, then drew his right Colt ever so slowly. He cocked the hammer, took a stride, and touched the barrel to the tip of Clyde’s nose. “I don’t much care whether you trust us or not.”

“You won’t shoot,” Clyde blustered.

The gunman leaned forward, smiling. “Look into my eyes,” he directed.

Clyde obeyed.

“I’ll count to three. If you haven’t started spillin’ the beans by the time I get to three, I’ll plug you,” Hickok said.

“You’re bluffing,” Clyde declared.

“One,” Hickok stated.

“You wouldn’t dare,” Clyde maintained.

“Don’t mess with him, Clyde,” Bonnie urged nervously.

“Don’t look,” Blade said to Chastity.

“Two,” Hickok continued.

Clyde licked his lips and glanced at Bonnie. “I think he means it.”

“Then tell them!” Bonnie prompted.

“Adios,” Hickok said, gouging the Python into Clyde’s nostrils. “Get set to greet your Maker.”

“No!” Clyde cried. “Don’t! I’ll talk! What do you want to know?” His glasses were tilted at an angle.

Hickok lowered the Colt. “I want you to answer every question the Big Guy asks. If you don’t…” He wagged the Colt for emphasis, then twirled the Python into its holster.