David Robbins - Memphis Run

“That dog,” Chastity said, and raised her left hand to point.

The Warriors looked up and froze.

Balefully eyeing them from the second floor of a four-story structure on their left, its canine features framed in a window long since shattered, was a gray and black mongrel.

“Maybe it’s alone,” Hickok commented.

Blade glanced to their rear. “No such luck.”

Three dogs were 30 feet to the rear, standing close together, their mouths slightly open, their tongues and fangs visible.

Hickok looked back, then scooped Chastity into his left arm. “Four isn’t so bad. We can take four, no sweat.” He stared ahead to find Bonnie and Clyde stopped in their tracks by the sight of five dogs blocking the mouth of the alley 20 feet beyond.

Bonnie sighted her AR-15.

“No!” Blade called.

She turned, perplexed.

“The shots will alert the Hounds,” Blade said, advancing slowly, warily watching the dog in the window as he passed underneath.

“I warned you this would happen,” Bonnie reminded him. “How do you expect us to get out of this mess without firing a shot?”

“I’ll take care of the dogs,” Blade informed her.

“All by yourself?”

“You can help if you want, but no firing,” Blade directed. He scanned the alley, spying a recessed entry or exit eight feet to the left. “Get in there. Move!”

The brother and sister hastily obeyed, stepping into the narrow space between the alley and a closed, pale green door. On their heels, alertly regarding the canines, came the Warriors.

Bonnie tried the doorknob. “It’s locked.”

“Break it in,” Blade ordered.

The dogs on both sides began to pad forward.

“Here they come,” Hickok announced, drawing his right Colt.

“Remember,” Blade reiterated. “No shooting if we can help it.”

“How do you plan to stop them?” Bonnie cracked. “With your breath?”

Blade glanced at her, his eyes narrowing. “Break down the door. Now.”

He slung the AR-15 over his left shoulder and drew both Bowies, then positioned himself in the opening to the alley.

“And be quick about it,” Hickok added, feeling uncomfortable wedged in the middle with little room to maneuver.

Bonnie applied her right shoulder to the door.

“Lend her a hand,” Hickok said, nudging Clyde with the Python.

“Are the dogs coming, Uncle Blade?” Chastity asked.

“Yep,” Blade confirmed, looking to the right and left. The mongrel in the window had disappeared, but the other eight were converging on the entry way, padding softly, their heads held low, their lips curled back. He crouched, gripping the Bowie hilts tightly, grateful the dogs would not be able to rush him en masse. The cramped confines would hinder their attack. He heard the thumping of Bonnie’s and Clyde’s shoulders against the door.

And the canine pack charged.

Galvanized into motion by a bestial growl from a Doberman pinscher on the left, all eight hurtled toward the giant.

Blade took them as they came, arcing his right Bowie into the first to reach him, a stubby mixed breed with oversized teeth that leaped at his midriff. He met the dog with the point of his Bowie, burying the knife in the breed’s neck, the impact jarring his right arm. Blood gushed over him as the dog thrashed and gurgled, and he savagely tossed the dying animal from him with a sweep of his steely right arm.

The second dog never missed a beat. A grungy Samoyed, its white hair matted and filthy, snapped at the Warrior’s ankles.

With a swiftness belying his size, Blade shifted his boots a few inches backward, evading the Samoyed’s raking teeth, even as he swung his left arm down and in, the Bowie catching the dog in the left eye, slicing into the orb and shearing off flesh, hair, and the Samoyede’s left ear in the bargain.

Howling in anguish, the Samoyed staggered off, crimson spurting the alley.

Blade straightened in time to take the largest dog head-on. A brindle-colored Bull Mastiff, over 30 inches high at the shoulders, 110 pounds of feral fury, snarled and went for his throat. He managed to get his left forearm in front of his neck, sweeping his arm under the mastiffs slavering jaws, momentarily holding the animal at bay, long enough to sink his right Bowie into the dog’s chest.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

The Bull Mastiff yelped and toppled to the left, sprawling at the Warrior’s feet, briefly deterring the remaining pack members.

Blade glanced over his left shoulder at Clyde and Bonnie, who were still endeavoring to batter the door in. “Hurry!” he urged, then faced the growling dogs.

“We’re trying,” Bonnie said.

“Not hard enough,” Hickok snapped, smacking her on the left arm with his Colt. “Move aside!”

Scowling, Bonnie leaned away from the door. Clyde did the same.

Hickok drew his right knee up to his waist and lashed out, planting the heel of his right moccasin next to the rusted doorknob. There was a loud snap, but the door held. Holding Chastity securely in his left arm, the gunman kicked once more, and was rewarded by cracks appearing in the wood panel.

Behind the gunman, Blade tensed, waiting for the pack to renew its assault. Oddly, the dogs were snarling and barking, their hair bristling, and staying out of the range of his Bowies.

Why weren’t they pressing their attack?

The answer was revealed seconds later.

Grunting with the exertion, Hickok delivered another kick to the door, grinning as the wood around the lock splintered and the door swung inward into a murky corridor.

Filled with dogs.

“You’d better hope the Dark Lord is in a generous mood today,” Aloysius the First remarked as they approached the red door in the right-hand wall.

Rikki walked behind the madman, with General Thayer at his right elbow and Sergeant Boynton at his left.

“In a minute you will understand why none dare oppose me,” the King boasted.

“Sir, may I speak?” General Thayer said.

“Of course, my dear general,” Aloysius the First replied.

“Is this wise, sir? I mean, what if the Dark Lord kills this man? We need reliable information on St. Louis before we launch our strike…” Thayer stated, and checked himself, too late.

The King halted abruptly and wheeled, looking from Thayer to Boynton and back again. “General, how could you?”

“Sir?”

“You know our planned strike on St. Louis is classified information,” Aloysius declared angrily.

“Yes, sir,” General Thayer said. “But Sergeant Boynton already knows about it.”

“He does?” Aloysius responded in a surly tone.

“Yes, sir. I confided in him. Sergeant Boynton is a trustworthy Hound.”

“Have you informed anyone else?”

General Thayer hesitated, thinking of the driver of his jeep who had undoubtedly overheard the conversation en route to the city. “No, sir,” he lied.

The King smiled at Sergeant Boynton. “Then no harm has been done, not if the sergeant is as trustworthy as you claim.”

“I am, sir,” Boynton blurted out.

“I’m sure you are,” Aloysius said politely.

“If our prisoner is killed, sir,” General Thayer resumed, “we’ll lose the best chance we’ve got of discovering the Leather Knights’ layout.”

“Perish forbid,” Aloysius responded, looking at the Warrior. “Very well. One last opportunity. Will you agree to provide the information I require?”

“Let me put it this way,” Rikki answered, gazing idly at the posters decorating the wall, “don’t hold your breath.”

“Ever the defiant one, eh?” the King said.

Rikki stared at a blonde woman in a blue denim jacket and skirt, wearing dark glasses, seemingly endowed with… attributes the size of Mt. Everest.