David Robbins - Memphis Run

General Thayer must still be on the estate. Rikki doubted the officer would leave prior to the execution. Once he found Thayer and recovered the katana, he could decide which course to pursue.

A closed brown door blocked his path.

Rikki halted at the door and listened. He was about to reach for the doorknob when he heard voices approaching from the opposite side.

Without hesitation he threw himself behind the door as it opened.

“—wants to talk to the prisoner again,” General Thayer was saying.

“I wouldn’t want to be in his shoes, sir,” remarked one of the two Hounds accompanying the officer, both of whom had AR-15’s slung over their right shoulders.

The door closed as they started down the stairs.

“Hello, Spartan,” said someone in a low tone to their rear.

They whirled together, General Thayer’s eyes widening in astonishment.

“You!” the Spartan exclaimed.

The two Hounds appeared thoroughly confounded, and neither made a move for their weapon.

Rikki held his automatic rifle loosely in his left hand, the barrel slanted downward. “I’ve come for my katana.”

General Thayer was on the third step. The pair of guards were at the edge of the landing. All three were less than six feet from the Warrior.

“What do we do, sir?” the tallest of the guards inquired nervously.

“You’ll get your orders in a moment,” Thayer replied, then smiled at Rikki. “I shouldn’t be surprised, but I am.”

The martial artist did not respond.

“What happened to my men downstairs?” Thayer inquired.

“They have passed on to the next realm.”

“They’re dead?”

Rikki nodded.

General Thayer sighed. “The King sent me to escort you upstairs. He wants to see you again.”

“And I want to see him. But first, my katana,” Rikki stated, extending his right arm.

“You know I can’t give it to you. I’d like to, but my duty is to the King.”

“Duty should be measured by wisdom and guided by the Spirit.”

General Thayer looked sad. “I’m sorry. I truly am.”

“So am I.” Rikki responded.

Thayer glanced at the two Hounds. “Kill him.”

The leader of the Hound patrol was a lean sergeant with sandy hair and an arrogant attitude. He sneered at the quartet in front of him and crossed his arms on his chest. Strapped around his narrow waist were a pair of Smith and Wesson Model 459’s. “Well, well, well,” he declared sarcastically. “What have we here?”

Behind the noncom were Five Hounds, each armed with an automatic rifle.

“Howdy,” Hickok said, the M-16 held loosely in his right hand.

“Howdy, my ass,” the sergeant responded. He studied the blond man in the buckskins and the little girl, then shifted his attention to the giant and the brunette beyond them. “You’re the ones!” he exclaimed.

“We are?” Hickok replied.

“You’re the ones the platoon was sent after,” the sergeant stated. “They must have missed you.”

“Nope. They found us,” Hickok said.

The Hound sergeant scanned the street. “Then where are they?”

“They’re buzzard bait,” Hickok answered.

“What?”

Hickok slowly raised his left hand and slashed his forefinger across his neck. As he did, at the moment every Hound was watching his left hand, he surreptitiously tilted the M-16 barrel with his right and squeezed the trigger.

The Hounds were caught napping.

A stunned expression was on the sergeant’s face as he was struck in the chest, the slugs stitching his torso from his navel to his right shoulder. His arms flung out as he was smashed onto his back by the impact.

With only his right hand on the blasting, bucking rifle, Hickok could not fully control his aim. The barrel swiveled to the right, the M-16 sending rounds into two of the thunderstruck Hounds, perforating their chests and slamming them to the ground.

Three Hounds were still erect, and they sighted on the gunman and little girl even as their companions died.

Someone else fired before the Hounds could, adding the din of her AR-15 to Hickok’s M-16. Bonnie held the stock pressed to her shoulders, and her lips were a grim line as she aimed carefully and fired. Although not an expert markswoman, at a range of 30 feet she could hardly miss.

Her shots smacked into the Hounds below their necks, dotting each man’s upper chest with crimson holes.

The three Hounds toppled in a tidy row.

Hickok ceased firing and walked to the sergeant. He nudged the body with his right toe. “Cocky bunch of turkeys,” he commented.

Shocked by the abrupt violence. Chastity ran to the gunman and grabbed his left leg. “Are these the bad men who took Uncle Rikki?”

“Some of them, princess,” Hickok replied.

“Will we find Uncle Rikki soon? I don’t like this place.”

“The folks hereabouts are a mite inhospitable,” Hickok said.

“What?”

“These cow chips are real meanies,” Hickok clarified.

“They sure are,” Chastity agreed.

Blade and Bonnie joined them. Blade knelt and started removing the sergeant’s belt and holstered 459’s.

“Thanks for the assist, ma’am,” Hickok said to Bonnie.

“Don’t mention it,” Bonnie responded.

“More Hounds will arrive soon,” Blade declared, and looked at Bonnie.

“You’ve lived here for a long time. Where can we hide for an hour?”

“We could mingle with the crowds downtown,” she proposed. “The Hounds will conduct a thorough search once they find these bodies, but they might not expect us to go there.”

“Lead the way,” Blade instructed her, rising with the confiscated belt in his left hand.

Bonnie hurried off.

“What about Rikki?” Hickok inquired.

Blade headed after Bonnie. “We won’t do him any good if we get caught. We’ll lay low for an hour or so, then go get him.”

“Now you’re talkin,” Hickok said.

Bonnie led them on a winding, circuitous route into the inner city.

Memphis became even filthier and ever more squalid the farther they went.

“Rats must vacation here,” Hickok cracked at one point.

They traversed an alley, darted across a narrow street, and paused under a rusted fire escape.

“In two or three blocks there will be shanties,” Bonnie detailed. “Ignore the beggars if you don’t want to attract attention.”

“Do you have a house of your own?” Blade inquired.

“Clyde and I shared a room in the back of a demolished store on the west side. It was cramped, and there weren’t any windows, but the door was sturdy and the lock worked.”

“Do all the people in Memphis live under such conditions?” Blade asked.

“Most,” Bonnie divulged. “Except for the Hounds. They live in their Headquarters Complex, and everyone should have it so cushy. Anything the Hounds need, they get. They seized all the paint and building supplies they could uncover when they turned the old Depot into the Complex.

They confiscated most of the vehicles. And they searched high and low for the material for their uniforms.” She paused. “Only one person in Memphis lives better than the Hounds. The King. That bastard has an estate you wouldn’t believe. Every time the Hounds raid a town or outpost, the King takes the best of the spoils. He’s filthy rich.”

“Let me ask you something,” Blade said thoughtfully. “Where would the Hounds bring a prisoner? To the Complex or the King’s estate?”

“To the estate,” Bonnie answered without hesitation. “The King likes to interrogate prisoners personally.”

“You know this for a fact?”

“My former squeeze, Jeff, told me,” Bonnie stated.