David Robbins - Atlanta Run

“The Storm Police were waiting for me,” Dale revealed. “They had discovered I was one of the Freedom Fighters, and they offered me a deal.”

“Let me guess,” Locklin said. “They promised to let your family live if you betrayed us?”

Dale sobbed. “God help me. Yes.”

“You knew we intended to enter Atlanta tonight through this drain,” Locklin mentioned.

“I sold you out,” Dale declared forlornly.

“You had a tough choice to make,” Hickok said, sympathizing.

“We all have one to make right now,” Rikki-Tikki-Tavi mentioned.

“Listen.” He let the lighter go out.

Boot heels were pounding in the storm drain, approaching from the direction of the outer wall.

“The Storm Police!” Locklin exclaimed.

“And look!” Big John said, pointing directly ahead.

Far off, their flashlight beams fingers of lights in the gloomy darkness, advancing at the double, were more troopers.

“We’re cornered!” one of the Freedom Fighters cried.

Hickok looked both ways. “This is gettin’ serious.”

The room dissolved into bedlam.

Blade crammed the sheaths under his belt as he started to turn. He whipped the big knives out, the blades gleaming in the fluorescent light, and the first to feel his wrath was Eldred Morley. The Peer stood and foolishly lunged at the Warrior. Blade countered with a left elbow to the nose, feeling Morley’s nostrils flatten with a pronounced crunch. The Peer was slammed backwards and toppled over his chair.

“Stop the bastard!” Lilith Friekan barked.

A trio of Storm Police tried. They were the nearest to the giant, their blackjacks out and ready, when he waded into them with his knives flashing.

Blade planted his left Bowie in the throat of a lean trooper. Even as he wrenched the left knife free, he stabbed the right blade into the chest of a second policeman, then spun and imbedded both Bowies in the third, one knife on each side of the hapless man’s neck.

“ Get him !” Sol Diekrick thundered, moving toward the giant.

Other than an enraged Lilith, the other Peers were too stunned to intervene.

The Storm Police were surging forward.

Blade jerked his Bowies clear, blood spurting from the third trooper’s severed veins and arteries, and kicked, ramming his right boot into the man’s chest and sending the body sailing into the charging police. As the lead troopers tumbled to the floor in a mass of thrashing arms and legs, he spun, sliding the Bowies into their sheaths, and bounded toward Sol Diekrick.

Sol attempted to land a right cross on the giant’s chin.

With the speed and precision of a seasoned professional, Blade ducked under the wild swing and drove his right fist into Diekrick’s abdomen, doubling the Peer over. He clamped his right hand on Sol’s throat and seized his foe’s groin in his left, then easily hoisted the struggling, gasping Peer overhead.

Stupefied by this display of monumental strength, the Storm Police, involved in untangling themselves from their pileup, momentarily froze, gawking.

“Kill the son of a bitch!” Lilith commanded.

Sol Diekrick’s face was beet red, and he was gurgling and sputtering.

“Do you want your precious Peer?” Blade demanded, glaring defiantly at the troopers. “Then take him!” So saying, he whirled toward the Polyperv pane, took two lengthy strides, and hurled Sol at the window with all the power in his awesome physique.

Diekrick screamed as he impacted the pane. There was a rending crash as the Polyperv fractured and shattered, and both Peer and window plunged from sight.

“No!” Lilith screeched.

Blade took another step and leaped, sailing over the sill, tucking his legs under him as he plummeted, angling for a safe landing on the Polyperv-littered floor 20 feet below. He glimpsed Sol Diekrick lying to his left as he came down, his muscles braced for the shock. The force of the drop caused him to stagger and pitch onto his knees, and the soles of his feet stung horrendously, but otherwise he was unharmed. He lurched erect, pausing to glance at Diekrick.

The Peer must have dropped onto his head. His crown and forehead were crushed, flattened to a fleshy pulp, and oozing blood in a crimson stream.

“After him!” the Storm Police captain shouted from above.

Blade craned his neck to see the troopers gathered at the window. None of them seemed eager to make the jump. He grinned and dashed into the maze, hunching over, knowing they couldn’t spot him unless he stood.

So far, so good.

Now came the hard part.

He had to find Glisson, evade or dispose of the Terminator squad, locate an exit from the maze, and escape from Atlanta.

Was that all?

Blade reached a junction and crouched, wondering which way to go, when he heard the pad of a stealthy tread. He eased back, placed his palms on the floor, and peeked around the corner.

A Teminerator was rounding a corner on the right, his Fryer sweeping from side to side, alert and cautious.

Damn. The executioner must have seen him jump from the window!

Blade withdrew his head and rose, drawing his right Bowie. The silver suits worn by the Terminators were fireproof, but was the fabric impenetrable?

There was only one way to find out.

He clutched the hilt of the Bowie and counted slowly to ten, trying to gauge the Terminator’s position, hoping the range wouldn’t be too great.

As he girded himself to vault into the open, he received aid from an unexpected source.

The Storm Police had spotted him, and they saw the Terminator approaching the giant’s position.

“Look out!” the captain yelled from the window.

“There! In front of you!” another shouted.

Blade sprang into the passage, his right arm sweeping back.

Distracted by the calls from above, the Terminator was gazing at the Storm Police, the Fryer nozzle held near his knees.

Blade never gave the Terminator the opportunity to bring the Fryer into play. He tossed the Bowie from a distance of three yards, a maneuver he had practiced countless times at the Home on a variety of targets.

Whether he threw the knife by the hilt or the blade, he invariably hit his mark. And now, once again, he demonstrated why his reputation had spread far and wide.

The Bowie streaked through the air and sliced into the Terminator between the eyes, lodging in the narrow strip of fabric separating the tinted eyepieces, sinking to the hilt. A muffled, indistinct cry sounded as the Terminator staggered backwards, waving the Fryer wildly, then collapsed.

Blade reached the body in three strides, stooped, and yanked the Bowie out.

One down, three to go.

But where were they?

He bent over at the waist and jogged into the labyrinth. To reach one of the doors, not to mention finding Glisson, could entail hours of winding through the bewildering maze—unless he came up with a brainstorm. He could try slashing signs in the fireproof fabric covering the walls, but doing so would involve using time he couldn’t afford to spare. The Storm Police might not jump from the smashed window, but they would certainly regroup and descend to the maze chamber by whatever stairway connected the floors.

What to do?

Blade stopped and crouched, studying the walls all around him. They were only six feet in height, enabling him to gaze over them if he rose to his full stature. He could probably spot Glisson and the Terminators, but the doors would not be visible. Nor would the proper sequence of passages he needed to take to exit the maze be readily apparent.

No.

An extra foot wouldn’t make a difference.

But what about seven extra feet?

The insight brought a smile to his lips. Although the maze walls were six feet high, above them was a gap of thirty feet to the ceiling, undoubtedly designed to permit the Peers to view events from their room.