David Robbins - Miami Run

“Well done,” Blade said, complimenting the martial artist.

“I thought it was a mite sloppy myself,” Hickok remarked.

“They lacked skill,” Rikki said.

“You should have let all of us tackle those yahoos,” Hickok commented.

“We don’t want to draw any more attention to ourselves than necessary,” Blade responded. “Rikki took care of them with a minimum of fuss.”

“So what now?” Hickok inquired.

“We keep going,” Blade stated, and led them to the south. “We’re in a residential suburb northwest of downtown Miami. We’ll stick to the alleys and side streets for the next few miles.”

“I’m gettin’ tired of all this skulkin’ around,” Hickok declared. “Let’s find a bigwig and force the cow chip to take us to the Masters.”

“Easier said than done,” Blade noted. “We need a plan.”

“And you have one?”

Blade nodded.

“Mind fillin’ us in?”

“We find a bigwig and force him, or her, to take us to the Masters.”

Hickok made a show of gazing around the alley. “There’s a blamed echo around here.”

“Locating the right person won’t be simple,” Blade said. “We need to learn more about the Dragons, about their chain of command.”

“Then why didn’t we question the leader of that gang?”

“He’s strictly small potatoes,” Blade replied. “We need someone higher up the ladder.”

They came to the end of the alley and found a busy avenue running from east to west. Pedestrians jammed the sidewalk. Many of the men and women wore side arms, and a few carried rifles.

“The folks here sure look like a friendly bunch,” Hickok quipped.

None of the pedestrians paid the slightest attention to the Warriors; they were too involved in the hustle and bustle of their daily lives.

“Why are the citizens permitted to bear firearms?” Rikki inquired.

“Before the war, doing so was against the law.”

“The Dragons make the laws now,” Blade speculated. “I would expect that all of their Dealers and pushers go around armed. The Dragons wouldn’t want the bearing of firearms to be illegal.”

“My kind of city,” Hickok said.

“Which way?” Rikki asked.

“Left,” Blade said, and merged into the flow of pedestrians. He scanned the avenue and the buildings on both sides. Although the avenue contained cracks and potholes, and a majority of the stores and residences were grimy and in need of a fresh coat of paint, Miami was in better shape than some of the other cities he’d visited. Lost in thought, he absently adjusted the shoulder strap on the F.N.-LAR Paratrooper slung over his right arm. So here he was again! About two thousand miles from the Home! Two thousand miles from his beloved wife and precious son, Jenny and Gabe. And his soul was troubled.

Jenny had pleaded with him not to make the run. Her lovely green eyes had been moist with tears when he’d explained the necessity of the trip.

She had sat at their kitchen table, her back to him, and cried silently, her blonde hair bobbing, her slim shoulders rising and falling. Thank the Spirit that Gabe had been asleep! Jenny was becoming increasingly distraught over his prolonged absences, and who could blame her? With his duties as the head of the Force and as leader of the Warriors, he was constantly away from his family. The emotional strain was beginning to tell. A resentment was gradually growing inside him, increasing with each mission. The Federation leaders had no right to expect him to relegate his family to a secondary status in his life. The Elders taught every Family member to revere and cherish his or her loved ones. Jenny and Gabe were the core of his life; they gave meaning to his existence. Their happiness should come first, yet their happiness would continue to suffer for as long as he held down two posts.

What should he do?

Give up one of his positions?

Which one?

His train of thought was interrupted by the sight of a couple up ahead.

What was this? He saw the man hand a packet of white powder to the neatly dressed woman. She gave the man a handful of silver coins. They both laughed at some private joke, then parted company. Was the man a pusher? Had he just sold the woman drugs? What type of currency were they using in Miami? Old coins? He decided to trail the man, a portly, balding individual dressed in a light brown suit and black shoes. If they could—

“We are being followed,” Rikki abruptly announced.

Blade glanced over his left shoulder at his friends.

Rikki nodded at the avenue.

A black and white sedan was slowly cruising on the other side of the street, traveling in the same direction as the Warriors. The uniformed driver’s window was rolled down, and the driver was not trying to conceal the fact he was staring at them. On the driver’s door, in large, bold, red letters, was a single word: NARC.

“Want me to plug the varmint?” Hickok asked, his left hand on the strap to his Navy Arms Henry Carbine.

“Be serious,” Blade said.

“I am. I can always use the target practice,” Hickok stated impishly.

Blade gazed to the east and spied an intersection 30 yards distant.

The Narc vehicle unexpectedly accelerated, driving to the intersection and taking a left, then pulling over to the curb. Two men in blue uniforms and caps climbed out and crossed to the near side, then halted, waiting.

Blade knew the Narcs were waiting for the Warriors. He casually placed his hands near his Bowies and looked at Hickok and Rikki. “Let me do the talking.”

Hickok grinned. “Fine by me. But if you decide to plug ’em, I get first dibs.”

“We want to avoid a confrontation,” Blade said.

“What a party-pooper.”

Blade faced the intersection with an expression of feigned innocence.

He pretended to be interested in a grocery store across the avenue as he neared the intersection. Out of the corner of his left eye, he saw the pair of Narcs coming toward him.

The men in blue positioned themselves directly in the giant’s path. Both wore revolvers on their right hips.

“Hello, citizen,” said the tallest of the two.

Blade stopped and smiled. “Hello.”

Hickok moved to Blade’s right, Rikki the left. Both stood calmly, Rikki with a slight grin, Hickok beaming like an idiot.

“Howdy!” the gunman declared.

The tall Narc glanced at the gunfighter, then at the short man in black.

“These two friends of yours?”

“Two of the best,” Blade admitted. “How may we help you?”

“We received a call a couple of minutes ago,” the tall Narc disclosed, raking the Warriors with a probing gaze. “There’s been a report of a 10-69.”

“A what?” Blade questioned.

“A 10-69. Restraint of trade by interference with a pusher in the exercise of his or her rights,” the tall Narc elaborated.

Hickok looked at Blade with a shocked countenance. “Do you mean that uncouth character was a pusher? I didn’t know that!”

“What uncouth character?” The Narc demanded.

“We had a minor disagreement with a young gentleman who tried to force us to buy drugs from him,” Blade answered.

“Then it was you,” the Narc said. “You three fit the descriptions.”

“Are we in any trouble?” Blade, inquired.

“That depends,” the Narc said. “Do you live in Miami?”

“We’re visiting,” Blade replied.

“From where?”

Blade mentally reviewed the map of Florida he’d studied. “Jerome,” he responded quickly.

“Why are you here?” the Narc interrogated them.

“We’re on vacation,” Blade said. “Thought we’d come to the Big City.

Have some fun. Live it up.” He paused and frowned. “We didn’t expect to be jumped by a gang of wet-nosed delinquents.”