David Robbins - Miami Run

Hickok spotted an emaciated man, naked from the waist up, to their left. The man’s arms were discolored and dotted with needle tracks. “This is sick.”

The buildings were becoming taller, more stately. Dozens of skyscrapers appeared to the southeast.

Blade made for them. He spied a Narc car patrolling the adjacent street, and realized dozens had driven by during their trek. The Narcs must need to maintain a high profile to keep a lid on the city.

A boy of six or seven, wearing jeans and a green shirt, ran up to the Warrior and tugged at his left leg. “Hey, mister?”

Blade halted and glanced down. “What?”

“Can you spare some coin?”

“I don’t have any coins,” Blade told him.

“Please, mister,” the boy said. “My dad needs a dime bag bad.”

“You need money for your dad to buy drugs?” Blade asked.

The boy nodded.

“I can’t help you,” Blade said sadly.

Frowning, the boy ran off.

“How could these folks do this to themselves?” Hickok wondered aloud.

“I don’t know,” Blade admitted.

They entered the heart of Miami, the downtown section with its towering skyscrapers, with predominantly antiquated cars and trucks bumper to bumper, and with a seething wave of pedestrians on every sidewalk.

Blade drifted with the crowds, enthralled by the spectacle. He was in no hurry to reach Miami Beach. Studying enemy terrain was essential to the success of any mission, and he was familiarizing himself with the landmarks, noting the tallest skyscrapers and other distinctive structures.

“Does the air smell funny to you two?” Hickok inquired. “Sort of tangy?”

“We might be near the ocean,” Blade guessed.

They traveled in an easterly direction. A sign materialized ahead: BAYFRONT PARK. Water was visible to the east and south.

“We’ll take a break in the park,” Blade suggested.

They followed the sidewalk until they came to a beautifully landscaped strip of land, a garden of tropical foliage. Dozens of people were lounging on the green grass. Others were engaged in games or conversation.

Skimpy attire was the order of the day.

“At last!” Hickok remarked. “Breathin’ space.”

The Warriors mingled with the crowd, moving at random, observing.

“What the blazes is that guy doing?” Hickok asked.

Two men and two women were sitting on a blue blanket under a tree.

In the center of the blanket was a small folding table, not more than six inches high. On one side of the table was a pile of packets of white powder.

On the other side, one of the men was opening packets and arranging the white powder in straight lines.

The Warriors halted, perplexed.

One of the women leaned forward over the table, pressed the first finger of her left hand against her left nostril, then lowered her right nostril to the white powder. She started inhaling loudly.

“She’s suckin’ that gunk up her nose!” Hickok declared in amazement.

One of the men heard the remark and looked up, smiling. “Hi. Care to join us? There’s plenty to go around.”

“What are you doing?” Hickok asked.

“Getin’ high, dude. What else?”

“What is that stuff?”

The man stared at the Warrior as if he was from another planet. “Coke, man. We’re snortin’ a little. You sure you don’t want some?”

Hickok shook his head. “No thanks. I don’t even stick a finger up my nose unless it’s a serious emergency.”

The man shrugged and returned his attention to the small table.

“Cow chips,” Hickok muttered. “The whole blamed city is full of cow chips.”

The Warriors continued walking.

“We have company,” Rikki stated, nodding to their right.

Blade glanced around.

Seven men, ranging in age from their twenties to the late thirties, were standing in a compact group 15 yards away. All seven were eyeing the Warriors with intense interest. And all seven were armed, four with revolvers, two with rifles over their shoulders, and one with a pump shotgun. Their attire was a mix of jeans, boots, and leather shirts and jackets. One of them, a man about six feet tall with a neatly trimmed beard and mustache, motioned with his left arm. The seven strolled toward the Warriors.

Hickok sighed. “Here we go again.”

“I’ll handle this,” Blade said.

The seven approached to within three yards and stopped. Their apparent leader, the man with the beard, grinned. “Buenas tardes, señor ,” he said to Blade.

“Hello,” the Warrior responded.

“¿Habla español?”

“What?”

“Do you speak Spanish, señor ?”

“No,” Blade admitted.

The man nodded slowly. “English then. I am Pedro.”

“What can we do for you?”

Pedro tilted his head, inspecting the portion of the Paratrooper visible above the giant’s right shoulder. “We couldn’t help but notice, eh? Your guns.”

“What about them?”

“They are nice guns, no?”

“They get the job done,” Blade replied.

Pedro patted the Smith and Wesson on his right hip. “Our guns are not so new as yours. Ours are old guns.”

“Ours were manufactured before the war,” Blade said. “We take good care of them.”

Pedro nodded. “So I see, eh? Real good care.”

Blade waited for the man to come to the point.

“Would you like to sell them?” Pedro asked.

“No.”

“Just one or two.”

“No.”

The corners of Pedro’s mouth curled downward slightly. “Please, señor . You don’t understand. We will buy some of your guns. We won’t cheat you on the price. You name it.”

“Our guns are not for sale,” Blade stated firmly.

Pedro sighed and gazed at his companions, then back at the three strangers. “ Por favor, señor . Guns like yours are important to us. Good guns are hard to come by. They can mean life or death. You see?”

“I see. But the guns are not for sale.”

Pedro surveyed the park, his lips pursed.

Blade tensed. He realized the man was checking for Narcs. “Don’t do something you’ll regret.”

“One last time, señor ,” Pedro said. “Will you sell us some of your guns?”

“No.”

“Then we will take them.”

The seven sprang forward.

Blade was about to whip the Bowies from their sheaths when he perceived that the seven gang members were not relying on their weapons; not one was reaching for a revolver or bringing a rifle into play. Before he could reflect on this, Pedro was on him.

The gang leader aimed a vicious kick at the giant’s genitals.

Blade twisted to the right, dodging the blow, and grabbed Pedros’ leg in midair. Gripping the ankle with his left hand and thigh with his right, Blade rammed his right knee into the underside of Pedro’s leg directly below the kneecap.

There was a distinct popping noise.

Pedro screeched and fell as the giant released his leg.

The tough with the shotgun swung the stock at the giant’s head.

Blade ducked under the swing, then slammed his right fist onto the tip of the man’s jaw. There was no time to gauge the effect of the punch, because another gang member was already hurtling toward him. Blade sidestepped to the left, then lashed out with his right leg, catching the charging man in the gut and doubling him over. As the man gurgled and wheezed, Blade swept his left knee into the gang member’s face.

The remaining four had separated, two going for the man in black, and two attacking the man in buckskins. Neither pair succeeded.

Blade spun in time to see Rikki-Tikki-Tavi leap into the air, a piercing kiai bursting from the martial artist’s lips. Rikki’s legs flicked outward, each foot connecting with the head of one of the men asaulting him. Both gang members went down.