David Robbins - Miami Run

Rikki raised his arms from his sides.

The guard frisked the martial artist. He was running his fingers around Rikki’s back when he froze. “What’s this on the back of your belt?”

“My pouch.”

“What’s in it?”

“My kyoketsu-shogei, four shuriken, and a yawara.”

“What? Show me?” The guard stepped back.

Rikki opened the pouch and withdrew the weapons, holding them in his palms.

“What the hell!” the burly guard declared. He picked up a metal star and inspected its sharp edges. “What’s this thing?”

“A shuriken.”

“What do you do with it?”

“Throw it.”

The guard snickered. “You use this dingy thing as a weapon? Give me a .357 any day!” He tapped a black round piece of metal an inch in diameter and six inches long. “And what’s this one?”

“The yawara.”

“What do you do? Poke people with it?”

“Something like that.”

His eyes narrowing, the guard inspected the last item, a doubled edged, five-inch knife attached to a length of cord with a metal ring at the end.

“And what the hell is that?”

“My kyoketsu-shogei.”

“How’s it work?”

“Perhaps one day I can give you a demonstration.”

“Mr. Barbish is waiting for us,” Blade noted.

“Okay,” the guard said. “Put your stuff in the corner,” he instructed Rikki, handing over the shuriken. “I’ll keep a real good eye on it. I wouldn’t want anyone to walk off with your deadly arsenal.”

Both guards laughed.

Blade entered the elevator and waited for Rikki to join him. He spied Hickok in the lobby, nonchalantly leaning against an ornate white column.

The gunman smiled and winked.

“You’ll be searched again upstairs,” the guard informed them as he pressed the button on the wall.

The elevator door closed and the cage ascended.

“Orders?” Rikki inquired.

“They’ll be waiting for us upstairs,” Blade said. “We’ll play it by ear.

Watch me. If I nod, you know what to do.”

Rikki nodded.

The elevator climbed swiftly to the penthouse and coasted to a smooth stop, and a second later the door opened. Four men in suits were standing outside the elevator, two of whom were armed with machine guns, M.A.C. 10s. They stood slightly to the side of the doorway, one to the right, the other to the left. Two more men, neither holding a firearm, were directly in front of the elevator.

“Hello,” said the tallest of the duo, a man in a blue suit. “Step out and raise your arms.”

Blade and Rikki complied, with Blade deliberately taking a shuffling stride to the right. He scanned the plush, spacious living room beyond and spotted a sole figure seated on a large sofa. The man’s back was to the elevator, and all Blade could see was a thatch of gray hair and slim shoulders. Was it Barbish? The man was gazing out an enormous window at the Miami Beach skyline.

The tall bodyguard stepped up to Blade as his unarmed companion did the same to Rikki.

“This will just take a moment,” the tall one said to Blade.

Blade smiled, looked at Rikki, and nodded, and even as he nodded he was whipping his body to the right, his massive fist clenched, delivering a pile-driver blow to the guard with the M.A.C. 10, his knuckles crunching on the guard’s nose and sending the man flying backwards.

As Blade attacked, so did Rikki. Lacking the giant Warrior’s extended reach, Rikki was compelled to compensate with his skill and speed. There was no way he could reach the second bodyguard packing a M.A.C. 10 before the man could fire. So he grabbed the guard about to frisk him by the lapels, whirled, and shoved, flinging the startled man into his colleague. Both men stumbled backwards, and Rikki was on them in two bounds. He deflected the M.A.C. 10 with his left forearm, then delivered a slashing leopard-paw strike to the bodyguard’s throat, crushing the larynx. The frisker was clawing for a pistol on his left hip. Rikki kicked the guard on the right kneecap and heard a cracking sound, and as the man buckled, opening his mouth to scream, Rikki used a sword-hand blow and chopped the man across the throat. The Warrior pivoted.

Blade had already dispatched the tall guard and was holding a Browning automatic pistol in his right hand, trained on the figure on the sofa.

The man in the living room had not budged.

Blade glanced at the pair Rikki had dispatched, then pointed at the machine gun the bodyguard had dropped.

Rikki retrieved the M.A.C. 10.

The figure on the sofa still hadn’t moved.

Blade’s forehead creased as he advanced into the living room, the thick, green carpet muffling his footsteps. He aimed the Browning at the rear of the gray-haired man’s cranium. Slowly, cautiously, he skirted the end of the sofa, then stopped.

The man was asleep! He was dozing on the sofa, his chin slumped forward, breathing regularly. His gray hair was streaked with white, and he wore a tan suit. Wrinkles lined his weathered features.

Blade walked up to the man and nudged him with the Browning.

The sleeper abruptly awakened, his head swiveling to the left, his green eyes widening at the sight of the giant. He turned, spying the man in black cradling a M.A.C. 10 six feet from the sofa, and then looked at the four forms on the floor near the elevator. Instead of registering fear or shock, the gray-haired man recovered his composure and stared up at the giant.

“Congratulations. No one has ever taken Casper down before. You must be good.”

“Are you Tom Barbish?” Blade asked.

“One and the same,” Barbish replied. “And you?”

“My name is unimportant,” Blade said.

“Are you here to kill me?” Barbish inquired coolly.

“That depends on you,” Blade stated.

Barbish studied the giant for a moment. “You’re from the outside.”

Blade surveyed the living room, bothered by the dealer’s calm demeanor.

“You are, aren’t you?” Barbish asked.

“I’ll ask the questions,” Blade told him.

Barbish shrugged. “Suit yourself. But I know I’m right.”

“You do, huh?”

The dealer smiled. “When you’ve been around as long as I have, young man, you learn a thing or two. You’re not from Miami. You’re not from Dragon territory.”

“Would you believe I’m from Jerome?”

Barbish chuckled. “Is that what you’re telling everyone? No, you’re not from Jerome.”

“How can you be so sure?”

The dealer looked fearlessly at Blade. “Elementary, young man. Jerome is a small town approximately twenty miles from the Gulf, as the crow flies. Not many people live there now. My travels have taken me through Jerome several times, and I never saw you there. And face it. You’d stand out like the proverbial sore thumb.” He paused. “Don’t try to convince me you live on the outskirts of Jerome either. You’re not the type to spend his days raising sugar cane or trapping alligators for a living. No, you have the air of a leader about you.”

“Where are the Masters?” Blade demanded bluntly.

Barbish was taken by surprise by the unexpected question. “The Masters?”

“You heard me. I need to find the Masters.”

“Is that what this is all about?” Barbish asked, then laughed.

“What’s so funny?”

Barbish laughed louder and slapped his left thigh.

Blade glanced at Rikki, who shrugged.

“You went to all this trouble for nothing!” Barbish stated. “I can’t help you!”

“You’ll help us,” Blade directed, leaning down, “or else.”

“Please, young man!” Barbish said, smiling. “There is no need to be so melodramatic. I’m not a fool. I don’t want to die. If I could assist you, I would. But I can’t, because I have no idea where the Masters can be found.”