David Robbins - Miami Run

“Thanks, pard.”

Barbish clammed up.

Blade spied several Narc patrol cars speeding toward them from the south. He could see their lights flaring, and he judged the cruisers were less than two blocks off. And he’d also noticed something else. The farther south the Warriors proceeded from the Oasis, the fewer frightened pedestrians they encountered. The actual witnesses to the fight with the Narcs were lingering in the vicinity of the Oasis. None had dared follow the Warriors. The people directly ahead had no way of knowing the Warriors were the reason for the turmoil. Blade forced himself to walk at a normal rate. He threaded through a crowd watching the approaching cruisers.

“Why’d you slow down, pard?” Hickok queried.

“Act innocent,” Blade said.

“What?”

“The Pythons.”

Hickok looked at his Colts, at the crowd, then at the fast-coming patrol cars. He grinned and twirled the Pythons into their holsters.

Rikki slung the M-16 over his left shoulder.

The Narc vehicles were under a block off.

Hickok clasped his hands behind his back and started whistling a random tune.

Blade lowered the Paratrooper alongside his right leg. His left hand closed in a vise on the Dealer’s arm.

“You’re hurting me!” Barbish hissed.

The patrol cars raced north on Collins Avenue.

Blade speeded up again with the Dealer struggling to match his lengthy stride. The avenue was well lit by the streetlights, and he knew he’d have no difficulty recognizing the car when he saw it. Provided it was there. As he covered more and more ground, traversing four more blocks, he seriously doubted he would locate the vehicle. But a few minutes later, as he was crossing an intersection, he discerned the golden finish on the car in question and smiled.

Hickok’s keen eyes saw the vehicle too. “Isn’t that the buggy—” he began.

“It is,” Blade verified.

“Are you thinkin’ what I think you’re thinkin’?” Hickok questioned.

“I am,” Blade confirmed.

“Can I drive?” Hickok asked excitedly.

“We’ll see,” Blade said. He neared the car cautiously, puzzled. Someone, either on Collins Avenue or on the sidewalk, had to have seen him dispatch the Genie and Hugo. And if someone did, then logic dictated that that person would report the deaths to the Narcs. The Narcs would send a patrol car to check the story. But there was no sign of the Narcs in the immediate vicinity. The big gold and chrome vehicle was exactly as he’d left it: parked at the curb, with all the doors closed. None of the passersby were paying any excessive attention to it.

Was it possible no one had seen the Genie and Hugo die?

Or had there been a witness, but the witness had preferred to remain silent? Was it natural for a citizen in Miami to automatically report a crime? Did the populace trust and rely upon the Narcs, or did they resort to contacting the police only under extreme circumstances?

He didn’t know.

And he wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Blade walked up to the rear door on the passenger side and opened it.

“Inside,” he directed the Dealer.

Barbish bent over at the waist and started to climb in. His body tensed and he gasped when he observed the pair of corpses. “What the hell!” he blurted.

Blade prodded the Dealer with the Paratrooper. “Inside! We’ll dispose of them later.”

Barbish sat down on the driver’s side. He was forced to rest his legs on the bodies.

“You drive,” Blade told the gunman. “Rikki, you get in front. I’ll keep our friend company.” He slid in and slammed the door.

“Who are these guys?” Barbish asked, nodding at the corpses.

“They dealt in drugs,” Blade responded acidly.

“Pushers?” Barbish said, aghast.

Hickok and Rikki entered the car.

The gunman studied the instrument panel for a moment. “Where the blazes is the key?”

Blade glanced at the Dealer. “Search Hugo.”

“Who?”

Blade tapped the bodyguard’s bald pate. “Hugo. Search his pockets. He was carrying the keys.”

Barbish scrunched up his nose. “You want me to touch him?”

“Unless you’re adept at telekinesis,” Blade quipped.

“Tele-what?”

“Find the car keys,” Blade directed. . Barbish leaned over the bodies and reached his arms under the Genie. He started and jerked his right arm up, his hand coated with blood.

“Squeamish son of a gun, isn’t he?” Hickok remarked.

“Keep looking,” Blade ordered.

Barbish hesitated, then applied himself to the task once again. He ran his fingers over the black’s body, feeling for pockets. Locating a pants pocket, he plunged his left hand inside, awash with relief as his fingers closed on a key ring. About to extract the keys, his right hand bumped against a hard object attached to the black’s belt above the hip. He traced the outline of the object and suppressed a surge of elation at his discovery: a derringer. “I can’t seem to find any keys,” he remarked casually. His torso was bent over the corpses, screening his arms and hands from the bastards holding him. Here was his chance to gain the upper hand! He could get the drop on them! The thought made him tingle! He owed these sons of bitches! How he owed them! He would personally officiate at their torture.

“You haven’t found them yet?” Blade asked skeptically.

Barbish shook his head. “No. Not…” he said, then pretended to grope the corpse. “Wait! Here they are!” His right hand eased the derringer from its small leather holster, and he grinned triumpantly as he straightened, bringing the derringer up. Expecting to take his captors unawares, he was all the more shocked to behold a Paratrooper, M-16, and a pair of Colt Python revolvers trained on his head.

“Drop the derringer,” Blade commanded.

“And do it quick,” Hickok added. “My trigger fingers are a mite itchy.”

Barbish allowed the derringer to fall to the seat.

Hickok made a smacking noise. “Tisk! Tisk! Didn’t your Ma ever teach you any manners?” He holstered his Magnums.

Blade picked up the derringer, examined it, then placed the gun in his left rear pocket. “The keys. Now!”

Barbish frowned as he reached his left hand down to the appropriate pocket again and withdrew the key ring. He held the ring aloft. “Here,” he said bitterly.

“Thanks,” Hickok said, taking the keys in his right hand and turning.

“Can you drive this thing?” Blade asked.

“Piece of cake,” the gunman responded. “It’s an automatic, just like the SEAL.”

Blade nodded. The SEAL was the impervious, vanlike vehicle constructed by the Family’s Founder prior to World War Three as a prototype. Solar powered, outfitted with deadly armaments, and capable of traversing any terrain, the SEAL was employed by the Warriors on most of their trips into the Outlands or elsewhere. The Solar-Energized, Amphibious or Land Vehicle was unlike any other in existence.

Hickok inspected the key ring, found one he felt would fit, and inserted it in the ignition. He twisted the key and the car’s engine rumbled to life.

“Which way are we headin’?” he asked.

Blade looked at the Dealer. “You heard the man.”

“You can either drive north until we reach Dade Boulevard,” Barbish stated, “and then take the Venetian Causeway across Biscayne Bay to Miami, or you can make a U-turn and go south and take the General MacArthur Causeway.”

“How many Causeways are there?” Blade inquired.

“Four,” Barbish replied. “The Kennedy is fartherest north, then the Tuttle, the Venetian, and the MacArthur.”

Blade recalled the Narc mentioning the first two. Of course, the Warriors had been in northwest Miami at the time, then drifted to the south, eventually taking the Venetian Causeway by bus.