David Robbins - Miami Run

“Yes,” Blade replied. “Refueling in flight was a common procedure before the war. California owns eight tanker aircraft, and the governor has loaned a pair to the Civilized zone. They’re being housed at Stapleton Airport in Denver. If necessary, they can fly out to meet the Hurricanes and refuel the VTOLs.” He paused. “Do you remember when we left the Home to come to Florida? We flew a wide loop to the southwest.”

“I remember,” Hickok said. “I figured the pilot was gettin’ his bearings.”

“He flew the southwest loop so he could radio Stapleton and arrange to be refueled on his return flight from Florida,” Blade explained.

“So the Hurricanes can go anywhere in the country,” Rikki remarked.

“And out of it,” Blade added.

They were now within a half mile of the estate. The insect sounds, mixed with the calls of other wildlife, emanated from everywhere.

Blade noticed more and more trees as they drew near to the lights, and he realized they were on the estate, on the 40 acres of dry land Barbish had mentioned as comprising the Director’s domain. Ahead was the walled, five-acre compound. If it wasn’t for the thin ribbon of gravel connecting Happy Acres to Highway 41, the swamp would enclose the 40

acres entirely. If Arlo had financed the construction of the gravel road, merely to link his compound to the rest of the world, then the Director must be a man of staggering wealth and influence. All of which substantiated his status as a top kingpin in the Dragons.

The Warriors advanced cautiously until they were within 40 yards of the brick wall.

Blade stood behind a tree and studied the layout. As the Dealer had related, the wall was eight feet high, but Barbish had failed to disclose a pertinent fact: The wall was crowned with strands of barbed wire. The gravel road went straight up to the closed metal gate in the center of the north wall. Floodlights were positioned just inside the wall at 20-yard intervals. The vegetation for 30 yards from the walls had been stripped to the ground, affording the guards an unobstructed view. Two guards were standing inside the gate, conversing idly. Another guard, armed with a machine gun, was patrolling the top of the brick wall. Evidently there was ample walking space between the strands of barbed wire and the inner edge.

“How will we play this?” Hickok whispered from a tree on Blade’s right.

Blade motioned for his companions to withdraw deeper into the undergrowth. They retreated 15 yards and crouched down. “We’re going to circle around the compound,” he informed them.

“I wouldn’t want to trip and give us away,” Hickok commented. “Any chance of you carryin’ me piggyback?”

Blade straightened and headed eastward.

“I guess not,” Hickok said to himself.

The Warriors wound between the trees, moving as shadows, their consummate stealth a testimony to their skill at their lethal trade. They angled to within a few yards of the cleared strip bordering the walls, never once exposing themselves to the men on guard duty. A hush enveloped the compound, the lull before the dawn.

Blade knew they had to work quickly if they were to gain access to the compound and locate Arlo Paolucci before daylight. He surveyed the walls intently, searching for a weak spot in the defenses. But there wasn’t one on the north wall, nor the east. Only when they were skirting the compound to the south did they hit pay dirt. They found a door.

Blade halted under the spreading limbs of a willow and stared at the small wooden door situated in the middle of the south wall. What was its purpose? Why have a narrow door on the opposite side from the gravel road? Was it an exit in case of an emergency? Not likely. Who would dare attack a Director of the Dragons? There was a trail in the grass, leading from the door toward the south side of the estate. Where did the trail lead?

A finger tapped him on the right side.

Blade looked around.

Rikki pointed at the south wall. “Where is the guard?”

The guard? Blade gazed at the wall again, his forehead creasing as he noted the absence of a sentry. Strange. There had been a guard on the rampart on both the north and east walls. Why wasn’t there one on the south side?

“Let’s go for it,” Hickok urged from Blade’s left.

“I don’t like it,” Blade said.

“What’s not to like?” Hickok responded. “They don’t know we’re here, so this can’t be a trap. Maybe the guard is takin’ a leak. Why don’t we give it a shot?”

Blade looked at Rikki.

The martial artist shrugged. “When the time has come for action, the moment must be quickly seized,” he quoted.

“More Zen?” Blade asked, smiling.

“The I Ching ,” Rikki said.

“Sounds like my kind of book,” Hickok commented. “I’ve always said that the direct approach is the best.”

“You should read it sometime,” Rikki suggested.

“Does it have any gunfights in it?”

“No.”

“Any mangy Injuns tryin’ to scalp thievin’, fork-tongued whites?”

“No.”

“Any damsels in distress?”

“No.”

“I’ll reckon I’ll stick with Zane Grey.”

“Are you two done with your literary discussion?” Blade demanded.

“You sure are touchy this trip, pard,” Hickok whispered. “Is your missus makin’ you sleep on the couch again?”

Blade sighed and moved toward the wall, using every tree, and bush as a screen, his gray eyes sweeping the wall again and again, insuring the guard was really absent. He stopped in the shelter of the last tree before the cleared section and crouched.

Hickok and Rikki were right behind him.

“Rikki,” Blade ordered. “You stay here and cover us. I’ll signal if the coast is clear.”

“If I see the guard, I’ll whistle,” Rikki said.

“Whistle? What kind of warning is that?” Hickok asked. “If you see the guard, pretend you’re a hoot owl.”

“A hoot owl?”

“Yep. Like this.” Hickok placed his right hand on the side of his mouth and uttered a realistic imitation of an owl’s “Whooo?”

Rikki glanced at Blade. “Which do you prefer? The whistle or the hoot owl?”

“Blow a trumpet, why don’t you?” Blade answered.

Hickok and Rikki stared at the ground.

“I want you two bozos to remind me of something after we return to the Home,” Blade said.

“What’s that?” Hickok inquired.

“To bring Geronimo and Yama the next time I make a run,” Blade said, and eased forward.

Hickok leaned toward Rikki. “Don’t take it personal. He has these cranky moods now and then.” He grinned and tailed after his giant friend.

Blade checked the wall once again, then took a deep breath and bolted from under the willow’s limbs, racing across the open stretch, anticipating a verbal challenge or the blast of gunfire at any moment. Amazingly, he reached the wall to the right of the door without incident.

Hickok ran to the left of the door and flattened his back against the wall, his Henry in his hands.

So far, so good, Blade thought. He glanced at the vegetation, pleased Rikki was completely hidden. Now for the door. Gingerly, he reached for the brass knob and twisted it.

The door wasn’t locked!

Blade frowned as the door swung inward on well-oiled hinges. His intuition was nagging at his mind, but he couldn’t pinpoint the reason.

What could be wrong? Hickok was right. The Dragons didn’t know the Warriors were at Happy Acres. Still, his intuition blared.

Hickok was waiting.

Annoyed at his indecision, Blade slid inside, keeping his back to the wall, stepping to the right away from the doorway and pausing with the Paratrooper level.

The gunfighter came through the doorway, stepping to the left and standing in front of the door.