David Robbins - Miami Run

The Warriors found themselves in a 20-foot grassy space between the wall and a waist-high hedge. Beyond the hedge flourished the gardens, with an astounding array of diverse plant life; flowers, shrubs, herbs, and other ornamental greenery grew in profusion. The floodlights illuminated the gardens as brightly as if it were daylight.

Blade was about to take a step when he heard the metallic click. He tensed, glancing at Hickok, and for a second their eyes touched.

And over a dozen men in camouflage outfits, each armed with a machine gun or an automatic rifle, rose from concealment behind the hedge, their weapons pointing at the pair of Warriors.

Blade held his fire, knowing to do otherwise would be suicide, hoping the impetuous gunman would do the same.

He didn’t.

Hickok’s Henry boomed twice, and with each shot one of the gunmen was hurled backwards to drop from view. He managed a stride toward the doorway before the inevitable transpired.

The tallest of the men behind the hedge, an M-16 already pressed to his shoulder, fired once.

Hickok grunted as he was struck, the impact wrenching him to the right and bringing him down.

Blade turned toward the gunman.

“Don’t move!” barked the tall man. “Drop your gun!”

Blade hesitated, his gaze on Hickok. The gunfighter was sprawled face down, eyes closed, with a bullet hole rimmed by blood above his right shoulder blade, next to his backpack.

“Look above you, señor!” the tall man declared.

Blade gazed up at the wall, stunned to discover ten more men in camouflage clothing, ten more barrels centered on him.

“I will not tell you again!” the tall man stated. “Drop your weapon!”

Gritting his teeth in resentment at his stupidity, and shaken by what it had done to Hickok, Blade reluctantly released the Paratrooper.

“ Excelente ,” the tall man said.

The men in camouflage filed through a six-food-wide gap in the hedge, the tall one in the lead. He radiated an aura of power, of strength. His black hair was curly, and a dark mustache framed his upper lip. With a measured stride he crossed the grass.

Blade took a step toward Hickok.

In one light-footed bound, the tall man reached the giant’s side and pressed the barrel of his M-16 against Blade’s temple. “Are you prepared to die, señor?”

Blade felt his abdominal muscles tighten into a knot. Immobile, his right arm outstretched in the act of reaching for the gunman, he forced himself to project an air of indifference to the tall man’s threat. “You won’t shoot me.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“If you’d wanted me dead,” Blade said, “I’d be dead by now. You wanted both of us alive.”

Chuckling, the man with the mustache lowered the M-16. “A man of courage and insight. I like that. Yes, we were under orders to take both of you alive. Your friend was most impetuoso , yes? And most tonto .”

“Tonto?”

“Foolish.”

Twelve hardened figures now hemmed in the Warrior.

Blade stared at the obviously professional squad, then up at the ten on the wall.

The man in charge noticed the giant’s gaze. “They were on the wall the whole time, lying flat next to the wire. You couldn’t see them from the ground. The top of the wall is a yard across.”

Blade frowned. “We walked right into it,” he said in self-reproach.

The tall man nodded. “We were waiting for you most of the night.” He paused and extended his right hand. “I am called El Gato. The Cat.”

Surprised at Cat’s seemingly authentic friendliness, Blade shook. “I must examine my friend.”

“We will take care of him, señor ,” Cat said. He motioned to two of his men, and the pair promptly slung their weapons over their shoulders and lifted the gunfighter by the arms. “Take him to the infirmary,” he ordered.

“You have an infirmary here?” Blade asked.

“ Si ,” Cat replied. “Mr. Paolucci provides for all of our needs. There are accidents from time to time, snakebites and such, and occasional sickness.

We need a doctor on the premises. The medicos in the city are too far away.”

The pair of guards lifted Hickok by the arms and draped him between them. They hurried to the north.

“And now, Señor Blade,” Cat said, “I will have your Bowies.”

Blade’s mouth slackened in astonishment.

Cat laughed. “Si. I know your name.”

“But how?” Blade blurted.

“Sefior Paolucci will explain everything to you,” Cat stated. “But first—”

He looked up at the men on the wall. “Gehret.”

A stocky man with blond hair and an Uzi snapped to attention. “Yes, sir?”

“Take eight men with you and go find the third one,” Cat directed. “The one in black. Leave Webster on the wall.”

Gehret saluted. “Yes, sir.”

El Gato gestured at the Bowies. “And now, Blade, your knives. Don’t forget the gun behind your back, the derringer, and the backpack.” He raised his left hand and his men sighted on the Warrior.

Inwardly seething, Blade nonetheless smiled placidly. El Gato was a pro; he’d detected the Browning and the derringer’s outline easily. The Warrior removed the backpack, Cat snapped his fingers, and one of the guards stepped forward to take the gear.

“Your men are well trained,” Blade remarked.

“Yes,” Cat agreed. “But they are not my men. They are the Director’s men, Mr. Paolucci’s men. I am but a captain.”

“Mr. Paolucci has his own little army,” Blade deduced.

“He needs one,” Cat said, nodding toward the break in the hedge. “After you.”

Blade walked into the gardens.

“Go straight,” Cat declared, staying on the giant’s right.

The lush collection of plants was more impressive close up. Every conceivable variety appeared to be represented.

Blade glanced over his right shoulder. Gehret and eight others were descending the wall using a narrow flight of stairs 20 feet to the east of the south door.

“They will have your friend in custody within fifteen minutes,” Cat predicted.

“I wouldn’t count on it,” Blade responded.

“Mr. Paolucci hires only the best mercenaries,” Cat stated. “Your friend in black is as good as captured.”

“You don’t know my friend,” Blade said. “I hope your men are expendable.”

Cat laughed. “I like you, gringo .”

“Oh?” Blade commented skeptically. He followed a worn path to the north, inhaling the heady fragrance of the myriad of flowers.

“I am sincere, señor ,” Cat insisted. “Call it professional courtesy, from one man of reputation to another.”

“I have a reputation?”

“You are playing games with me,” Cat said. “The fame of the Warriors has spread far and wide. We have even heard of you here.”

Blade’s brow creased in confusion. What else did Cat know?

Cat observed the giant’s expression and chuckled. “So many questions, eh?”

“This is an unexpected development,” Blade admitted.

“Be patient. Mr. Paolucci will answer everything. He has been looking forward to your arrival.”

Blade caught sight of buildings. A large red barn appeared to the east, and to the north loomed a four-story, sprawling, magnificent house with a portico supported by marble columns. “Where is the infirmary?” he asked.

Cat pointed to the west.

Blade gazed in that direction and discovered another structure, the barracks Barbish had told them about, a low wooden building with several doors and a green roof. Of course, the Dealer had conveniently lied about the size of the guard contingent. A large sign imprinted in red with the word INFIRMARY was attached above the northernmost door. The door was open, and the two guards responsible for conveying Hickok were standing outside, conversing.