David Robbins - Miami Run

“They will bring word as soon as your friend has been examined,” Cat said. “What is his name anyway?”

“Hickok.”

“So that was Hickok?” Cat remarked. “I did not expect him to be so rash.”

“You’ve heard of Hickok too?”

“Si.”

“How many Warriors do you know by name?”

Cat Grinned. “Mr. Paolucci has talked about four of you by name.

Hickok, an Indian named Geronimo, the hombre they call the Dispenser of Death—Yama, and yourself.” He paused. “There was an unconfirmed report concerning a small man in black, but his name was unknown.”

“Where did this report come from?”

“You must ask Mr. Paolucci.”

Blade looked over his left shoulder at the mercenaries. One was carrying his Bowies, the Browning, and the derringer, and a second was bearing the Paratrooper, the Henry, and the backpack.

“They say you are quite skilled with your knives,” Cat commented.

Blade said nothing.

“Perhaps we will have the chance to test your mettle,” Cat stated. “You and I, eh? Mano a mano . One on one.”

“You sound like you’d enjoy it.”

“ Si , Blade. I would,” Cat confessed. “There is very little action at Happy Acres.” He spoke the last two words contemptuously. “A man of my expertise, my caliber, needs challenges. Without action, what use are the talents we have? When Mr. Paolucci told us you were coming, I was overjoyed. This is the first action I’ve seen in two years. No one else would have the cojones to take on the Dragons. You have my respect, amigo .”

Blade stared into Cat’s dark eyes, only four inches lower than his own.

He perceived that the mercenary was sincere.

“Yes,” Cat went on. “I will be glad when my contract is up. Another six months and I can return to Colombia.”

“You’re from South America?”

“ Si . Why do you sound so surprised?”

“I suppose I expected you to be from Miami.”

Cat snorted. “That sewer? Give me the green hills of Colombia any day!”

“How did South America fare during the war?”

“There were not any nuclear strikes on South American soil,” Cat replied. “But most of the governments fell apart. The winds brought a lot of radiation, and there was much sickness and death.”

“And now?”

“Colombia is ruled by the Cartel,” Cat disclosed. His eyes narrowed as he gazed ahead.

Blade faced the house.

A man was awaiting them on the bottom step of the portico, a stately individual attired in an immaculate white suit and matching shoes. His hair was black, tinged with gray at the ears. Frank blue eyes watched the Warrior approach. The man’s face was leonine in aspect. Here was a man accustomed to giving orders and being obeyed. Here was a man of power.

Cat stepped in front of the Warrior and saluted. “Here he is, Mr. Paolucci. Just as you wanted.”

Paolucci raked Blade from head to toe with a critical gaze. “I heard shooting.”

“Hickok tried to resist. He’s in the infirmary,” Cat detailed.

“And the third one?”

“Sergeant Gehret is out after him as we speak,” Cat said.

Paolucci smiled at El Gato. “Well done.” He walked up to the Warrior and offered his right hand. “I am delighted to make your acquaintance, Blade. My name is Arlo Paolucci.”

Blade shook the Director’s hand. “I know.”

“Ahhh. Yes. Tom Barbish. Where is Mr. Barbish? I expected him to arrive with you.”

Blade slashed his right forefinger across his throat.

“Really? You?”

“No,” Blade said. “I can’t claim the credit. A mutant made a snack out of your Dealer friend.”

“Barbish was a business associate,” Paolucci said. “Not a close friend.

His betrayal necessitated his termination, and I’m happy the mutant has saved me the trouble.” He moved to the east, nodding at a white table ringed by four white chairs. “Why don’t we take a seat and continue our discussion in a civilized vein?”

El Gato nodded at the men toting the weapons, and the duo hurried to the table and deposited their loads. At a jerk of Cat’s right arm, the mercenaries fanned out around the table.

“Simply a precaution, you understand,” Paolucci said to the Warrior.

Blade nodded. He took a chair on the south side of the table.

The Director stepped to the chair on the opposite side. As he sat down, a petite, dark-haired woman in a white blouse, white skirt, and a white apron hastened to him.

“Refreshments, señor?”

“Yes, Maria,” Paolucci said. He looked at Blade. “What would you like? We have tea, coffee, milk, fruit juice, water, or any liquor you can name.”

“Do you have raspberry juice?” Blade asked.

Paolucci looked at Maria, who shook her head. The Director’s mouth curled downward. “I apologize for the oversight.”

“No big deal,” Blade said. “Raspberry juice is my favorite, but I can live with grape juice, if you have any.”

“We do, señor ,” Maria assured him.

Paolucci waved his right hand, and Maria took off for the house at a run.

“Are you always up at this time of the night?” Blade inquired.

The Director smiled. “My business activities demand unusual hours.

But no, I would have been asleep tonight, if it wasn’t for your arrival. I wanted to be up, to greet you in person, to bid you welcome.”

“How kind of you,” Blade said sarcastically.

“There’s no need to be nasty,” Paolucci stated. “Crudity from a man of your stature insults both of us.”

The light from a floodlight at the eastern corner of the house cast a glimmering reflection on the weapons piled on the table. Blade glanced at the Paratrooper, estimating his chances of successfully making a bid for freedom. With the table encircled by mercenaries, and El Gato standing four feet to his right, any precipitous movement on his part would be met by a hail of lead. Wisdom dictated sitting tight, biding his time. He stared to his left at the infirmary 50 yards distant, suppressing his anxiety over Hickok. Why had the gunfighter pulled such an inane stunt? Hickok was impetuous, true, but the gunman wasn’t an idiot; his gambit at the south door made no sense.

“I was quite surprised to learn of your presence in Miami,” the Director commented.

“How did you find out?”

“I was called by one of Barbish’s people fifteen minutes after you took him from the Oasis,” Paolucci divulged. “It wasn’t terribly difficult to put two and two together. When my caller described the three men responsible for the abduction, I remembered the descriptions I’d been given of yourself and a few of your colleagues.”

“But how did you know it was me?”

The Director smiled. “How many seven-foot men with Bowie knives are traipsing around the country?”

“That’s not what I meant,” Blade said. “How did you know about me, about the Warriors? Where did you hear about us?”

“From the Masters,” Paolucci answered.

“How did they learn about the Warriors?”

“You’ll need to ask them,” the Director said.

“They didn’t tell you?”

“No,” Paolucci said. “And I’m not about to pry into their affairs. As a Director, my job is to carry out their wishes, not to pry into their sources.”

“How much were you told?”

Paolucci leaned back in his chair. “The Masters held a conclave with all of the Directors in attendance. We were told about this group in Minnesota, the Family, and provided with convincing evidence of the Family’s threat to our operation.”

“What are you talking about?” Blade demanded. “How can the Family be a threat when our Home is located over two thousand miles from Miami?”