David Robbins - Miami Run

“If the Masters see your Family as a threat, then you’re a threat,” Paolucci maintained.

“What else did they inform you of?”

“We were provided with a brief description of your administrative organization,” the Director said. “We learned about the Elders, about your Leader, Plato, and about the Warriors.”

“And did the Masters happen to reveal their plans for the Family?”

Paolucci nodded. “Complete eradication.”

“Then the report we heard was true,” Blade commented.

“Now it’s my turn,” the Director stated. “I’ve answered all of your questions, and I expect you to extend the same courtesy.” He paused as Maria approached with a silver tray containing liquid refreshments. She placed the tray on the table, picked up a glass filled with grape juice, and handed the drink to the Warrior.

“Your grape juice, señor .”

“Thank you,” Blade said.

“That will be all, Maria,” Paolucci stated stiffly.

Maria glanced nervously at the Director, then departed.

“I’ll talk to her about the raspberry juice,” Paolucci commented.

“Talk to her?” Blade repeated, and took a sip.

“I pride myself on running an orderly household,” the Director said.

“My servants perform their duties impeccably, or they don’t work for me very long.” His tone lowered ominously. “I despise imperfection.”

“So what if you’re out of raspberry juice,” Blade responded. “It’s not worth getting upset about.”

“To you,” Paolucci said sternly. He abruptly smiled. “But enough of this.

Where were we? I believe you were going to answer my questions.”

“I never said I’d answer anything.”

“But I answered all of yours,” the Director declared.

“That doesn’t make us best friends,” Blade quipped.

Paolucci’s lips compressed. To cover his chagrin, he reached for a pitcher of red juice. “Tomato juice,” he explained. “ My favorite.” He poured the tomato juice into an empty glass, set down the pitcher, and reached for the glass. His fingers were an inch away when the predawn quietude was shattered by the blast of gunfire.

From the infirmary.

Sergeant Ambrose Gehret hustled his men across the cleared strip and into the trees to the south of the compound. He stopped under the willow, the same willow he’d seen the giant and the guy in buckskins dart from when they’d approached the wall. As he expected, the man in black was gone.

“We’re after one man, Sarge?” asked a tanned, experienced soldier to his rear.

Gehret nodded.

“We won’t even work up a sweat,” Stanz remarked.

Gehret turned to his men. “Listen up!” He recalled an episode earlier that night. Shooting the breeze with El Gato near the barn, both of them had been surprised to see the Director running toward them from the house. The Director, displaying an uncharacteristic uneasiness, had told them about Barbish’s abduction, about his belief that the Warriors were involved. Gehret had been secretly amused at the Director’s ill-concealed anxiety. Paolucci had expressed his belief that the Warriors were on their way to Happy Acres, based on the assumption the Warriors would not go to all the trouble to snatch the Dealer alive without a specific purpose.

And what better reason than to compel the Dealer to take them to Barbish’s superior in the Dragons? Gehret had to hand it to Paolucci. The Director had been right on the money. “In case you didn’t hear, we’re after a Warrior.” He said the name scornfully.

“What’s a Warrior?” Stanz asked.

“They’re supposed to be real hotshots,” Gehret replied. “The one we’re after is dressed in black. He must know his pals have been caught. I doubt he’ll go very far. We’ll divide up into three teams. Stanz, take two men with you and sweep to the west, then north. Check under every tree and behind every bush.”

Corporal Stanz nodded. He looked at two of the mercenaries and wagged his right thumb westward. The trio hurried off.

Sergeant Gehret glanced at one of his men. “Weber, take two men with you,” he directed. “Go east, all the way around the compound until you join up with Stanz.”

Private Weber selected a pair of men and off they went.

“Right,” Gehret said, staring at the remaining duo. “The south side is all ours. Let’s go.” He advanced into the undergrowth, his men flanking him.

The mercenaries dispersed in three directions of the compass, and as their stealthy footfalls faded, a lithe, pantherish form dropped from the overspreading limbs of the willow to the ground.

The hunted was now the hunter.

Sergeant Gehret was becoming increasingly annoyed at the minutes elapsed without a sign of the Warrior. No trace at all! Not one of the other search parties had signaled, not so much as a single shot had been fired.

Where the hell was the guy in black?

Gehret paused on a low mound and surveyed the terrain. In front of him was a 15-foot incline covered with weeds, and then a sea of sawgrass.

They were nearly to the southern edge of the estate; beyond was the reptile-infested swamp. Dawn was streaking the eastern horizon, the increasing sunlight lending the murky water a golden hue. He turned to the west, intending to head for the airboat dock.

“Sarge!” one of his men exclaimed, pointing to the north, at a tree 20 yards distant.

Gehret swiveled, doing a double take when he saw the cause of the man’s alarm.

There he was!

The son of a bitch was standing next to the tree, just watching them, an M-16 slung over his left shoulder, his hands empty!

Gehret recovered from his amazement and raised his Uzi, his finger on the trigger.

With startling swiftness, the man in black stepped behind the trunk and was screened from view.

“Damn!” declared the first man.

“He must be crazy!” said the second.

Gehret motioned with his left arm. “Take him from both sides,” he commanded.

Moving with practiced precision, the three mercenaries closed on the tree, their weapons at the ready.

Gehret fixed his gaze on that tree. The nearest brush was five yards from the trunk! The guy had trapped himself! There was no way the man in black could reach the brush without being cut down. Gehret smiled in expectation.

One of the other mercenaries was moving cautiously to the right, the second to the left.

Sergeant Gehret halted a yard from the three-foot-wide trunk and crouched. He glanced at his men and nodded, and all three hurled themselves forward. Gehret rounded the trunk on the left and swiveled, prepared to blast away.

But there was no one to blast.

The Warrior was gone.

“Where’d he go?” asked the private on the right.

“I don’t know!” Gehret snapped. “Fan out. Find the bastard!” He watched them enter the undergrowth, his brow knit in puzzlement. No one could up and vanish. No one ordinary, that is. But Gehret had lived as a professional mercenary for two decades. Before being hired by the Dragons, he’d worked for seven years in the Far East. In Japan he’d encountered certain men capable of astounding feats, men known as Ninja. Oddly enough, the Oriental in black reminded him of those Ninja.

In the brief glimpse he’d had, he’d recognized the same aura of supreme confidence in the man in black as he recollected observing in the Ninja.

Was it possible? he started to think, when a strangled gurgle sounded from the vegetation to his left.

“Anders?” Gehret said softly but urgently.

There was no response.

“Anders?”

Still no answer.

Gehret took a stride toward the undergrowth, looking to the right as he did so. “Wilson!” he hissed.