David Robbins - Miami Run

“I don’t know what you’re talking about?”

“Oh. That’s funny. You know how gossip spreads around the estate. Yesterday I treated someone who told me Gehret and you are an item.”

“Who?”

“You know I won’t tell you.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’d punch their lights out.”

The nurse laughed. “I would not!”

Hickok’s nose twitched as the itching intensified.

“I’m done,” the nurse announced.

“Allow me,” the doctor stated.

Not now! Hickok felt a growing impulse to sneeze and tried to suppress it.

The physician began probing at the wound again. “Would you get the gauze?” he asked the nurse.

“Certainly.”

Hickok was unable to control the urge. The sneeze exploded from him, and as his head snapped forward he sat up and opened his eyes.

The doctor, standing next to the table with a long, thin silver instrument in his right hand, took a step backwards, startled. To the left of the table, her hand on the knob of a white cabinet, the nurse shifted her hand to her widening mouth.

Hickok pulled his left Python. “Howdy,” he said with a smile.

“You’re awake!” the nurse blurted.

“And rarin’ to go,” Hickok said, glancing at the doorway. He spied the guards through the outer door, both standing with their backs to the infirmary, talking. “Close this door,” he instructed them, nodding at the entrance to the room.

Neither the doctor or the nurse moved.

“You’d best hop to it,” Hickok suggested. “If those guards see me, there’s liable to be gunplay. You’d be caught in the cross fire.”

“Close the door, Norma,” the doctor said.

The nurse moved tentatively to the door and eased it shut.

Hickok motioned with the Python at a far corner. “Why don’t you mosey on over there where I can keep my eyes on you, ma’am?”

Norma complied hastily.

“Now, Doc, you can bandage my shoulder,” Hickok directed.

“I should administer anesthetic,” the physician remarked.

“No anesthetic.”

“It will cause some discomfort.”

“No anesthetic.”

The doctor shrugged. “As you wish.”

Hickok bore the dressing of his wound stoically despite intermittent twinges of severe pain. He held the Python in his lap, his thumb on the hammer.

“You know,” the physician commented as he wrapped up the bandaging, “there’s only one way out of the infirmary.”

“No windows?”

“There is a window in the waiting room,” the doctor disclosed. “On the north side.”

Hickok smiled. “Thanks, Doc.”

“This will suffice temporarily,” the doctor said, stepping back and examining his handiwork. “But you should avoid excessive activity.”

“I’ll keep it in mind,” Hickok quipped. He slid to the left, placing his moccasins on the white-tiled floor. “I want you two to stay put until I’m out of here. You’ll stay a lot healthier if you do.”

“We won’t budge,” the doctor promised.

Hickok walked to the door and opened it a crack. Peeking through the narrow slit, he observed the guards still engaged in conversation and still facing away from the infirmary. This was a golden opportunity. He quickly opened the door, sidled into the waiting room, and quietly closed the door.

Neither guard looked in his direction.

The gunman moved to the north wall and examined the narrow window. The inner pane was already up; all that separated him from freedom was a screen. He touched the screen with his right hand, grimacing at the soreness. How would he get through the screen? Find a knife?

A boot scuffled the floor to his rear.

Hickok spun, the Colt tight in his left hand.

One of the guards was a yard inside the waiting room, slack-jawed in amazement. A machine gun was cradled in his left arm.

“Howdy,” Hickok said with a grin. “Are you here for your lobotomy?”

Recovering from his initial shock, the mercenary pivoted and endeavored to level his weapon.

Hickok’s left Colt boomed, the slug slamming into the guard’s forehead and knocking him backward. There was no time to lose. The gunman stepped hurriedly to the doorway, and there was the second mercenary, unslinging his M-16, about to enter. Hickok shot the man in the right eye, then dashed outside.

Now what?

The gunfighter glanced to the east, relief engulfing him at the sight of Blade seated at a white table. Unfortunately, his friend was ringed by ten or eleven mercenaries.

Those mercenaries abruptly raced toward the infirmary.

Hickok swiveled to the right, frowning as he beheld three guards exiting a barracks door. He thumbed the hammer three times, and with each shot a mercenary dropped. But more would be coming. It was time for Mama Hickok’s pride and joy to skedaddle. He turned to the left, to the north, spying the closed front gate and a pair of guards. Another mercenary was on the brick wall to the west of the gate. All three were staring at him.

So much for subterfuge.

Hickok bolted toward the gate. With a clipped wing, and without the range provided by the Henry, the odds were stacked too high against him.

His best bet was to reach the woods, then rescue Blade later.

Easier said than done.

Several of the mercenaries charging from the east opened up, their rounds narrowly missing the sprinting gunman.

Hickok’s right shoulder was throbbing. He saw the pair at the gate run in his direction, and the mercenary on the wall was aiming a machine gun.

When outnumbered, do the unexpected.

The gunfighter stopped, extending and elevating his left arm, and fired once.

With his arms flung wide, the sentry on the wall staggered to the inner rim and plummeted over the edge.

Hickok resumed speeding toward the gate. The layout of the compound worked in his favor; he could make a beeline for the gate from the infirmary, but the mercenaries pursuing him were thwarted by having the house between themselves and the north wall. They had to run all the way around the Director’s huge residence. Now, with less than 30 yards to go, and with the pack of mercenaries obstructed by the intervening mansion, he pumped his legs for all he was worth.

The pair of gate guards had halted ten feet from the gate and were sighting on the Warrior.

Hickok threw himself to the left, to the ground, jarring his left side. The left Colt was empty, and reloading was out of the question.

Would his right arm work?

The gunfighter rolled to his knees as the gate guards fired. He grunted as he drew his right Python, his shoulder lancing with agonizing protest.

Steady! he mentally warned himself.

Slugs smacked into the turf in front of him.

Hickok fired twice, each shot planted dead center, a slug tearing into each guard’s head and dropping them in their tracks.

Move! his mind screamed.

The gunman rose and darted for the gate, looking over his left shoulder.

The pack had not yet appeared. He might make it after all. He holstered the left Python and studied the gate ahead. Six-foot-high metal bars, spaced at one-foot intervals, formed the core of the framework, braced by heavy bars at the top and the bottom. A heavy chain was looped around the central bars and secured by a large padlock. He slowed as he neared the pair of dead guards, intending to search their pockets for the key.

A loud shout sounded behind him.

Hickok looked over his right shoulder to see the pack of mercenaries rounding the northwest corner of the house. They were hard in pursuit, and several of them yelled with excitement as they spied their quarry.

Blast!

He could forget the key.

Hickok spun and ran to the gate, sliding the right Python in its holster.

He didn’t slow or stop. Instead, he took a leap and grabbed the middle bars, holding on with all of his strength, his right shoulder twitching in excruciating torture. He resisted the waves of pain and climbed higher, hand over hand, using his left arm to bear most of his weight and shimmying upward with his legs.