David Robbins - Miami Run

As his left shoulder sank into the sandy turf, Gehret’s eyes showed stark fear. He twisted and tried to push up, but his arms sank to the elbows in the mushy soil. “No!” he cried.

Bewildered by the sight of the mercenary sinking, Rikki remained motionless, trying to comprehend what he was seeing.

Gehret endeavored to sit up, but the motion only contributed to his rate of submersion. His arms disappeared to the shoulders, his legs to his knees. Frantic, he wrenched on his arms, his blood-stained face contorted in horror. He was sinking even faster. “No!” he shouted, looking at the Warrior with an expression of pathetic despair. “Help me!” he yelled. “It’s quicksand!”

At last Rikki understood.

Even as the damp sand touched his nose.

“Don’t move, señor!”

Blade had risen as he spied Hickok exiting the infirmary, but he stopped, his body poised to run.

El Gato was covering him with the M-16. “Stay right where you are, Blade.” He waved his right arm at the infirmary. “Get Hickok!”

The ten mercenaries took off in pursuit of the gunfighter.

Blade reluctantly sat down, watching the tableau unfold. He saw Hickok shoot three guards, and then the gunman wheeled and ran to the north.

Where was Hickok heading? Blade thought of the front gate and smiled.

“What is so humorous about the death of one of your fellow Warriors?”

Paolucci asked.

“Hickojc isn’t dead yet.”

“He will be soon,” Paolucci vowed.

Blade listened to the gunshots coming from the north side of the house.

He could distinguish between the boom of Hickok’s revolvers and the lighter, more metallic chatter of the mercenaries’ automatic weapons.

“And for that matter, so will you,” Paolucci said.

Distracted by the noise of the running gun battle, Blade wasn’t certain he’d heard correctly. “What?” he asked belatedly.

“Your demise is at hand.”

With a conscious effort, Blade faced the Director. “What do you have in mind? A firing squad?”

Paolucci smiled. “Nothing so prosaic.”

“You’re going to feed me to the alligators?”

“Now there’s an idea!” Paolucci stated. “But, sorry to say, no. To tell you the truth, the manner of your death is not my decision to make.”

“Then whose is it?”

“Guess.”

Boom. Boom.

Hickok was still alive and kicking! Blade focused on the Director, reflecting. Insight struck him seconds later. “The Masters want to attend to my death personally?”

Paolucci nodded.

“Why am I receiving special treatment?” Blade queried. “Or do the Masters dispose of all of your enemies?”

“The Masters only involve themselves in the exceptional cases,” the Director said. “You’re receiving quite an honor.”

“How so?”

“The Masters will sacrifice you.”

“They make sacrifices?”

“Yes.”

Blade tensed as the automatic gunfire attained a crescendo. He envisioned Hickok being hit by a storm of slugs, and he shook his head to dispel the image.

Paolucci misinterpreted the movement. “You don’t believe me? I’m offended. I have no reason to lie to you. And I know whereof I speak, because I have personally attended fourteen sacrifices.”

“You stood by and watched the Masters sacrifice humans?” Blade asked in disgust. Out of the corner of his right eye he noticed El Gato frowning.

“Most of the sacrifices were Dealers gone bad,” Paolucci detailed. “The rest were troublemakers, people who couldn’t appreciate the essential social service provided by the Dragons.”

“In other words, they were against the Dragons and everything you stand for. They opposed your drug-dealing.”

“They were fools.”

“You’re the fool, if you think you can continue to control the people of Miami with drugs,” Blade said.

Paolucci did a double take, genuine amazement flickering across his features. “My compliments. Your perception is remarkable.”

“What’s so remarkable about the obvious?”

“You’re wrong, though,” the Director said. “The Dragons have controlled southern Florida for sixty-five years. We will control this area, and much more, long after your bones are bleached white by the sun.”

“You think so?”

“I know so,” Paolucci asserted. “Your problem is that you fail to understand the nature of the human condition. Most people are sheep, content to be led by anyone with the strength to assume command. All the average person cares about are the basics. Where is the next meal coming from? Where will the money come from to put clothes on their backs and keep a roof over their heads? And there’s one more consideration.” He paused. “What can help them forget all their cares and woes? What can alleviate the pain, if only for a little while? What can give them the illusion of being on top of the world, when in reality they’re in the gutter?” He smiled. “That’s where the Dragons come in. By feeding this need to feel happy in a world of suffering and sickness, by fostering their illusions, we supply an essential social service. And therein lies the source of our power.”

“You’re sick in the head,” Blade stated. “And your philosophy is perverted.”

Paolucci shrugged. “Perverted or not, the Dragons do control Miami and the rest of southern Florida. And soon we will extend our control to other areas.”

“Not if the Family can help it.”

The Director smirked. “But the Family can’t.”

Blade stared into Paolucci’s eyes. “Sooner or later, someone will come along and lead the people in a revolt against your manipulation. I know there have already been a lot who have moved away from Miami, rather than live under the influence of a drug-dominated culture. Not everyone is gullible enough to stupidly believe that pleasure is the only pursuit in life that matters. There are those who believe in higher values, in spiritual values of love and faith—”

Slapping the table in mirth, the Director laughed uproariously. “Love and faith? You don’t actually believe that nonsense?”

Blade’s eyes became flinty.

“You’re too idealistic, my friend,” Paolucci declared patronizingly. “The world is not governed by love and faith. It’s dominated by greed, lust, and power. Nothing else counts.”

A sole mercenary was approaching the table at a trot.

Blade gazed at the guard apprehensively, worried about Hickok.

“Report!” El Gato barked.

The mercenary halted and saluted. “Hickok escaped.”

“How?”

“Over the gate.”

“And our casualties?” Cat questioned.

The mercenary averted his eyes. “Eight dead.”

“Eight!” El Gato snapped. “One man killed eight of our men!”

The mercenary did not respond.

“Where are the others?” Cat queried angrily.

“Hickok ran into the woods to the north,” the mercenary answered.

“Corporal Kingsley is leading a search sweep right this minute.”

“Tell Kingsley to track Hickok down,” El Gato stated, “or not to show his face in the command again. Understand?”

The mercenary nodded.

“Why are you still here?” Cat demanded.

After a brisk salute, the mercenary pivoted and raced away.

“Now where were we?” Paolucci asked, leaning back in his chair. “Oh, yes. You were indulging in whimsy.”

Blade said nothing.

The Director looked at El Gato. “Do you know what we have here?”

“No, señor .”

“What we have, Cat, is a throwback to an earlier age, an age when so-called decent types believed in basic values like the importance of the home and family life.” Paolucci chuckled. “Blade is archaic and doesn’t even know it. He’s out of step with the times. And he would have been out of step with the society existing before the war.”