David Robbins - Miami Run

“Thank you,” Rikki said softly, sincerely.

Hickok made a waving gesture with his left hand. “Piece of cake.”

Rikki stared at the quicksand, thinking of the mercenary. “I came close…” He didn’t finish the sentence.

“Just one thing I need to know,” Hickok remarked breathlessly.

“What is it, my friend?”

“What the blazes were you doing takin’ a mud bath at a time like this?”

“So those are airboats?” Blade commented.

Arlo Paolucci nodded, his red hood bobbing. “They are the only practical mode of transportation for navigating in the Everglades. They have a very low draft and can maneuver in shallow water. They’re powered by aircraft engines.”

Blade was intrigued by the unusual craft. They were box-shaped, a dull, gray metal. There were two flat seats the width of the boat, one a few feet from the prow, the second situated in the center. Immediately behind this second seat was a platform affair, an elevated chair for the person operating the craft. And to the rear of the platform chair was a huge fan or propeller enclosed in a circular housing of wire mesh. Attached aft were the large metal fins used for steering the airboat. Eight of the fifteen airboats secured to the dock had two tail fins, the rest only one.

“It will take us about an hour to reach the Shrine,” Paolucci remarked, stepping onto the dock in front of the Warrior.

Blade paused and glanced over his shoulder at the 12 Directors walking toward the dock on the southern boundary of the estate. All 12 were attired in red robes, as was Paolucci.

“Keep going,” El Gato directed. Cat and two mercenaries were right behind the giant.

Blade strolled after Paolucci. The swamp stretched to the east, west, and south as far as the eye could see. “Where is this Shrine, exactly?” he asked.

“A man about to die should not be concerned over trifles,” Paolucci said. He was holding the Bowies in his right hand.

“Do the Masters live at the Shrine?”

“No. They live elsewhere, on an island deep in the Everglades. Not even the Directors are privileged to know its location,” Paolucci replied.

“How do the Masters get to the Shrine?” Blade inquired.

Paolucci looked at the Warrior. “Didn’t you ever hear about what curiosity did to the cat?”

“What have I got to lose?” Blade responded.

Paolucci chuckled. “I see your point. The Masters use airboats, just like we do.”

“What do the Masters look like?”

Paolucci grinned. “In due time.” He halted next to one of the airboats and faced those following. Everyone else stopped. “Cat,” he said. “You know what to do.”

El Gato reached into his left rear pocket and produced a set of handcuffs.

Blade’s eyes narrowed. “For me?”

“I’m afraid so, amigo,” Cat said.

“It’s standard procedure,” Paolucci explained. “The Masters require all prisoners to have their wrists secured.”

“They don’t like their victims to fight back?” Blade said, baiting the Director.

El Gato reached into the same pocket and extracted a small key. “Your wrists, Blade.”

The two mercenaries elevated the barrels of their machine guns.

The Warrior frowned as he offered his wrists to Cat.

“Were it up to me, you would die like a man,” El Gato stated. “Not like an animal.” He snapped the handcuffs onto the giant’s wrists, then handed the key to the Director.

Blade studied the cuffs for a moment.

“We should return shortly after dark,” Paolucci said to Cat. “Tell Maria I’ll be expecting my supper.”

“Si, señor.”

Blade gazed at the airboats. On three of them, seated in the platform chairs, were mercenaries.

“Let’s load up,” Paolucci instructed the other Directors.

As they had done on many occasions, the Directors stepped onto the airboats, four to a boat, and sat down.

Paolucci indicated the first boat with a jab of the Bowies. “On this one,” he said to the Warrior.

Blade entered the boat. Three Directors were sitting on the center seat, and one was in the front. He moved next to the Director in the front and took a seat.

Arlo Paolucci came on board, standing alongside the Warrior. He looked at Cat. “By the time I get back, I trust you will have found the other two Warriors.”

“We will find them,” El Gato assured him.

“That’s what you said five hours ago,” Paolucci mentioned. “Inspire your men to perform as if their lives depend on it.” He paused. “They do.”

“We will find them,” El Gato reiterated.

Paolucci, sat, positioning the Bowies between his legs.

“You still haven’t told me the reason you’re bringing my knives,” Blade noted.

“You’ll understand when we reach the Shrine,” Paolucci said.

“I can hardly wait,” Blade quipped.

Paolucci looked at the mercenary in the platform seat. “Let’s go.”

El Gato and the pair of mercenaries hastily removed the tie lines to the dock and the airboats were shoved clear. One after the other, the three engines turned over, and a minute later all three were bearing to the south at a rapid clip.

Cat watched the airboats fade into the distance, scowling.

“Is something wrong, sir?” one of his men made bold to inquire.

“There goes a man,” El Gato replied. “He deserves a man’s death.”

“What will the Masters do to him?” the guard asked.

“You don’t want to know.”

“I was told you’ve been to the Shrine,” the guard commented.

“Several times,” Cat said.

“What did you see?”

El Gato glanced at the private. “I haven’t seen the Masters, if that’s what you’re wondering. But I have seen their handiwork. It was inhuman.”

The mercenaries exchanged looks.

“How so?” one asked.

“I was sent to pick up the Director,” El Gato detailed. “He wasn’t at the Shrine dock, so I went searching for him. I found an altar, a marble slab—”

“An altar?” one mercenary repeated.

“Yes. And on it were the bones of a person,” El Gato said in a low tone.

“A freshly eaten person. Strips of flesh were hanging from the bones. It was horrible.” He paused, a faraway glint in his eyes. “But the worst part of it was the head.”

“The head?”

“ Si . The Masters had eaten all of the body except for the head. They left it intact.” He stared absently at the dock. “I knew her.”

“Her?”

“A Director by the name of Carmen Gonzales. She went bad, and they ate her,” Cat said in disbelief.

“I’m glad I wasn’t picked to be an airboat driver,” one of the guards remarked.

Cat gazed to the south. He knew the airboats would alter course five minutes from the estate and turn westward toward the Shine. “I never want to go there again,” he stated, more to himself than his men.

“Have I got bad news for you!” declared a new voice from their rear.

El Gato and the pair of mercenaries pivoted, beginning to level their weapons. But they were already covered.

“Howdy!” said the one in buckskins, beaming, a pearl-handled Colt Python revolver in each hand and trained on the mercenaries. He stood a yard away.

“Hickok!” Cat exclaimed.

Beside the gunman was the third Warrior, a diminutive man dressed in dirty black clothing, a gleaming katana in his hands.

“I don’t think we’ve been formally introduced.”

Hickok said to Cat.

“I am El Gato.”

“The pussycat?” Hickok said. His tone lowered. “Drop the hardware.”

El Gato’s M-16 was slung over his right shoulder. He gripped the strap, about to lower the weapon to the dock.