David Robbins - Miami Run

His men had other ideas. In unison, they attempted to bring their machine guns into play. Both men had only to raise their barrels several inches; both had confidence in their speed and ability; both believed they could beat the Warriors.

Both were mistaken.

Rikki stepped between them, his katana flashing in the sunlight, streaking to the right, then the left, and with each swing the forged steel slashed into a mercenary’s neck, almost severing it.

In the time it took Cat to think, both of his men were dead on their feet, blood spraying over their camouflage uniforms and the dock. Stunned, he scarcely breathed as their forms crumpled into disjointed heaps, their machine guns clattering at their feet.

Hickok wagged his Pythons at El Gato. “Your turn. What’s it gonna be? You can lower your M-16, or Rikki here will demonstrate why he always carves the Family turkey at Thanksgiving.”

Cat lowered the M-16 slowly. Very slowly. His eyes were locked on the crimson-covered, dripping katana.

“Well, it’s nice to see that one of you mangy coyotes has brains,” Hickok remarked. He walked up to El Gato and pressed his Pythons against Cat’s stomach. “Here’s the way it is. We saw our pard being taken on one of these funny boats by those cow chips in the red pajamas. We aim to go after him. You are going to take us.”

Cat opened his mouth to reply.

“Before you say anything,” Hickok cut him off, “there’s something you should know. Rikki and I are plumb tuckered out. We’re tired of being used for target practice by idiots who couldn’t hit a buffalo at two feet with a bazooka. And I’m not in the mood to play footsy with you. So if you don’t agree, right this minute, to take us to our pard, I aim to plug you in the jewels. And if you think I’m kiddin’, I suggest you take a gander at my eyes.”

El Gato gazed at the gunman.

“What will it be?” Hickok prompted.

“I believe you, hombre ,” Cat said. “I will take you to your compadre .”

Hickok smiled.

“On one condition,” Cat added.

“No conditions,” Hickok stated.

“I will take you to Blade,” Cat proposed, “if you will permit me to help you once we reach the Shrine.”

Hickok was confused and it showed. “What are you talkin’ about?”

“It is simple. I want to help free your friend.”

“Why?” Hickok asked suspiciously.

“I don’t know if I could make you understand.”

“Try us.”

El Gato looked at both Warriors, then sighed. “Once, years ago, I was a man of reputation. A mercenary, but an honorable mercenary. I did not work for just any pig. I picked my employers. If I believed in their cause, I worked for them. If not, I didn’t.” His lips compressed. “Now all that has changed.”

“You’re tellin’ me,” Hickok said. “Now you’re workin’ for a passel of low-down mutants.”

“Don’t remind me,” El Gato responded, the words barely audible. “I kept telling myself the money was worth it. Even after I saw what the Masters did to one of their Dealers, I deluded myself. I’ve dishonored my profession.” He looked into Hickok’s eyes. “Your friend made me see the light. He made me think of things I have not thought about in a long, long time.”

“Like what?”

“I have five brothers and four sisters,” El Gato disclosed, his voice strained.

Hickok glanced at Rikki.

The martial artist nodded.

“Okay, pussycat,” Hickok said. “We’ll take you at your word for now.

But you don’t get a gun until I say so. And I hope, for your sake, you’re not fibbin’ us.”

“He is telling the truth,” Rikki interjected.

“We must hurry,” Cat advised them. “The Directors have a head start.”

“After you,” Hickok directed.

El Gato stepped onto one of the airboats and climbed into the platform chair. “Remove the line.”

Hickok holstered his left Colt and unfastened the tie line. Rikki was busy grabbing the machine guns and the M-16. Both Warriors joined El Gato on the boat.

The gunman glanced over the prow. “This boat is dinkier than I expected. It doesn’t sit very high above the water.”

“So?” Cat said.

“So what happens if we bump into a big snake?”

“That’s the Shrine?” Blade inquired doubtfully.

“No,” Paolucci answered. “That’s a small island where we dock the airboats.”

Blade scrutinized the few trees dotting the island and the narrow boat dock they were rapidly approaching. The airboat ride was an experience he would never forget. Strung out in a line, with Paolucci’s boat in the lead, the three craft had negotiated the swampy terrain with deceptive ease. Most of the hour spent in transit between Happy Acres and the Shrine had entailed crossing vast plains of sawgrass. The airboats had plowed through the grass at terrific speeds, flattening the blades under the prow, the sawgrass and the wind whipping the boat and its occupants.

Now, as the mercenary steering the craft killed the engine and allowed the airboat to glide up to the dock, Blade devoted his attention, for the umpteenth time, to his primary concern: escaping. He had toyed with the notion of leaping overboard while en route, but the airboat had been moving at such a great speed that he ran the risk of being injured in the attempt. To complicate matters, the mercenary was armed with a machine gun. And although the Directors were not carrying visible weapons, there was no telling what was concealed under their robes.

The three airboats coasted to the dock and the Directors busied themselves with the lines.

“On your feet,” Paolucci ordered the Warrior, rising.

Blade stood. “The Masters must not be here yet,” he mentioned. “I don’t see their airboats.”

“The Masters don’t dock here,” Paolucci divulged. “They have their own dock on the north side of the Shrine.”

“They don’t want to share a dock with lowly humans, huh?” Blade taunted.

“Quit wasting your breath,” Paolucci advised. He stepped onto the dock and beckoned for Blade to join him.

The Warrior complied, his cuffed hands in front of his body.

Paolucci looked at the mercenaries in the platform seats. “You will stay in your boats until we return. Understood?”

The trio nodded.

“Follow me,” Paolucci instructed the giant.

Blade resigned himself to obeying until he could get his bearings and formulate a plan. The twelve other Directors were trailing him as he moved along the dock on Paolucci’s heels. A well-worn path at the end of the dock wound in the direction of a large island 60 yards to the west, an island covered with trees and undergrowth.

“There is the Shrine,” Paolucci declared, nodding at the other island.

“Why is it called the Shrine?”

“What could be more fitting for the site of the sacrifices our Masters make?”

“You’ve never told me,” Blade noted. “Who or what do the Masters sacrifice to?”

“What do you mean?”

“It should be obvious. Do the Masters sacrifice to a deity? Sacrifices are usually made for a reason. What’s theirs?”

“I’ve never asked.”

“You’re despicable.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to comprehend the true meaning of the relationship we share with our Masters,” Paolucci said as they wended their way toward the large island.

“I comprehend, all right,” Blade stated. “You’ve enslaved the human population of southern Florida by fostering mass drug addiction, and all for mutant Masters who must view us as cattle. You’ve sold the human race down the tubes for power and prestige. You deserve to die.”

“How convenient! You’ve set yourself up as our judge and executioner!” Paolucci retorted.