David Robbins - Miami Run

A stinging sensation lanced across the giant’s lower back.

Blade spun to find a Director with a bloody knife, and he angled his right Bowie up and in, the blade penetrating the Director’s left cheek. The man stiffened and tottered backwards, blood spraying in all directions.

Before Blade could press his advantage, a body alighted on his back and a thin, bony arm encircled his neck.

A Master!

Instantly, the Warrior doubled over, upending the mutant, toppling it in the grass at his feet. He saw the Master’s upturned, skeletal features, and he thrust downward with both Bowies, both blades spearing into the mutant’s neck.

Something pierced his right shoulder, burning and racking him with pain.

Blade straightened. A Director had stabbed him and was drawing the knife back for another try. But the Warrior was quicker, his right Bowie cleaving the Director’s face from eyebrows to chin with a mighty downswing.

A growling Master tackled the giant from the left, bearing the Warrior down.

Blade landed on his back and kicked, flinging the Master aside. He rolled to his right, and there was another Master diving straight for him.

His left Bowie whipped around and met the mutant in midair, catching the creature high on the chest. It wailed and fell, and Blade pulled the knife out and heaved to his knees just in time to meet the rush of a Director with a survival knife. He ducked under the knife as it arched toward his face, and retaliated with his left Bowie, planting the big blade in the Director’s loins. The man gurgled and clutched at himself. The Warrior tugged the left Bowie out and rotated, always moving, always moving, and as fast as he was, he wasn’t fast enough, because a mutant leaped on his back and razor teeth tore into the right side of his neck. A clammy substance flowed over his shoulder as he drove the right Bowie back and in, and connected.

There was a cry of anguish and the Master on his back fell away.

To be replaced by a hurtling pair of Directors, one armed with a knife, coming directly at him.

Blade engaged them in a frenzy, fighting on sheer impulse, his blood-soaked Bowies striking in reckless abandon, lashing every which way as quickly as enemies presented themselves. Crimson spurted over the combatants and the grass. He downed the Directors and another mutant, imbedded his left Bowie in the stomach of a third Director, and rotated to the right.

And suddenly the Warrior was alone, standing amidst a heap of bodies, some motionless, others groaning and moaning and twitching. He blinked his eyes rapidly, wondering where his foes had gone, and he spotted several figures in red racing to the east. “You!” bellowed a voice to his left.

Blade whirled, the Bowies held at waist level.

“I want you!” It was Radnor, standing over the limp form of his father, saliva caking his lips and chin, his eyes blazing his hatred. “Try me, Warrior! Just me! Without your knives!”

The Warrior spied a lone female Master sprinting to the north. He glanced down, astonished at the sight of Arlo Paolucci, dead, a foot away.

The Director was lying on his left side, his forehead split open wide. When had he killed Paolucci?

Radnor took a step forward. “Me, Warrior! Try me if you have the courage!”

Blade returned Radnor’s glare, his rage rekindled by the repulsive Master. He tossed the Bowies to the ground.

A vicious grin creased Radnor’s mouth. “Now you die!” he roared and charged.

Blade met Radnor halfway, their bodies colliding with a bone-jarring impact. Both kept their footing, Radnor delivering a brutal punch to the Warrior’s midsection. Blade doubled over, and Radnor locked his hands together and smashed the Warrior on the back of the head.

Suddenly Blade was on his knees, reeling, pinwheels of light flickering before his eyes, his ears barely registering the brittle chatter of machine guns from the near distance. He looked up, squinting, as the mutant swung those cupped hands again, but this time Blade blocked the blow with his left arm and retaliated. His malletlike right fist thudded into the Master’s stomach once, twice, three times in all, and Radnor staggered backwards. Blade went after the mutant with his fists flying, landing one blow after another, his knuckles pounding Radnor’s face. He swung again and again and again, even after Radnor toppled backwards, refusing to relent, venting his fury on the mutant, straddling Radnor and pounding the Master repeatedly. A red haze enveloped him, and he kept swinging long after Radnor had ceased moving. He was still raining punches when strong hands grabbed his arms, and he surged erect, prepared to take on more adversaries. Dimly, he perceived a familiar voice.

“—enough, pard! Enough! He’s dead! Snap out of it!”

Blade shook his head, his eyes narrowing, puzzled. He looked to his right.

“Are you okay?” Hickok asked, holding onto his friend’s right wrist. “It’s me! Nathan!” A machine gun was over his right shoulder.

“Blade?” said someone to the giant’s left.

Blade glanced around, inhaling deeply, his temples throbbing. “Hello, Rikki,” he said huskily.

Rikki-Tikki-Tavi peered intently at his friend. “You’ve been cut. I must tend to your wounds.”

“I’m fine,” Blade said. “Really.” He faced forward, surprised to see Cat eight feet away.

El Gato gazed at the littered bodies, at the dead and the dying, at the pools of blood, the severed fingers, and the slashed throats. He stared at the gore-spattered Warrior, his eyes widening. And then he did a strange thing. He crossed himself for the first time in many, many years and uttered a phrase he hadn’t used in ages. “ Madre de Dios !”

They stood at the rendezvous site, awaiting the arrival of the Hurricane.

“—worked my way around to the south side of the compound,” Hickok was explaining. “I figured they wouldn’t be expectin’ me to pull a stunt like that.” He chuckled. “I almost bumped into three turkeys on the west side of the estate. Anyway, to make this long story a mite shorter, I went lookin’ for Rikki and found him takin’ a mud bath.”

Blade looked at the martial artist. “A mud bath?”

“He exaggerates,” Rikki said.

“Your clothes were dirty until you took a bath in that stream yesterday,” Blade remarked.

“He went swimmin’ in quicksand,” Hickok disclosed.

“That sounds like a stunt you’d pull,” Blade said to the gunman.

“What’s that crack supposed to mean?” Hickok demanded.

Rikki stared to the south, in the direction of Miami. “What will we do about the Dragons?”

“With most of the Masters dead, the threat to the Family has been removed,” Blade said. “And without firm leadership, the Dealers will undoubtedly start fighting among themselves for control of the organization. I don’t see the Dragons as a danger any more.”

“You still haven’t told me what that crack meant,” Hickok stated.

Blade glanced at the gunfighter. “Which Warrior nearly ran over half the Family when he was learning to drive the SEAL?”

“Me, but—”

“And which Warrior,” Blade went on, “confided to me that he accidentally drove a tank into the moat at the Home?”

“Me, but—”

“I could go on and on,” Blade said, “but I rest my case.”

Hickok looked from Blade to Rikki and back again. “Pitiful. Just pitiful.”

“What is?” Rikki asked.

“A couple of teensy-weensy boo-boos and you’re branded for life!”

A LEISURE BOOK

July 1989

Published by

Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.

276 Fifth Avenue

New York, NY