David Robbins - Nevada Run

“Blast!” he fumed. “Giorgio isn’t here.”

“But I am,” said a mocking voice behind them.

Mindy, horrified, recognizing the voice, whirled.

There he was, covered with blood from his eyebrows to his waist, his nose twisted to the left, his lips split and several teeth broken, his chin and cheeks puffy and marked by welts, a machine gun in his hands, a furious gleam in his eyes.

“Ozzi!” Mindy cried.

Ozzi swept the machine-gun barrel to within a hairs-breadth of her nose. “Yes! Ozzi!”

Hickok had turned at the sound of Ozzi’s voice, but his line of fire had been obstructed by Mindy. He shifted to the right.

“Don’t even think it!” Ozzi growled, his finger quivering on the trigger.

“You do, and she’s worm meat!”

Hickok frowned and tilted the Python barrels up at the ceiling.

“That’s real smart,” Ozzi said. “Now drop the revolvers!”

Hickok never hesitated. He knew he could drill Ozzi before the hit man squeezed the machine gun’s trigger, and he also knew Ozzi’s finger might tighten on the trigger in a reflexive death spasm. Either way, Mindy would die. Ozzi was holding a fully automatic Bushmaster.

The Colts fell to the carpet.

Ozzi beamed maliciously. “Now the Detonics and the rifle.”

Hickok had forgotten about the pistol tucked under his belt. He slowly eased it loose and let go, then placed the Henry on the floor.

Ozzi glared at the Warrior, then Mindy. “Did you really think you’d get away from me?”

Mindy didn’t answer.

Ozzi’s eyes narrowed. “You’re not so clever, bitch! I finally figured out why you turned down my marriage proposal.”

Despite her revulsion and fear, Mindy responded. “Why?”

“Because you’ve got the hots for him,” Ozzi said, leering.

“I do not!” Mindy declared, insulted at the insinuation.

Ozzi’s lips curled away from his teeth. He resembled a rabid dog about to bite. “Don’t lie to me! I know better!”

“You wouldn’t know the truth if you tripped over it,” Hickok said, hoping to draw some of the heat from Mindy.

Ozzi made a snarling noise and motioned to the right with the machine gun. “Get over there!” he barked at Mindy. “Move!”

Mindy shuffled several feet to the right.

Ozzi sneered at the Warrior. “Turn around!”

Hickok balked.

“Do it, or I’ll shoot the bitch!” Ozzi roared.

Reluctantly, Hickok turned completely around.

Ozzi stepped over to the gunman and savagely rammed the barrel of his weapon into the Warrior’s lower back.

Hickok gasped and clutched at the spot, lanced with agony.

Cackling, Ozzi pounded the Bushmaster across the gunfighter’s head.

Hickok lurched forward, trying to pivot to protect himself.

With a cruel, primal, delight, Ozzi struck the Warrior on the left temple twice in succession.

Blood sprayed from Hickok’s temple and he dropped onto his right knee, still struggling, striving to reach the mobster.

Ozzi slammed the Bushmaster’s stock into the side of the Warrior’s head, and Hickok finally went down. Laughing, Ozzi rotated toward Mindy. “Now it’s your turn, bitch! You’re going to suffer for what I’ve been through!”

Mindy retreated a step, panic welling within her.

“I owe you!” Ozzi declared. He gestured menacingly with the machine gun. “You’ll be groveling at my feet before I’m through.”

“Let us go!” Mindy pleaded. “Please!”

“Please!” Ozzi said, imitating the whine in her tone. “Kiss the world good-bye, scuzz!” He aimed at her chest.

“Wait!” commanded a new voice.

Mindy glanced at the doorway and nearly fainted. Just when she thought the situation couldn’t possibly become any worse, it did.

Don Giorgio and Sacks had arrived!

“Grenades!” Blade bellowed, tugging the second grenade from his pocket and pulling the pin as slugs smacked into the walls around him. He heaved the grenade into the corridor and dove for the floor.

Geronimo and Helen were just releasing their grenades at the group charging across the casino. Geronimo grunted and twisted to the right, then flattened. Helen followed suit.

The grenade in the corridor detonated first, and the cries of torment from the maimed and dying arose an instant later.

At the sight of the two grenades arching their way, the group in the casino frantically endeavored to disperse. They bumped into one another in their frenzy to escape the hurtling doom, and they were largely unsuccessful. A mere handful survived. The grenades went off in their midst— Whomp’. Whomp.’— and literally blew them to shredded pieces.

Blade crawled into the corridor, the Commando in front of him. Five or six trigger men were alive and closing. He fired, sweeping the Commando from side to side, stopping the mobsters with a withering wall of lead. As the last one fell, he jumped to his feet. “Oh me!”

Helen darted into the corridor.

Geronimo joined them, his right hand pressed against his side, grimacing. “I’m hit,” he mentioned.

“How bad?” Blade asked.

“It creased my side,” Geronimo said. “I can manage. Let’s move!”

Blade raced for a door at the far end of the hallway. He could hear his companions pounding after him. They wound past the bodies of the dead mobsters, past unattached, ruptured limbs and contorted torsos. Once he almost slipped in a puddle of gore. Some of the trigger men were groaning piteously.

One of the soldiers, a man with a gaping hole in his abdomen, clutched at Helen’s legs. She tripped, righted herself, and shot him in the mouth.

Blade was beginning to believe they would reach the door without further incident, but he was wrong. They were less than 15 feet from their goal when gunfire broke out to their rear.

The Warriors whirled, dropping to their knees.

Seven mobsters from the casino were in hot pursuit, firing as they ran.

Geronimo went prone, sighting the Browning and squeezing the trigger with a practiced economy of movement, the BAR thundering.

The leader of the pursuing pack dropped.

Helen lifted the Armalite and aimed at the next mobster. His life was momentarily spared when the carbine clicked instead of discharging.

“Empty!” she cried, discarding the Armalite and drawing her .45-caliber Caspians. She fired both automatics simultaneously, and her original target tumbled to the floor.

Blade removed his third grenade, slipping it from his left front pocket and yanking on the pin. He spied one of the mobsters doing the same thing, and he tossed his before Giorgio’s man could let fly. “Grenade!” he yelled, and sprawled onto his stomach.

The five remaining gangsters were virtually obliterated. They were packed together when both grenades exploded, one after the other. The corridor heaved and shook, plaster falling from the ceiling, dust permeating the air and obscuring the grisly remnants of the mobsters.

Blade was up and jogging to the door before the dust could settle. He distinctly heard shots from the casino, and he wondered if Don Pucci’s men were assaulting the Palace. He reached the door and wrenched it wide, finding a stairwell on the other side.

Geronimo and Helen ran to the door. Geronimo was reloading the Browning. Helen had replaced the Caspians and was slapping a fresh clip into the Armalite.

“Ready?” Blade queried.

They nodded grimly.

Blade darted into the stairwell without bothering to establish whether Giorgio’s men were already there, and he immediately regretted his foolhardiness.

Six well-armed trigger men were rounding a bend in the stairs above, halfway between the doorway and the next landing. They opened up the second they saw him.