David Robbins: Nevada Run

Blade hit the floor and rolled alongside the stairs, effectively screening his body from view from above.

Geronimo and Helen, still in the corridor, provided covering fire.

The mobsters were compelled to retreat up the stairs to the landing.

All firing abruptly stopped.

Blade risked a hasty glance upward. The trigger men were not in sight.

Were they hiding on the landing, waiting for the Warriors to ascend, or had they fled? Giorgio’s men did not impress him as the craven type.

A minute elapsed.

Blade rose to a crouch and moved to the base of the stairs, his eyes on the landing.

Nothing.

Geronimo and Helen were waiting at the doorway, one on either side.

With his Commando angled upward, Blade cautiously advanced to the halfway point.

Still nothing.

Blade hesitated, chafing at the delay. Reaching the third floor swiftly was imperative. Don Giorgio’s termination was essential if Don Pucci was to triumph. Every second the Warriors dallied increased the likelihood of Giorgio escaping.

Giorgio must not get away!

His lips a compressed line. Blade moved higher. In four strides he could see the landing clearly.

The mobsters were gone.

Geronimo and Helen were waiting at the bottom of the steps.

Blade motioned for them to join him, and while they climbed the steps he inserted a new magazine into the Commando, even though the one he replaced still con-lained over a dozen rounds.

“Where did they go?” Geronimo whispered.

“Beats me,” Blade replied quietly.

“Do you hear all the gunshots coming from the casino?” Helen inquired.

Blade nodded. “Don Pucci’s men, I bet. Which means Giorgio’s soldiers in the casino will be preoccupied for a while. There could be more of his trigger men scattered throughout the building. If there are any on this next floor, I don’t care. We’ll leave them for Pucci’s men to mop up. I say we’re going directly to the third floor. Odds are, that’s where we’ll find Giorgio.”

“Then what are we waiting for?” Helen asked sharply. “I want to get my hands on that bastard!”

“Let’s go.” Blade took off up the stairwell, alertly scanning the stairs overhead for any sign of the six trigger men. They passed the landing and kept going, and only when they were almost to the next bend did he realize his blatant error.

The six mobsters had not fled. They had gone into the corridor and crouched low against the walls, waiting for their foes to open the landing door so they could gun the giant and the other two down. Their ambush was thwarted when the three continued upward, but the mobsters were equally pleased. They simply waited for the giant, the woman, and the Indian to climb a little higher, and without any warning the trigger men spilled onto the landing and blasted away.

Blade heard the landing door opening, and he tried to spin, knowing he had committed a grave mistake. Geronimo and Helen were also in motion, but they were all too late.

All three Warriors were hit.

Blade felt a searing, burning sensation in his right side. He winced, forcing his mind to disregard the pain as he returned the mobsters’ fire.

Geronimo took a slug in the left thigh. He stumbled backwards and fell, landing on his right side. Twisting, he brought the Browning to bear and squeezed the trigger.

Helen, her body at an angle, trying to reach the cover of the bend as she sighted on the trigger men, was struck twice. The first shot dug a bloody furrow in her right cheek. The second shot tore through her right shoulder just under the bone. She was bowled over by the impact, stunned for several seconds.

Blade saw two of the trigger men go down. The remainder ducked into the corridor. He could guess their strategy; they would regroup and reload, and in a minute or so they would try another sneak attack. With Geronimo and Helen both down, he couldn’t afford to wage a running firefight. He couldn’t allow the trigger men to harass them. With the realization came action, a maneuver the mobsters would not be expecting.

Instead of assisting Geronimo and Helen, instead of helping them to reach the bend, he opted for, as Hickok would say, the direct approach.

He charged the landing.

One of the trigger men was at the slightly open landing door, and he shouted a warning to his fellows as the giant bounded down the steps four at a leap. He poked his shotgun through the opening.

Blade saw the shotgun barrel and fired from the hip, his burst striking the edge of the landing door, splintering and chipping the wood.

There was a gurgling screech from the far side, and the shotgun barrel disappeared.

Blade never missed a beat. He vaulted onto the landing and grabbed the doorknob, flinging the door wide.

The trigger man with the shotgun was on the floor, writhing and convulsing, miniature crimson geysers spouting from his neck and chest, the shotgun lying across his legs.

Three mobsters were left. One, on his knees, was coolly reloading a Marlin. The other two were armed with machine guns, and they automatically swung their weapons toward the doorway as the giant materialized.

Blade fired first.

The pair with machine guns were both stitched across the chest, their bodies propelled backwards to collapse on the hall floor.

Blade pivoted and lowered the Commando barrel to bag the trigger man with the Marlin.

The mobster possessed incredible reflexes. He had dropped the Marlin and sprang toward the giant in a flying tackle as his two associates were mowed down.

Blade never got off a shot. He felt strong arms encircle his legs below the knees and he was knocked backwards, losing his balance and falling, landing hard on his back.

The mobster, a powerful man with dark hair and green eyes, wearing a gray suit, released the giant’s legs and lunged, grasping the Commando.

Blade tried to jerk the Commando free, and for several seconds the two men thrashed on the landing, wrestling for control of the gun.

The mobster broke the deadlock by kneeing the giant in the nuts.

A spasm of pain caused Blade to bend forward, his privates twinging, as the man in gray rolled to the left. He saw the mobster’s right hand vanish under the gray jacket and reappear holding a 14-inch survival knife. With a monumental effort, his teeth gritting, perspiration beading his forehead, Blade heaved to his feet.

Not expecting the giant to recover so quickly, the mobster had not immediately pressed his advantage. Now he crouched, the survival knife gleaming, his wary eyes on the Commando barrel which was pointing directly at him.

Blade took a deep breath, feeling his privates returning to normal. He noted the look of defiance in the mobster’s eyes, and he admired the man’s courage.

Several seconds elapsed.

Already perplexed by the giant’s hesitation in shooting, the mobster was positively stupefied when the giant unexpectedly placed the Commando on the landing and drew the right Bowie.

“Are you any good with that toothpick of yours?” Blade asked, baiting him.

For an answer, the mobster came in fast and low, swinging the survival knife in a glistening arc.

Blade blocked the blow with a swipe of his Bowie, the two knives clanging as they struck. He backpedaled to avoid another swing, his movements slightly awkward due to lingering discomfort in his groin.

The mobster, noticing, pressed his attack.

Blade parried and evaded a skillful series of feints and jabs. He allowed himself to be forced to the railing, letting the mobster’s confidence grow.

Overconfidence bred carelessness, an adage proven time and again.

Like now.

Believing he was the superior knifeman, the mobster tried to end the fray quickly by feinting a stab at the giant’s stomach, expecting the giant to counter by lowering the Bowie and leaving his neck exposed. So the mobster feinted, then arced his survival knife upward at the giant’s throat.