David Robbins: Nevada Run

“If someone took Mindy,” Blade vowed, “they’ll pay. No one attacks the Family or any of our allies with impunity.”

“I just hope Ted doesn’t die before he can fill us in,” Zahner mentioned.

They drove in silence for a while, the truck eating up the distance between the Home and Highway 59.

“I wonder if the Russians could be behind it,” Zahner commented.

“I doubt it,” Blade said. The Russians controlled a large section of what was once the eastern United States, and the Reds and the Family had clashed before. Each time the Russians had lost, and they were determined to eradicate the Family at all costs.

“Why?” Zahner wanted to know. “The Russians sent a commando squad here once before, remember? Specifically to kidnap one of your Family, as I recall.”

“True,” Blade conceded. “But they failed, and I can’t see them trying the same scheme twice. When they strike back at us, they’ll come up with a bigger and better idea. Besides, why would they take Mindy? She’s, what, nineteen? She wouldn’t be able to give them much information.”

“The Russians wouldn’t know that,” Zahner said, disputing the Warrior. “But even if the Russians aren’t responsible, it could be any of the other enemies we’ve made over the years.”

“You’ve got a point there,” Blade admitted.

“Whoever did this wanted someone from the Home,” Zahner observed.

“You don’t know that for sure,” Blade said.

“Don’t I? Why were only my people shot? If whoever attacked them wanted women, why was Grace killed? Are you trying to tell me it was just coincidence that the only one left alive was Mindy? That the only one apparently kidnapped was from your Family?” Zahner countered.

Blade stared at the Clan leader, musing. Zahner might have a point, and the implications were unsettling.

“I don’t see how you do it,” Zahner said.

“Do what?”

“Take all the pressure,” Zahner said. “I mean, here you are, the head of the Warriors, responsible for the lives of around a hundred people at the Home, and you go and take the added responsibility of leading the Freedom Force. I just don’t see how you take on all the pressure. It’s rough for me sometimes, knowing so many lives depend on my judgment.”

“You have more people to look out for,” Blade reminded the Clansman.

“Don’t you have about five hundred in the Clan?”

“Five hundred and three, to be exact,” Zahner said.

“So it’s a lot harder on you than it is on me,” Blade stated.

“I don’t care whether the number is one hundred or five hundred,” Zahner said. “Being responsible for so many lives is a heavy burden. And since you’re also the head of the Force, every Federation group is relying on you.” He looked at the Warrior. “Don’t you ever think about it? Doesn’t it ever get to you?”

Blade felt like laughing but refrained. “I try not to dwell on the responsibility too much. I just take it a day at a time and do the best I can.”

“All I know is I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes,” Zahner remarked.

The flatbed reached Highway 59 and Zahner jerked on the steering wheel, taking a left.

Blade gazed down at his combat boots. Maybe Zahner had another point. Truth was, sometimes he felt like he didn’t want to be in his own shoes. Everyone undoubtedly felt the same way at one time or another.

Learning to take the bad with the good was one of the major lessons every person had to experience.

But such was life.

The Clan was using a two-story brick structure as their meeting place.

They had selected the building because it was centrally located in Halma and because most of the windows were still intact, a rarity in postwar structures.

Zahner brought the flatbed to an abrupt stop alongside the cracked curb and jumped out.

Blade was already out and bounding up the cement stairs to the doors.

A crowd had gathered on the steps and along the walk, but they quickly parted to permit his passage. He pulled on the right-hand door and entered the cool interior. Over a dozen people lined both sides of the corridor.

Zahner came through the door behind the giant. He moved past the Warrior and headed for the second door on the right. “How is he?” he asked, addressing a portly man with a balding pate attired in green trousers and a black shirt.

The portly man frowned. “He’s awake. You can talk to him, but don’t stay in there long. He needs his rest.”

Blade joined Zahner.

“This is Striber,” the Clan leader said, introducing the portly man.

“He’s the closest thing to a Healer we’ve got.”

“I know who you are,” Striber said to Blade. “Everyone knows who you are.”

“What are Ted’s chances?” Blade questioned.

“He’ll live, if that’s what you mean,” Striber replied. “But he’ll be on crutches for years, maybe for the rest of his life.”

“Crutches?” Blade repeated quizzically.

Striber frowned. “Whoever the bastards were, they shot out his knees.

Deliberately, I’d say. Ted is fortunate his legs won’t need to be amputated below the knees. As it is, he may never walk again. We’ll have to wait and see how he heals. You never know. With the proper rehabilitation and training he could, conceivably, regain very limited use of his legs.”

“Why did you say they deliberately shot him in the knees?” Blade asked.

“Because of what they did to the other three,” Striber said.

“Three?” Blade interrupted. “But Zahner said only Faron and Grace were killed?”

Striber glanced at the Clan leader. “Didn’t you tell him about the stranger?”

Zahner raised his right hand and smacked his forehead. “Damn! I was so worried about Ted and Mindy, I forgot! We found another body with the rest, someone who isn’t from the Clan.”

“I’d like to take a look at this body after I talk to Ted,” Blade stated.

“The stranger was shot to ribbons,” Striber mentioned. “You’ll see for yourself. A drastic case of overkill. And it was the same with Faron and Grace. But Ted was different. All they did to him was shoot him in the knees and kick him on the chin. A few of his teeth are broken, but they didn’t break his jaw.”

“Why did they spare Ted’s life?” Blade queried.

“Ted can tell you that,” Striber said, motioning toward the open door.

Blade moved to the doorway. Inside stood a couple with grayish brown hair and homespun clothing next to a couch on which was a pale, heavyset youth who was covered from his chin to his feet by a white sheet. The lower portion of his face was swollen and bruised. “Hello,” Blade said, and entered.

Zahner came in behind the Warrior. “Blade, these are Dan and Agnes, Ted’s parents.”

Blade nodded grimly. “I’m sorry about your son.”

Agnes sniffled and dabbed at her moist eyes with an old handkerchief, evidently her husband’s, she was holding in her left hand.

“Why would anyone do this to my boy?” Dan asked angrily. “Ted has never hurt anyone.”

“I don’t know why they did it,” Blade said. “But we’ll find the parties responsible and they will pay for what they’ve done. It’s small consolation, I know.”

“Are you going after them?” Dan inquired.

“Yes,” Blade said.

“Good! Kill the scum for me!” Dan declared.

“Dan!” Agnes exclaimed, aghast.

“Would you mind if I talked to your son in private?” Blade asked them.

Dan took his wife’s elbow in his right hand. “We’ll be right outside.”

“I won’t take long,” Blade promised.

The parents silently departed, Agnes with tears streaming down her cheeks, Dan with his shoulders slumped in abject depression.