David Robbins - Seattle Run

He came awake slowly, his head throbbing.

“He’s coming around!” someone shouted.

Blade opened his eyes, confused at first, gazing at the spacious room with the opulent furnishings. Where was he? The last he remembered was… Hickok! Hickok was dead! Everything came back to him in a rush and he sat up, his hands dropping to his Bowies.

They were gone!

“Are these what you’re looking for, asshole?” a gruff voice asked.

Blade suddenly perceived he wasn’t alone. There were others in the room. He also realized he was sitting on the edge of a bed.

Five men stood at a respectful distance from the giant. Each was armed with a gun, three with rifles, two with revolvers. Their clothing was ragged, their bodies badly in need of a washing. One of them, a portly fellow with a stubbly beard and piggish brown eyes, attired in a grubby green shirt and filthy black corduroy pants, was holding Blade’s Bowies in his left hand, a Marlin .30-30 in his right.

“You won’t be needing these toothpicks, shithead,” the portly man declared.

“Where am I?” Blade asked.

“Wouldn’t you like to know!” the portly character taunted the Warrior.

“That’s why I posed the question,” Blade said calmly.

Portly Butt cackled. “Posed the question?” he said, mimicking Blade. “Well la-de-da! We’ve got us an educated shithead on our hands!”

Several of the others started laughing.

Until a deep voice spoke up from the rear of the chamber. A commanding voice with an edge about it.

“Did I miss the joke?” the speaker demanded.

The laughing abruptly ceased.

“Tiger!” the portly man exclaimed, spinning around, nearly falling over in the process.

Blade looked toward the rear of the room. A pair of wide doors were open at the very back. The light in the room was patchy, supplied by the sunlight streaming in two large windows above his head, and the section near the doors was obscured by shadows. A tall figure was framed in the doorway, but his features were indistinct.

“You were expecting maybe Edgar Allan Poe?” the figure asked sarcastically.

“No, Tiger,” the portly fellow said obsequiously. “Of course not.”

The figure came into the light.

Blade’s eyes narrowed as he studied the newcomer. The man was about six and a half feet in height, and must have weighed 210 pounds. His physique radiated power; his arms rippled with layers of muscles. Yet his most outstanding feature was not his build, but his face. His features were decidedly feline. Slanted blue eyes and brows, narrow nostrils, rounded cheeks and hairline, and curled lips all contributed to his uncanny appearance. His meticulously combed mane of hair completed the picture: reddish-orange with black stripes. Blade could readily comprehend why they called this man Tiger.

Tiger stalked into the room. He wore black boots, custom-tailored orange pants, and a clean black shirt. A wide black leather belt girded his slim waist. He moved with a supernal economy of motion, seeming to glide across the floor.

“He just woke up!” the portly man blurted.

“I can see that,” Tiger said disdainfully. He scrutinized the giant as he walked up to the bed. “Greetings.”

“Hello,” Blade said.

“We have much to discuss,” Tiger stated. “But first, there is a matter I must attend to. If you’ll excuse me.” He faced the portly character.

Blade saw the corpulent man gulp.

“So, Oakes,” Tiger said slowly. “You completed your assignment, did you?”

Oakes nodded. “We captured this guy. And I brought you these.” He extended the Bowies.

Tiger took the weapons, nodding appreciatively. “Nice.” He glanced at Blade. “And I suspect you are adept at their use, are you not?”

“Some say so,” Blade replied.

Tiger nodded, grinning. Then he looked at Oakes. “Tell me what happened.”

“What?” Oakes said.

“I just enjoyed a discussion with some of the other members of your squad,” Tiger stated. “I’m hoping you can clarify certain inconsistencies.”

“Inconsistencies?” Oakes repeated nervously.

“Yes,” Tiger confirmed. “I want you to tell me everything that happened.”

“Everything?” Oakes queried.

“Humor me,” Tiger said.

“Well, we set the trap, just like you wanted,” Oakes began.

“Exactly as I specified?” Tiger inquired.

Oakes nodded vigorously. “Yep. Gar and Fab waited outside with the main body. I lured two of them upstairs to divide them, to make them easier to capture, just like you said.”

“I see,” Tiger commented.

“Yep. I hid some of my men in the lobby,” Oakes went on. “And I took the rest up to the fourth floor. We used a net on this guy, and here he is. In one piece. You wanted them unharmed if possible, right? At least able to talk, you said. Right?”

Tiger smiled pleasantly. “Those were my instructions. But I’m afraid I must have missed something.”

Oakes appeared worried. “What?”

“Where is the other one?” Tiger inquired.

“The other one?” Oakes repeated.

“Yes. You know. The other one. You said you lured two of them upstairs. Where is the other one?” Tiger questioned.

“He died,” Oakes responded.

“You saw him die?”

“Yep,” Oakes said.

Tiger reached his left hand out, the Bowies still in his right, and draped his hand on Oakes’s right shoulder. “Now think. Did you really see him die?”

“He had to be dead,” Oakes maintained. “I saw him fall. He went over the railing and we were on the fourth floor.”

“But did you see his body?” Tiger asked.

“Well, no…” Oakes responded.

“Why not? Why didn’t you confirm his death?” Tiger queried.

“I don’t know,” Oakes said. “I guess I was in too big a hurry to return with this guy.”

“Ahhhh.” Tiger smiled at Blade, then locked his blue eyes on Oakes.

“And where is the rest of your squad?”

“Where are they?” Oakes said weakly.

Tiger let his left hand ease to his side. “Yes, Oakes. Where are they? I sent one hundred Sharks to capture four strangers. Just four. Of the one hundred, you, as one of my trusted lieutenants, had twenty-four Sharks under your command. But only fifteen returned with you. Where are the rest?”

“They died,” Oakes declared.

“Did you see their bodies?” Tiger pressed him.

Oakes averted his gaze. “No,” he admitted.

“Then how can you say they died?” Tiger demanded, his tone flinty.

“I had nine men downstairs, hidden in the lobby,” Oakes detailed.

“They were to stay down there in case the two I lured downstairs tried to escape. But I never saw them again after I caught this guy. I think they tried to take out the two strangers out front.”

Tiger pursed his lips. “So you saw no sign of these nine when you departed through the lobby?”

Oakes blanched. “I didn’t leave through the lobby.”

“Oh?” Tiger said in mock surprise. “How did you exit the building?”

“I went out the back door,” Oakes answered.

“Why?”

“I wanted to get this guy here as quickly as I could,” Oakes said. “And there was a lot of fighting out front.”

“So I was told,” Tiger commented.

Blade could sense the tension in the room. The one called Tiger was supremely displeased with his lieutenant. Obviously Oakes wasn’t telling the truth. Blade wondered what Tiger would do about the deception, and he found out the very next instant.

Tiger’s steely arms lashed up and out, a Bowie in each hand. With astonishing speed, he buried the knives in his lieutenant’s eyes. Oakes went rigid, his mouth gaping, blood pouring from his ruptured sockets.