David Robbins - Anaheim Run

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“Who’s this?”

“This is Bear,” Blade said, introducing his friend. “He’s from the Clan.”

“Yo, bro,” Bear said, smiling pleasantly.

“Pleased to meet you,” Ebert said, looking at the M-16’s both men carried slung over their right shoulders and sounding slightly anxious.

“Have a seat,” Blade repeated, motioning toward the chair.

Frank Ebert frowned as he entered the room. He crossed to the chair and slowly sat down. “What is this all about?”

Blade nodded at Bear, who closed the door and faced them.

“President Toland said there’s something I may be able to help you with,” Ebert mentioned.

“There is,” Blade acknowledged, stepping in front of the chair and locking his eyes on Ebert’s.

“What is it?”

“We need to know your reporting procedure,” Blade stated matter-of-factly.

“To President Toland?” Ebert said, puzzled.

“No,” Blade replied, leaning forward. “To your Soviet superiors,” he said, grinning, never expecting the reaction he provoked. He had not bothered to tie Ebert’s hands and feet, partly because he had to assume the bureaucrat was innocent of espionage until proven guilty—and he didn’t want to use excessive force right off the bat, and partly because he was overconfident. Blade stood a good two feet taller than Ebert, and his bulging muscles dwarfed the rotund administrator’s. He didn’t consider Ebert as much of a threat, and his blunder cost him.

Frank Ebert’s right shoe swept upward, catching the Warrior in the groin and doubling him over.

Bear straightened, grabbing for his M-16.

Ebert was faster, his right hand streaking under his green jacket and reappearing with a small automatic. “Don’t move!” he barked, pressing the pistol against Blade’s forehead.

Bear froze in the act of unlimbering his M-16.

“Drop the gun,” Ebert commanded, but Bear didn’t move.

Blade, his face a deep scarlet, was gasping and covering his crotch with his hands. The agony in his testicles was excruciating.

Ebert stood, keeping the automatic touching Blade’s head. “Drop it or I will shoot.”

“You don’t have no silencer on that peashooter,” Bear noted. “You shoot Blade and you’ll have all the soldiers in ihe world in here.”

“But Blade will be dead,” Ebert rejoined. “And his death will be on your hands. Now drop the damn gun!”

Blade looked at Bear and nodded.

“You’re callin’ the play,” Bear said, and allowed the M-16 to fall to the carpet.

“Now I want yours,” Ebert instructed Blade.

The Warrior grimaced as he unslung his M-16 and handed the weapon over.

Ebert took the gun in his left hand and flicked off the safety. He moved to one side and leveled the M-16 at Blade. “Okay. You’re going to be my passport out of here.”

Blade grit his teeth and rose to his full height. “You’ll never make it,” he predicted.

“You let me worry about that,” Ebert snapped. “We’re going to walk out of the hotel together. I want you to stay three feet in front of me the whole time. One wrong move, if you make a peep, I’ll kill you. Understand?”

“I understand,” Blade said.

“Drop your Bowies,” Ebert directed, then abruptly changed his mind as the Warrior gripped the hilts of the knives. “No! Keep them! Just don’t touch them on the way out!”

“You don’t want them?” Blade asked in surprise.

“Everyone knows how attached you are to those Bowies,” Ebert stated.

“If you were to walk through the lobby without them, one of your friends in the Federation might become suspicious. So just keep your mitts away from them and you may live long enough to see your wife and son again.”

“You seem to know all about me,” Blade observed.

“You don’t know the half of it,” Ebert responded. He wagged the M-16 in the direction of the door. “Move your ass.”

Blade shuffled toward the door, his movements awkward because of the lingering torment in his gonads.

Ebert slid his pistol under his jacket. “Move out of the way,” he ordered Bear.

The Clan member moved away from the door, his hands in the air. “I don’t want no trouble. Just don’t shoot Blade.”

“Your loyalty is touching,” Ebert commented sarcastically. He cautiously skirted the black and walked to within a few feet of the Warrior.

Blade took hold of the doorknob.

“Wait!” Ebert commanded.

Blade turned.

“We’re going to close the door behind us,” Ebert said to Bear. “Keep it closed. I’ll keep looking back, and if I see the door open I’ll kill Blade. Understand?”

Bear nodded.

“I’d shoot you now, but like you said, the soldiers would be here in seconds,” Ebert remarked.

“I hope we meet again some day, sucker,” Bear said. “And you don’t have no guns.”

“The feeling is mutual,” Ebert retorted. He looked at Blade. “Remember what I said. Keep your hands away from those knives. Act natural. We’ll go downstairs and cross the lobby. I’ll release you once we’re outside and I’m safe.”

Blade was feeling his strength return as the discomfort in his privates subsided. “I’m ready,” he said.

“Then let’s go,” Ebert declared.

Blade exited the room.

Ebert followed, lowering the M-16 to his side and closing the door shut after casting a meaningful warning glance at Bear.

Hamlin, the Cavalryman, was on guard, standing to the right of the doorway. “Everything okay?” he asked Blade.

“Fine,” Blade said, walking down the corridor.

Ebert smiled at the frontiersman and strolkd after the Warrior. “Head for the elevator,” he said when they were out of earshot from the Cavalryman.

Blade nodded, moving down the hall to the elevator located on the north side of the building. Although several soldiers were lounging in the corridor, none were near the elevator doors. He reached out and pushed the down button.

“No tricks once we’re in the lobby,” Ebert warned.

“I wouldn’t think of trying something,” Blade lied.

The elevator arrived, the doors swishing open.

“After you,” Ebert said.

Blade entered and stepped to the rear.

Ebert, warily watching the Warrior, came inside and stood next to the control panel. He punched the white button marked with an L.

“You surprise me,” Blade said as the elevator began to descend.

“Why?”

“I guess I expected you to allow yourself to be tortured to death before you’d admit to being a Russian spy,” Blade stated.

Ebert made a snorting noise. “Where’d you ever get a dumbass idea like that?”

“I read this book when I was a kid,” Blade divulged. “A spy book from the fiction section of the Family library. I can’t recall all of the plot, but it had something to do with this spy called Bond. He was tortured, but he didn’t talk.”

Ebert snickered. “You Family types will believe anything, won’t you?

That prewar nonsense doesn’t apply to real life. I’m not about to die for the Russians!”

“You’re not willing to die for the greater glory of Communism?” Blade quipped.

“Don’t make me laugh!” Ebert snapped. “I’m in this for two reasons. One of them is the money.”

“The Soviets are paying you to spy?” Blade asked.

“Why do you sound so surprised?” Ebert responded. “The Russians want to destroy your Freedom Federation, and they will go to any lengths to achieve their goal. They need inside information, so they prepped me and sent me into the Civilized Zone to infiltrate President Toland’s administration. It was easy as pie! Qualified personnel are hard to come by, and the Russians made damn sure I was qualified, complete with a phony background, before they sent me out.”

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