David Robbins - Anaheim Run

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But Kraken was wrong.

Two men burst through a door at the rear of the lobby, on the right side. Both men wore buckskins, and both were armed with a pair of revolvers. One was blonde with a moustache, the other had long brown hair and was cleanshaven. Both wore the determined expressions of men out for revenge.

Hickok and Boone!

“Take cover!” Kraken bellowed, diving behind a sofa. He knew better than to expose himself to the two pistoleers. Their reputations as shootists were well deserved.

Nightshade ducked in the shelter of a large mahogany chair.

But Charley and Leftwich foolishly charged the gunfighters, prompted by their desire to resolve the conflict quickly, both believing their marksmanship equal to the occasion.

Kraken happened to look to the rear, and his eyes widened as he saw Blade barreling through the front doors. The Gild had lost the initiative.

Fulfilling the contract was no longer feasible. Surviving was the issue.

Surviving to try again another day. Both the front and the rear were blocked by exceptionally skilled adversaries, and reinforcements might arrive at any moment. There was one recourse open, and that was to retreat.

The elevator door was still open.

“Follow me!” Kraken shouted, dashing toward the left side of the lobby, keeping doubled over, weaving among the furniture.

Nightshade kept pace with his chief.

Kraken reached the elevator and scooted inside, glancing hack and seeing Hickok down Leftwich with two shots to the head even as Boone’s Hombres thundered and Charley was captapulted into a potted plant.

Blade, his M-16 in his hands, was racing on a course to the elevator.

Kraken punched the button for the first floor as Nightshade slid inside.

The elevator doors shut and the car began climbing. He realized Blade would be in hot pursuit, and Kraken grinned as his fertile mind concocted an escape plan. What was the room his employer’s secret agent was in?

Room 103! That was it!

Nightshade motioned with his hands.

“We’re not out of the woods yet,” Kraken agreed. “But I can get us both out of here if you’ll buy me the time I need.”

Nightshade grimly nodded.

“Good. Here’s what I want you to do…”

Chapter Twenty-One

Blade was 20 feet from the elevator when the doors closed and it ascended. Fuming, he sped up to the elevator, watching the numeral display overhead.

“Wait for us, pard!”

Blade looked to his rear, smiling at the sight of Hickok and Boone running his way.

The elevator stopped on the first floor.

“Did those bastards take the elevator?” Hickok queried as he reached his friend.

Blade nodded, staring at Boone. “I want you to stay here in case they get past us.”

“They won’t get past me,” Boone vowed.

Blade stabbed the down button, impatiently waiting while the elevator descended to the lobby. He stepped inside before the doors were fully open, Hickok right behind him.

“I have a score to settle,” the gunman announced.

Blade pressed the button for the first floor. “I was worried about you,” he remarked.

The elevator doors closed and it started upward.

“They might be waitin’ for us,” Hickok said.

“Let them!” Blade stated gruffly, gripping his M-16, facing the doors.

“I missed you, big guy,” Hickok mentioned.

“Where were you?” Blade asked, his gaze riveted on the indicator panel.

“Takin’ lessons in culinary etiquette,” Hickok replied.

Before Blade could comment, the elevator coasted to a stop and the doors widened.

Hickok exited first, his Pythons held close to his hips, surveying the corridor. No one was in the hall and all of the doors in sight were closed.

“Is there a back way out of here? A stairwell?” he whispered.

“I don’t know,” Blade said, advancing along the left wall. “I don’t think so.”

Hickok took the right side. “I won’t rest until I’ve nailed Kraken and his mutant buddy, Nightshade.”

“You know who they were?” Blade queried in a hushed tone.

“The lowest scum alive,” Hickok responded. “But not for long, if I can help it.”

The Warriors lapsed into silence as they neared the first door, Room 101 on the right side of the hall. Blade trained his M-16 on the door while Hickok tried the knob. The door opened and the gunman vanished into the room, reappearing moments later shaking his head. They cautiously proceeded to the next door, Room 102 on the left. This time Hickok covered Blade as the giant Warrior, without bothering to check if the door was locked, drew his right leg up, then kicked. The wood near the doorknob splintered with a resounding crash and the door swiveled inward. Blade vaulted into the room, his finger on the trigger of his M-16, but the room was empty. He stooped to peer under the bed and verified no one was secreted in the bathroom or the closet.

“Where the blazes are they?” Hickok hissed as his towering companion emerged from the room.

Blade shook his head and kept going.

The next room was 103, on the right side of the hall. The two Warriors were a yard from the door when it unexpectedly opened and a woman stepped into the corridor, a sandy-haired blonde in a red dress and jacket.

Her brown eyes seemed to register surprise at the sight of them. “What was that noise I just heard?” she asked Blade, closing her door.

“Do you know her?” Hickok inquired.

“This is Melissa Parmalee,” Blade said, introducing her. “One of President Toland’s assistants.”

“Howdy, ma’am,” Hickok said. “We’re lookin’ for a couple of varmints. Have you seem ’em?”

“What are you talking about?” Parmalee queried.

“We’re searching for a pair of assassins,” Blade explained.

“Assassins? Here?” Paramelee said doubtfully.

“Didn’t you hear the ruckus in the lobby?” Hickok questioned.

“I haven’t heard a thing until just now,” Parmalee answered. “I’ve been taking a nap. I have a headache, and President Toland said I wasn’t needed for a while.”

“So you didn’t see anyone?” Blade asked.

Parmalee shook her head.

Hickok started to walk past her toward her door.

“Where are you going?” Parmalee demanded, grabbing his left arm.

“To check your room,” Hickok told her, staring at the hand on his forearm.

“That won’t be necessary,” Parmalee stated. “There’s no one in my room.”

“Then you won’t mind if we check, will you?” Hickok rejoined.

“Really. It isn’t necessary,” Parmalee reiterated, looking at Blade, smiling sweetly. “Tell him.”

“Check the room,” Blade ordered.

Hickok pulled his arm from Parmalee’s grasp and reached for the doorknob, keeping his eyes on her, suspicious of her behavior. He detected motion out of the corner of his right eye and spun.

The door had been yanked wide, framing Nightshade in the doorway, his Darter in his left hand, the barrel pointing upward, mere inches from the gunman.

Hickok, his Colts at waist level, knowing there wasn’t time to tilt the barrels for a head shot, planted two shots in the mutant’s chest.

Nightshade was rocked by the impact of the slugs, but he only stumbled backward a step, then furiously surged forward, his right hand closing on the Darter barrel.

Hickok fired both Pythons again, astonished when his shots failed to drop the mutant.

Nightshade clubbed the amazed Warrior on the head with his rifle butt, his prodigious power sending the gunman flying across the corridor into the far wall.

Hickok slumped to the floor, his Colts sliding from his hands, his eyes closed.

Blade, unable to shoot because Hickok had blocked his line of fire, now aimed at the mutant. But before he could squeeze the trigger, intervention from an unforeseen source turned the tide of battle.

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