David Robbins - Houston Run

A parking lot filled with dozens upon dozens of vehicles was located behind the Intelligence Building. Perhaps ten people, four of them troopers in black uniforms, were either walking from the parking lot to Intelligence or moving from the building toward one of the parked vehicles. To the south of the parking lot was a circular concrete landing pad, and resting on the concrete was a sleek white helicopter with the words ANDROXIA AIR EXPRESS painted on its tail section.

“What do you see?” Hickok inquired.

“Have a look,” Blade recommended.

The gunman edged to the corner and surveyed the parking lot. “I don’t see any Superiors,” he observed.

“Do you see that copter?” Blade asked.

“Yep. And I see two guys in blue uniforms right beside it,” Hickok said.

“Stay close,” Blade directed, and boldly strolled around the corner.

Hickok alertly scanned the parking lot as he hastened after his companion. “Mind tellin’ me what we’re up to?”

“Head for the copter,” Blade stated.

“Are you thinkin’ of takin’ flying lessons?” Hickok responded.

“I’m thinking of paying Primator a visit,” Blade disclosed.

“Are you loco?” Hickok questioned in surprise.

“This may be the smartest move we’ve made so far,” Blade said.

“How do you figure?”

“Think about it,” Blade said. “Ever since we arrived in Androxia, we’ve been running around like chickens with our heads chopped off. Half the time, we’ve had no idea where we were or what was happening. Initially, we didn’t even know the identities of our enemies. We didn’t know why we were brought here. We didn’t know if we were coming or going.”

“I’m used to that,” Hickok remarked. “I’m married. You should be used to it too.”

“Now we know who our enemies are,” Blade continued. “One of them, Clarissa, is history. The androids are little more than puppets. They’re just doing what Primator tells them to do.”

“Primator is the head honcho,” Hickok noted.

“Exactly,” Blade concurred. “And if we can destroy Primator, maybe we can escape from Androxia in one piece.”

“Destroy that know-it-all contraption? How?”

Blade patted the front pockets on his fatigue pants.

“And how are we goin’…” Hickok began, then stopped, staring at the helicopter.

“Still think I’m loco?” Blade asked.

Hickok grinned. “I’m with you all the way, pard.”

They skirted the parking lot, staying to the left of the parked vehicles as they moved toward the copter. The two men in blue uniforms were busy unloading boxes from the helicopter and depositing them in orderly piles at the edge of the four-foot-high concrete pad.

“I just thought of something,” Hickok said. “We don’t have those disks on our foreheads.”

“We’re too far from the cars for anyone to notice,” Blade said. “And the two up ahead won’t care if we have disks or not,” he added ominously.

The two in blue were concentrating on their job. Once, the heavier of the pair glanced at the approaching Warriors. He resumed his work without displaying any apprehension.

Blade held the Gaskell Lasers alongside his legs as he walked up to the landing pad. He halted, smiling.

The heavyset man in blue looked over as he was setting a box on the edge of the concrete. “May I help you?”

“Are you the pilot?” Blade politely inquired.

“We’re both qualified pilots. Why?” the heavyset man replied.

“You can both fly this helicopter?” Blade reiterated.

The leaner of the pair, in the act of carrying another box to the rim of the concrete, gazed down at the giant and the blond in buckskins. “Who are you? Is there a problem?”

“My problem is I only need one of you,” Blade answered. “Sorry.” He extended his right arm and fired, frying the brains of the heavier flyer, who collapsed behind the boxes with a protracted gasp. Blade leaped onto the concrete, his Laser aimed at the thin man. He moved between two stacks of boxes and tapped the Gaskell’s barrel on the skinny pilot’s nose.

“I’m only going to say this once. If you don’t do exactly what I say, when I say it, I will add another nostril to your face. Do you understand?”

The thin man nodded vigorously, his wide brown eyes on his dead associate.

Hickok climbed onto the concrete. He surreptitiously scrutinized the parking lot. None of the pedestrians appeared to have noticed the heavy pilot’s demise.

Blade lowered the Laser. “Put down the box,” he ordered.

The lean man immediately obeyed. “What do you want?” he blurted out.

“We want to take a tour of Androxia,” Blade answered.

“But this isn’t a charter copter,” the pilot said. “This is a mail and cargo carrier. I…” he began, and abruptly froze, his mouth gaping. “You’re not wearing an O.D.!” he exclaimed. “Neither of you!”

“I took mine off,” Hickok commented. “It wasn’t doin’ a thing for my complexion.”

“Into your copter,” Blade directed. “You’re taking us for a ride.”

The man in blue turned and walked to the sliding door on the cargo section of the craft. “You must be insane.”

“My missus would agree with you,” Hickok mentioned.

“Move it!” Blade barked.

The pilot stepped onto the cargo section. Blade shadowing him. The cargo section consisted of a square area behind the only seats in the craft, one for the pilot and one for a copilot, both of which were positioned at the front, facing the instrument panel and other controls. Half of the cargo section contained stacked boxes.

Hickok was the last to board. He casually inspected the interior of the helicopter. “I’ve seen copters before,” he commented. “Soviet copters. This one is kind of dinky compared to theirs.”

The lean man in blue slid into the pilot’s seat, watching Blade as the huge Warrior took the other one. “I told you this is a small carrier,” the pilot said. “It’s a Michael Model 611121. It’s not designed to transport a lot of weight. It’s built for speed.”

“You carry mail and cargo?” Blade questioned.

The pilot nodded. “Androxia Air Express is a courier service, mainly. A lot of mail and small boxes need to be delivered from one building to another on a rush basis, and using a copter is the quickest way of getting from one skyscraper to another.”

Blade digested the news, contemplating. “Does every skyscraper have a landing pad like the one we’re on?”

“Most do,” the pilot replied. “Usually there are two landing pads. There’s a helipad at ground level, and there’s a heliport on each roof for deliveries to the upper floors.”

Blade smiled and winked at Hickok.

The gun fighter closed the door to the cargo section. “Ready when you are, pard,” he declared.

“Take off,” Blade commanded.

The pilot hesitated. “I don’t know who you are or what you’ve up to, but you’ll never get away with it.”

“What’s your name?” Blade inquired.

“Roger 196726,” the pilot responded.

“Well, Roger,” Blade said sternly, “I won’t warn you again. When I give an order, you comply. Don’t give me any back talk.”

Roger applied himself to adjusting the copter’s controls preparing to taking off. “Listen, mister,” he said as he worked, “I don’t want to die. I’ll do whatever you say. I promise. But I’m advising you, for your own good, to give this up.”

“Get us airborne,” Blade directed.

Roger flicked several switches, his practiced fingers expertly ranging over the instrument panel.

Blade heard a loud whine. He looked out the tinted canopy and saw the main rotor beginning to rotate.