David Robbins - Liberty Run

Not a trooper anywhere.

Blade elevated his left leg, raising it over the barbed wire and placing his left foot on the outer rim. The barbed wire scraped his crotch, and he envisioned the impaling he would suffer if he slipped. Goose bumps broke out on his gonads. Holding the wire down with his left hand, he carefully eased his right leg up and over. For a second he perched on the outer rim, gazing at the ground 15 feet below. Then he launched himself into the air, dropping feet first, the air whipping his hair, and he landed and rolled, rising and running toward the woods.

No one challenged him.

Blade reached the trees and plunged into the brush. He bore to the right, seeking the jeep. The jeep was hidden near the turnoff, 60 yards from the road leading to the gate. After what seemed like an eternity, he parted the tall weeds before him and there was the turnoff. But which way was the jeep? Was he too far south or north? Acting on a hunch, he turned to the right, to the north, and within 15 yards discovered the field he wanted. He sprinted into the brush, smiling when he spotted the jeep. But his smile quickly changed to a frown when he reached the driver’s door and peered inside.

Bakunin was gone!

Blade straightened, scanning the landscape. What the hell had happened? Had Bakunin loosened his bounds? Had the captain gone to warn the Ministry? Had Sundance seen Bakunin? Was that the reason for the combat near the gate? Suddenly, all the pieces to the puzzle fit. If Sundance had observed Bakunin heading for the front gate, Sundance would have stopped him. And now Sundance was in mortal danger, resisting impossible odds, and all because Bakunin had been left alive.

Blade grimaced. If Sundance was seriously injured, or worse, it was all his fault. He should have executed the officer, not spared the Russian. Plato’s philosophy was too idealistic for the real world, too compassionate for a seasoned Warrior. He had known it all along! Blade fumed. Anger washed over him, anger at his own stupidity. He removed his keys from his pocket and climbed in, placing the Commando to his right, gunning the engine, and flooring the pedal as he shifted into reverse.

The jeep’s tires sent clumps of dirt and vegetation soaring as the tread dug into the turf.

Blade glanced over his right shoulder, steering the jeep backwards in a tight loop. He shifted into gear, and the jeep surged across the field to the turnoff. Spinning the wheel, Blade turned to the right, making for the road to the gate. He traveled 20 yards, when he happened to look in the rearview mirror.

Three motorcycles were roaring up the highway behind him.

Where did the turnoff lead to? Blade wondered. He drove the jeep to the shoulder of the road and braked, grabbing the Commando.

The cycles were 20 yards away, on the other side of the street, obviously intending to swing around the jeep as they raced to the intersection with the road to the gate, 40 yards to the north. Each rider was a Soviet soldier wearing a black helmet.

Blade hastily rolled down his window and lifted the Commando barrel as the three motorcycles came abreast of the jeep. The Commando thundered, and the hapless drivers were rocked by a withering hail of lead.

Two of the bikes wobbled, them smashed together, hurtling to the far side of the street in a tangle of crushed limbs and twisted metal. They slammed into a tree, breaking into bits and pieces.

The third biker survived the ambush. He was nicked in the right arm, and his bike wavered for a few yards, then steadied as the rider slewed to a screeching halt 20 yards in front of the jeep. He drew an automatic pistol from a holster on his left hip.

Blade waited for the biker to make the first move.

The cyclist suddenly turned his handle bars and accelerated, making for the intersection.

Blade mashed the gas pedal and the jeep sped in pursuit. The motorcyle was faster, closing on the intersection at a reckless speed. Blade knew he couldn’t catch the biker. And he also knew the rider would take a right, heading for the Ministry. He transferred the Commando to his left hand, steering with his right. Poking the barrel out the window, he angled the automatic in the direction of the intersection. The jeep was a mere 18

yards from the junction when the motorcycle swung into the turn. Blade depressed the trigger and held it down, the Commando bucking as he fired. For a second or two, he believed he’d missed, miscalculated the range and the elevation.

The biker was smoothly negotiating the turn, his cycle slanted, his body tucked close to the bike. His front tire abruptly exploded as four slugs shredded the rubber, and the motorcycle was catapulted forward, turning end over end, throwing the biker to the side, his spindly form smashing into the asphalt and rolling for a good ten yards, his arms and legs flopping and flapping. He came to rest on the right shoulder, his helmet cracked, his left leg bent at an unnatural posture, immobile.

Blade reached the intersection and took a right. His keen eyes probed the road ahead, and narrowed as he spied the stumbling figure in the blood-drenched uniform.

It was Sundance!

Blade tramped on the gas, his right hand tightening on the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white. He could see a lot of bodies lining the road.

A trooper suddenly shoved through the underbrush, aiming an AK-47

at Sundance.

Blade thumped on the brake, swerving the jeep so his side faced the trooper, shoving the Commando out the window and squeezing the trigger.

The soldier was perforated from his knees to his shoulders. He twisted and fell, rivulets of crimson seeping from the holes.

Blade clutched at the shift as the jeep began to lurch, and he shifted into park and leaped to the ground.

Sundance had collapsed!

Blade reached his friend in three bounds. He knelt, appalled by all the blood.

Boots pounded to his right.

Blade spun as a soldier emerged from the woods. The Commando boomed, ripping the soldier in half at the waist.

Upraised voices bellowed in the forest.

Blade swiftly slung the Commando over his left arm, and gently placed his forearms under Sundance. He lifted, hardly straining, and carried his fellow Warrior to the jeep. He was compelled to hurry, knowing the Russians were closing in, but he was reluctant to jostle Sundance.

“This way!” someone called off to the left.

Blade yanked the passenger door open, and solicitously deposted Sundance in the seat. He closed the door, moved around to the driver’s side, and hopped in. The jeep’s motor purred as he shifted and performed a U-turn, gathering speed, racing away from the Ministry of Psychological Sciences.

Soldiers poured from the woods to the rear. Some fired their AK-47’s ineffectively.

Sundance slumped forward until his forehead rested on the dash. His chin drooped onto his chest, and his body swayed with every bump in the road.

Blade glanced at his companion, emotionally tormented. This was his doing! He knew it! The result of his incompetence! The mission had been a total washout! First Bertha had vanished, and now this! And all for what?

The captured Vikings were all dead, leaving the Family with several files and the lingering hope of a possible alliance. Were the files worth the lives of two Warriors?

“Hang in there,” Blade said to the unconscious figure beside him.

“Don’t you die on me, damnit!”

Sundance sagged to the floor.

“There they are!” Cole whispered.

Bertha and the three Claws were concealed behind four trees on the crest of a hill five miles to the south of the log cabin.

“It’s the Bobcats!” Eddy exclaimed. “I knew it!”

Bertha, her left shoulder pressed against the rough bark of an elm tree, watched 11 Bobcats 75 yards below her position. They were following a faint deer trail winding along the base of the hill. Eight were boys, 3 girls.