David Robbins - New York Run

Blade’s fingers tightened on the steering wheel. An intense revulsion swept over him. These Technics were worse than the government of the Civilized Zone had once been, and the Civilized Zone had been ruled by a dictator! How could they forcibly take innocent children away from their parents? How could they intentionally deprive the children of the caring and sharing during their formative years, qualities so essential to their later adult life? What kind of mon—

What in the world was that?!

The building was tremendous in size and magnificent in design. Ten stories in height, it reared skyward from its wide base and tapered to a point. The base was two acres in circumference, the structure progressively narrowing as it ascended. Its sides shone in the sunlight, resembling scintillating crystal. The doors lining the base were gold plated, as were the frames of all the windows. The sheer brilliance of the building dazzled the senses.

“Wow!” Hickok exclaimed.

“It’s our Central Core,” Captain Wargo revealed. “The seat of our government. Our Minister resides within.”

“Are there any more of these?” Blade asked, dum-founded.

Captain Wargo laughed. “No. All administrative functions are handled from here.”

“You say the Minister is waitin’ for us in there?” Hickok inquired.

“A banquet will be held in your honor tonight,” Captain Wargo answered. “We have quite a reception planned for you.”

“Only two of us will be able to attend,” Blade stated.

“Why can’t all three of you come?” Wargo inquired politely.

“One of us must stay with the SEAL,” Blade replied.

“The Minister will be very disappointed,” Wargo commented.

“One of us must stay with the SEAL,” Blade stressed.

Captain Wargo shrugged. “Whatever you want. But I don’t see why you can’t lock the doors and leave the SEAL unattended. It will be safe, I assure you.”

“Thanks, but no,” Blade said.

The Technic police reached a spacious parking lot surrounding the Central Core. Trikes and four-wheelers were parked in droves, and mixed among them were a few jeeps and trucks.

“What are those?” Hickok asked, leaning forward. “You said you didn’t make them.”

“I never said that,” Captain Wargo answered. “We don’t produce them in quantity, but we do have a few. Trikes and four-wheelers can’t serve all our needs.”

Blade followed the police escort into the parking lot. The area was crawling with men and women in blue uniform. Civilians filled the sidewalks, hurrying to and fro, engaged in their daily activities.

“Pull in there,” Captain Wargo instructed, pointing at a wide expanse of parking lot devoid of trikes. It was situated in front of the middle of the Central Core, not far from a pair of gold doors. “It’s been reserved for you.”

Blade drove to the spot indicated and braked, aligning the transport so the front end faced the Central Core.

The trio of Technic police positioned their trikes around the SEAL.

They were joined by dozens of others, some coming from the parking lot, others from the Central Core. Within minutes, they had formed into a blue phalanx enclosing the SEAL on four sides.

“See?” Captain Wargo said. “No one will bother the SEAL.”

“Not even if they get a permit first?” Hickok quipped.

Captain Wargo’s right hand surreptitiously moved to his rear pocket.

He slid his fingers inside and clasped a brown plastic ball with a solitary red button. Slowly, proceeding cautiously, he removed the object and eased his hand toward the floor.

Blade turned in his seat. “Geronimo, you stay here and keep an eye on the SEAL. Keep the doors locked. You know what to do,” he said meaningfully.

Geronimo nodded. “The SEAL is in good hands. Don’t worry.”

Blade nodded. “Hickok, you’re with me.”

Hickok patted his Henry. “Like a shadow.”

Captain Wargo opened his door. “Whenever you’re ready?”

“My Commando,” Blade said to the gunman.

Hickok twisted and reached over the back of his seat into the rear section. Blade’s Commando was lying on top of the pile of food, ammunition, and spare clothing.

He grabbed it by the barrel and swung it around.

“Here.”

Blade took the gun. “Thanks. Let’s go.” He threw his door open and dropped to the ground.

Hickok followed suit.

“Last chance to change your mind,” Captain Wargo said to Geronimo with a friendly smile, while his right hand crept under his bucket seat.

“I must stay here,” Geronimo replied.

Captain Wargo nodded. “Suit yourself. You’ll miss some great food, though.” He pressed the red button on the plastic ball and gently placed it on the floor under the seat. “See you later.” He clambered from the transport and closed the door.

Blade and Hickok walked to the front of the SEAL, next to the grill, their weapons at the ready, and waited for the Technic officer to reach them.

“You’re in for a treat,” Captain Wargo announced as he led the way toward the Central Core.

Blade glanced over his left shoulder and saw Geronimo locking the doors and rolling up the widows. Good. There was no way the Technics could break into the transport with the doors and windows secure, leaving Geronimo as snug as the proverbial bug.

The Technic police, all at attention, parted, allowing Captain Wargo and the two Warriors to cross the parking lot to the sidewalk and reach the gold doors.

“Is this real gold?” Hickok asked.

“We don’t believe in imitations,” Wargo cryptically responded. He extended his left arm and touched one of a series of buttons in a panel to the left of the doors. Immediately, the doors hissed open. “Pneumatically controlled,” he said for their benefit, and entered.

Blade paused, examining the layout. Ahead was a huge foyer or lobby, lavishly adorned, but oddly empty. Across the room was a row of cubicles with lighted numerals projecting from the wall overhead.

The gunman also noted the cubicles. “I know what they are,” Hickok said. “I’ve seen ’em before. They’re called elevators.”

Captain Wargo walked across the lobby toward the elevators.

Blade and Hickok tentatively tagged after the officer.

“We’ll take an elevator up to the reception room,” Wargo said. He strode to the righthand elevator and stepped inside.

Blade and Hickok, constantly surveying the lobby, staying side by side, stepped up to the elevator.

“Can’t we take some stairs?” Blade asked.

“Climb ten floors?” Captain Wargo replied. He snickered. “You can, if you want to. But I’m not about to climb ten flights when there’s an elevator handy.”

Blade hesitated, then entered the elevator.

Hickok strolled in, studying the overhead light, the bank of lit buttons on the right side, and the small grill in the center of the floor.

Captain Wargo smiled reassuringly. “There’s nothing to be nervous about. Believe me, you’ll never know this ride took place.” His right hand stabbed one of the buttons.

The elevator door started to close. And that’s when it happened.

Captain Wargo dived, his arms outstretched. His hurtling form narrowly missed the closing door.

Blade leveled the Commando, but the gunman was faster. The Henry boomed, but the closing door intervened, the slug hitting the edge of the door and careening outside.

The elevator door slammed shut.

“Blast!” Hickok fumed. “We’re trapped!”

Blade pounded on the right wall, then the door. “They’re too thick to break through,” he commented methodically.

Hickok stared straight up. “What about the light?”

Blade inspected the overhead light. It was rectangular, about two feet in width. A man might be able to squeeze—