David Robbins - New York Run

Gatti eased from sight and released his grip. He landed unsteadily, but righted himself instantly, quickly unslinging his Dakon II.

“Cover us,” Wargo told Gatti. He motioned for the rest to take their turn.

Private Kimper was the next to drop, then Blade and Geronimo. While the two Warriors waited for Wargo and the last soldier to reach the lower level, Blade tapped Geronimo’s right shoulder and moved to one side.

Blade turned off his Com-Link, and Geronimo did the same. “We’re going to make a break for it,” Blade whispered. “The first chance we get.”

“What about the Genesis Seeds?” Geronimo said softly.

“I doubt they even exist,” Blade murmured. “This whole affair has been fishy from the start.”

“Just give the signal,” Geronimo stated.

“There will be no signal!” Captain Wargo said sharply, advancing on the Warriors with his Dakon II leveled. “How stupid can you be? Did you think by deactivating your Com-Links I couldn’t hear your conversation?

You forgot the amplifier on the right side of our helmet. I could hear you fart at one hundred yards!”

“I wish I had some beans,” Geronimo quipped.

“If you attempt to escape,” Captain Wargo warned them, “we will shoot to kill. We’d prefer to take you back to Technic City with us. But the bottom line, gentlemen, is this: you are expendable.”

“Now you tell us,” Blade said sarcastically.

“Let’s move out!” Captain Wargo said.

Gatti moved along the inky corridor until his lamp was lost to view.

Captain Wargo shoved Blade with the barrel of his Dakon. “You two will stay in front of us. Move!”

Blade and Geronimo started forward.

“And switch on your damn Com-Links!” Captain Wargo ordered.

As Blade depressed the correct button, a shrill voice filled his helmet.

“Captain!” Private Kimper needlessly shouted. “Readings, sir!”

“How many?”

“Off the scale! Dozens!”

“At what range?”

“They’re on the floor above us!” Kimper answered. “And they’re heading for the hole we just came through!”

“On the double!” Wargo instructed them.

They began jogging after the point man.

Even as Gatti’s terrified scream blasted their ears.

Hickok had seen those automatic rifles before: once at the Home when Plato had displayed the weapon appropriated from the spy slain by the Moles, and again at the fence bordering Technic City in the hands of the guards. He recognized a distinctly lethal armament when he saw one, and finding himself confronted by four troopers ten feet away, each with one of the rifles, he automatically reacted as his years of arduous training and experience dictated: he swept up the Commando and squeezed the trigger.

The corridor rocked to the booming of the Commando, the four soldiers taken unaware by the onslaught, their bodies jerking and writhing as they absorbed the large-caliber slugs. Only one of them uttered a sound, a gurgling screech, as he toppled to the tiled floor.

Time to make tracks!

Hickok whirled and ran, his speed impeded by the combined weight of the guns he was carrying. He saw an elevator ahead and paused, mentally debating. The elevator could be rigged, just like the one before. But it might take a minute or so for more troopers to arrive, and by then he could be far away. Besides, how would they know he was using the elevator? It could be any Technic.

Go for it!

The gunman sprinted to the elevator and pressed the down button. He didn’t know exactly where he was in the Central Core, but odds were he was on one of the higher floors. How many did the Central Core have? Ten, wasn’t it?

The elevator arrived with a loud ping and the doors hissed open.

Hickok ducked inside and examined the control panel. A circular button with an 8 imprinted on it was lit up. That must mean he was on the eighth floor! He stabbed another button, the down button, the one with an arrow pointing straight down, and the elevator doors closed.

So far, so good.

Hickok watched the lights flicker, apprehensive, praying he could reach ground level before the Technics realized he was making a bid for freedom.

The button for the sixth floor came on.

“Can’t you go any faster?” Hickok asked aloud, and kicked the door.

Why was the blamed contraption dropping so slowly? Was this typical of an elevator? A mare could deliver a foal in the time it was taking the blasted elevator to reach the ground!

The elevator had reached the fourth floor.

“Hurry it up!” Hickok said.

The third floor.

Somewhere in the distance a klaxon wailed.

They were on to him! Someone had sounded the alarm!

Second floor.

Hickok tensed, clutching the Commando. He must ignore the odds against him. So what if he was alone and outnumbered millions to one? So what if the entire Technic Army and Police Force would be after him? He was a Warrior, and Warriors never quit. Never. Ever.

The elevator reached the ground floor and the doors whisked open.

The lobby was crammed with people: soldiers, police in their blue uniforms, government officials, and civilians. Waiting outside the elevator was a Technic officer and one other, a man in a brown uniform with gray hair, blue eyes, and a hefty build. The gunman recognized him as the man from the interrogation room.

Not the one who’d showed up with the Minister!

“Howdy! Guess who?” Hickok said.

The Technic officer was completely confounded, frozen, but the man in brown reacted; his blue eyes widened fearfully and his mouth sagged.

“You!” he exclaimed.

“Bingo! You get the prize!” Hickok declared, and fired.

The Commando cut them in two, their chests exploding in a spray of crimson flesh.

Hickok burst from the elevator, heading for the gold doors visible on the other side of the spacious lobby.

A Technic policeman loomed ahead, blocking the gunman’s path, clawing at an automatic pistol in the holster on his left hip.

Hickok cut loose, ripping the Technic from his crotch to his sternum.

A woman nearby was screaming her lungs out.

Another woman, with a young girl at her side, stood five yards in front of the racing Warrior, gaping.

Blasted bystanders!

Hickok skirted the pair, weaving and twisting as he ran, the crowd parting to allow his passage.

But not all of them.

Another Technic policeman was standing before the gold doors, pistol in his right hand.

Hickok leaped behind a potted fern as the policeman fired. A high-pitched shriek added to the general din. Hickok rolled to the left, and as he did he saw the little girl he’d bypassed falling to the floor with a hole in her forehead.

The rotten bastard!

Hickok came up on his knees, the Commando pressed to his right shoulder, and pulled the trigger.

The Technic in front of the gold doors was slammed backward by the impact, crunching into the doors and slipping to the floor, leaving a red swath in his wake.

Hickok sprinted to the doors. He paused, kicking the dead Technic in the face, crushing his nose. “I can’t abide a lousy shot!” he growled, and pushed on the nearest door.

Nothing happened.

What the blazes! Hickok tried one more time with the same result.

What the heck was going on? Why wouldn’t the door open? He suddenly recalled Wargo using a button to the left of the doors when they entered the Central Core.

There!

Hickok was to the bank of buttons in an instant.

They weren’t marked!

The gunman stabbed the first button on the right.

The doors remained closed.

Blast!

A bullet whined off the doors not six inches away.

Hickok punched the button on the far left.