David Robbins - New York Run

The gold doors slid open.

Move it! his mind thundered, as he scurried outside. The doors slid closed again as he spun, the Commando bucking, the bullets striking the outside button bank and destroying it in a shower of plastic, metal, and fiery sparks.

Let ’em try and get those doors open now!

Hickok crouched and turned to face the parking lot, shocked by the sight he beheld.

Two dozen Technic police were lined up 15 yards away, at attention, their stunned faces focused on the Warrior. Between the formation of police and the gunman was a solitary jeep, and sitting in the rear of the topless vehicle, his features frozen in horrified shock, evidently paralyzed by the abrupt advent of the Warrior, was the Minister.

For the space of a heartbeat it was as if the tableau were in suspended animation. Hickok was hardly aware of a green truck parked alongside the yellow curb not ten feet to his right, or the squad of Technic commandos 40 yards off and approaching on the run. All he saw, the only object of his concentration, the sum total of his world, was the man responsible for subjecting him to the most acute humiliation he’d ever felt, the callous, egotistical tyrant who’d degraded him, who’d caused him to lose face, as Rikki would say, who’d made him eat crow and reveled in the gunman’s debasement: the Minister.

For the space of a heartbeat no one moved.

And then the Minister opened his mouth to shout orders to his assembled men, his personal guard, and all hell broke loose.

Hickok fired, the Commando chattering, and the Minister’s eyes and nose dissolved as his face was torn to gruesome shreds.

The Technic police went for their weapons.

The Technic commandos were now 30 yards distant.

Hickok raced toward the parked truck, bent over, presenting as difficult a target as possible, shooting as he ran.

Three of the Technic police hit the pavement, blood gushing from their riddled uniforms.

Hickok reached the truck with bullets chipping at the sidewalk and striking the Central Core. He passed a wide picture window and saw a female civilian on the other side, screaming in terror at the demise of the Minister. At least, he assumed she was screaming. Her mouth was open but no sound was audible.

How could this be?

The gunman could scarcely afford a moment’s idle speculation. A trooper appeared around the tailgate of the truck, one of those fancy automatic rifles in his hands.

Hickok dived for the sidewalk as the soldier fired. His knees and elbows’

were lanced by excruciating agony, pain he ignored as he aimed the Commando and squeezed the trigger.

A distinct click greeted his efforts.

The Commando was empty!

There was no time to reload! Hickok rolled to his left, nearer the truck, his right hand flashing to his holster and the right Colt clearing leather even as the trooper sent a few rounds into the sidewalk to the gunman’s right, concrete chips flying in every direction. The warrior fired as the commando sighted for another shot, fired as the commando staggered backward with a hole where his left eye had been, and fired as the commando crashed to the ground with both eyes gone.

Hickok surged erect, his balance unsteady because of all the extra weapons he was carrying, and he lunged for the only available cover, the cab of the green truck.

A red dot appeared on the door of the truck, inches from his left hand.

A red dot?

The Commando clasped between his thumb and first finger, the gunman grasped at the truck handle as the door was hit, flying metal shards zinging every which way. A sharp piece burned a furrow in his left cheek. He instinctively ducked and whirled, cocking the Python.

A soldier was standing near the jammed gold doors, rifle to his shoulder.

Where the blazes had he come from?

Hickok snapped a shot as a red dot materialized on his chest, and the trooper toppled backwards.

Move!

Hickok wrenched the door open as a female member of the Technic police rounded the front fender with her pistol already out. He fired and she stumbled and crashed into the truck, her pistol clattering on the pavement.

This was no place for Momma Hickok’s pride and joy!

The gunman scrambled into the truck, letting the Commando drop to the floor, his anxious gaze roving over the dashboard and locking on a set of keys, one of which was already inserted to the right of the steering column.

Eureka!

Hickok grabbed the keys as the windshield was splintered by a fusillade of gunfire.

The Technics were pouring everything they had at the cab.

Hunched over behind the steering wheel, the gunman turned the key and pumped the accelerator. He recollected the last time he’d driven a truck, from Wyoming to Minnesota, and he tried to remember the proper procedure. He recalled the ignition and the gas pedal, but overlooked one crucial component.

The clutch.

Hickok was taken unawares when the truck abruptly jerked forward.

Something thudded against the grill. A bullet obliterated the rearview mirror. The truck lurched ahead like a wobbly drunk, starting forward and abruptly stopping, again and again, tossing him against the steering wheel.

What the dickens was wrong?

A bullet penetrated the windshield and thudded into the seat beside him.

Hickok glanced at the floor and spotted the third pedal. The first was the gas pedal. And the one on the left was the brake. But what was the other one?

A slug creased his right shoulder, breaking the skin.

The police and commandos were deploying in a circle, enclosing the vehicle.

The clutch! That was it! Hickok tramped on the clutch, grinding the gears as he shifted from first to second and the truck roared across the parking lot. He kept his head below the dash as round after round lipped into the vehicle. The clamor was incredible: metal whining and glass breaking and people shouting and the windshield dissolving in a shower of glass.

There was another pronounced thud from the front of the truck.

Hickok sat up to get his bearings. He was going due south, the truck heading toward a row of parked trikes.

Not ten feet ahead was a solitary commando, a woman, down on one knee, shooting at the truck engine in an attempt to disable it.

Hickok floored the accelerator and the truck lumbered forward. He saw the commando’s mouth open and her petrified eyes widen an instant before there was a crushing thump and the truck bounced as if the wheels had encountered a bump.

The passenger-side window blew apart.

Hickok frantically turned the steering wheel, but too late. The vehicle slewed to the right, its rear end smashing into the row of trikes and bowling them over. He spun the wheel again, thundering down an aisle between the trikes.

A jeep containing three Technic police was zooming toward him.

Hickok wasn’t about to stop. To stop was certain death. The Technics would be on him in a second. He intended to get as far as possible from the Central Core as quickly as possible, and no one or nothing was going to stand in his way.

Especially not one measly jeep!

Hickok’s grip on the steering wheel tightened as the truck closed on the jeep. He could see a determined expression on the policeman driving.

Obviously, the Technic wasn’t about to surrender the right of way.

Thirty feet separated them.

Hickok hunched over the steering wheel and braced for the collision.

Twenty feet.

Would the truck survive the crash? It was a big vehicle, the green trailer it was hauling adding to its bulk, but a wreck at high speed would undoubtedly cripple the motor.

Ten feet.

Hickok held his breath as the two vehicles sped at one another. He flinched in expectation of the impact, and that’s when the jeep unexpectedly altered course, swerving to the left and ramming into some trikes.