David Robbins: New York Run

The entire compound was surrounded by the brick walls and one additional line of defense: an interior moat, a rechanneled stream, entering the retreat under the northwestern corner and diverted in both directions along the base of the four walls, finally exiting the compound underneath the southeastern corner. Access to the Home was over a drawbridge positioned in the center of the west wall, a drawbridge designed to lower outward. Traversal of the moat was accomplished via a massive bridge between the drawbridge and the compound proper.

The cleared space between the six blocks was filled with Family members: families on picnics, children playing, lovers arm in arm, others chatting or singing or engaged in athletic activities.

“Who’s on wall duty?” Hickok inquired.

“Beta Triad,” Blade replied. The 15 Family Warriors were divided into 5 fighting units, or Triads, of 3 Warriors apiece. Designated as Alpha, Beta, Gamma, Omega, and Zulu, they rotated guard assignments and their other responsibilities during times of peace, but functioned collectively during any conflict and fought as a precision force during times of war.

Hickok, scanning the rampart on the west wall, nodded. “I can seek Rikki,” he mentioned. Rikki-Tikki-Tavi was the head of Beta Triad. His Beta mates, Yama and Teucer, would be patrolling the other walls.

“I see Plato,” Blade commented.

The wizened Family Leader was standing near the wooden bridge, his hands clasped behind his wiry frame, his gray hair whipping in the breeze of the August day.

“So what’s the big deal about security arrangements for a conference two months from now?” Hickok absently asked.

“We’ll find out in a minute,” Blade said, and the pair made their way toward Plato.

A stocky Indian, dressed in green pants and a green shirt, with a genuine tomahawk tucked under his deer-hide belt and slanted across his right thigh, jogged in their direction.

Hickok beamed. “Looks like Geronimo’s wife decided to let him get some fresh air.”

Geronimo reached them and nodded. “I’ve been looking for you two.”

“Why? Did you miss me?” Hickok asked playfully.

Geronimo, his brown eyes twinkling, feigned shock. “Miss you? Why would anyone in their right mind miss a monumental pain in the butt like you?” He ran his left hand through his short, black hair and, disguised by the motion of his left arm, winked at Blade.

Hickok touched his chest. “You’ve hurt me to the quick,” he said in mock pain.

“To the quick?” Geronimo reiterated playfully. “If I didn’t know better, I’d swear you’ve been reading some Shakespeare.”

Hickok’s nose crinkled distastefully. “Shakespeare? Are you joshing me or what? Give me Louis L’Amour any day of the week.”

“ Aha! ” Geronimo exclaimed. “So you admit you can read!”

“I can read as good as you!” Hickok retorted. “I attended the same Family school you did, dummy!” He paused. “Why?”

“Because,” Geronimo said, his full features radiating his impending triumph in their continual war of words, “anyone who talks like you do and acts like you do had to pick up their stupidity somewhere! And I know you don’t come by it naturally, because I knew your parents and they were both normal.”

Blade laughed. As his fellow Alpha Triad members and lifelong friends, Hickok and Geronimo were constantly at each other’s throats. The lean gunman and his shorter partner were known to enjoy an abiding affection, the kind of friendship you only find once or twice in a lifetime. They were spiritual brothers, usually inseparable, and decidedly deadly when working in concert. Blade was grateful they were in his Triad.

The trio neared Plato.

“How’s Ringo doing?” Geronimo asked Hickok.

“Fine,” Hickok said, grinning. “He’s a chip off the old block.”

“Poor kid,” Geronimo mumbled.

Plato turned as they reached him. His aged frame was clothed in an old, yellow shirt with a leather patch on both elbows and worn, brown pants. “Hello,” he greeted them. “Thank you for coming.”

“Blade’s wife said you wanted to see all of us,” Geronimo said.

Plato nodded. “We must discuss the Freedom Federation conference.”

“But it’s not for two months yet,” Hickok stated.

“I don’t believe in leaving important details until the very last minute,” Plato said earnestly.

“We had a conference here about six months ago,” Blade said. “We didn’t have any problems then. All we had to do was post additional Warriors on the walls.”

“True,” Plato admitted. “But I’ve received a most disturbing communication from Wolfe.”

Blade’s piercing, gray eyes narrowed. Wolfe was the leader of the Moles, dwellers in a subterranean city located over 50 miles southeast of the Home. “When did you get word from Wolfe?”

“Late last night,” Plato said. “His messenger arrived after you had retired, and I didn’t see the need to awaken you.”

“Where’s this messenger now?” Geronimo asked.

“Sleeping in B Block,” Plato said. “He was extremely fatigued from the journey. After he delivered his report, we fed him and told him to catch up on his sleep.”

“So what was the message?” Blade asked the Family Leader.

Plato stretched and gazed at a group of children playing tag. “Evidently the Moles captured someone near their city. Wolfe suspected the man was spying and interrogated him. Unfortunately,” Plato said, frowning, “this alleged spy did not survive the interrogation.”

“Did he spill the beans before he kicked the bucket?” Hickok asked.

Plato glanced at the gunman. “Your colorful colloquialisms never cease to astound me.”

“Can you lay that on me again?” Hickok responded. “In plain English this time?”

“Forget that!” Blade said, a bit impatiently. As head Warrior, his paramount concern was the safety of the Family. And if Wolfe was alarmed enough to send a messenger, the message must be critical. “What was the rest of the runner’s report?”

“The man the Moles caught would not divulge any details concerning his origin or his reason for being near the Mole city,” Plato said, “but he did make a few perplexing statements before he died.”

“Like what?” Blade prompted.

“He gloated before he expired,” Plato said. “He told Wolfe the Moles would all be dead before the year is done. He bragged that the Freedom Federation would be history, as he put it, before too long.”

“How did he know about the Freedom Federation?” Blade asked.

“That’s what bothered Wolfe,” Plato stated. “That, and the equipment the man was carrying when apprehended.”

“What equipment?” Geronimo interjected.

Plato scanned the compound. “I sent Bertha after it.” He spotted a dusky-hued woman approaching from the armory, A Block. “When I first saw you coming.”

Bertha was another of the Family’s Warriors, a member of Gamma Triad. She was remarkably lovely in a striking sort of way. Her features conveyed an abundance of inner strength and a supreme self-confidence.

Curly black hair cascaded over her ears and down to her shirt collar. She wore tight-fitting fatigues and black boots. Her brown eyes lit up at the sight of Hickok. “Hey there, White Meat!” she cried out. “What’s happening?”

“Not much,” Hickok replied uneasily.

“Relax, sucker!” Bertha said, laughing. “I ain’t gonna jump your buns in public!”

Hickok hooked his thumbs in his gunbelt and glared at her. “How many times do I gotta tell you to stop talking to me like that? I’m married, remember?”

Bertha chuckled and nudged him with her left elbow. “I can’t help it if I think you’re the best-lookin’ hunk in the Home!”