David Robbins - Capital Run

What had happened? Had the helicopter done this?

Blade walked up to the first corpse and examined the area. Why would anyone leave three motorcycles, apparently functional, out here in the middle of nowhere? Could he ride one? he wondered. If he could manage to figure out how it was done, he’d find Rikki that much faster. He’d never ridden one before, but that didn’t—

No!

Blade froze as his gaze rested on a bloody sword lying amidst the slain canines. It was a katana! Rikki’s katana! Blade would recognize the sword anywhere! And there was the scabbard! But Rikki would never cast aside his cherished weapon. Or would he? There was no sign of Rikki’s body, and it was doubtful anyone would bother to cart it off but leave the three women behind. So Rikki must be alive, and he must have deliberately left the katana as a warning to his fellow Warriors. The katana’s presence conclusively proved Rikki had been here, but was gone now.

To where?

St. Louis?

Blade retrieved the sword and the scabbard. He wiped the blade clean on a dead dog and slid the katana into its scabbard.

A low rumbling sounded from beyond a hill to the east.

Blade quickly eased the scabbard under his belt, aligning it in front of the Bowie knife on his left hip. He crouched and darted across the road and into the trees on the right side of the highway. He was barely out of sight before more motorcycles appeared at the top of the hill. Without hesitating, they descended toward the bodies.

Would Rikki be with them?

Blade peered around the trunk of an oak tree, watching the approaching riders.

There were three motorcycles, each hauling a trailer with a cage on top.

In one of the cages were three dogs. Two men were on each motorcycle: the driver and a passenger, each man straddling his narrow seat with accomplished ease, despite the numerous ruts and bumps the bikes struck as they sped nearer.

They reminded Blade of the Cavalry, the superb horsemen occupying the Dakota territory. These bikers displayed the same casual mastery of their cycles shown by the Cavalry toward their horses. Whether it was man and machine or man and faithful steed, both seemed as one.

What was going on?

The three cycles braked and halted near the bodies. One after the other the drivers shut off their motors.

One of the passengers, a skinny man with baggy leather pants and a bushy brown beard, sighed as he eased to the ground. “I don’t see why we had to be the ones,” he said bitterly. “She could have sent somebody else.”

“Oh, yeah?” countered one of the drivers. “Who? We were the closest.”

“Besides,” added another, “I think Terza was pissed at us over what happened to the dogs.”

The bearded biker stared at the dogs littering the highway. “It wasn’t our fault,” he said sadly.

“It was that damn guy in black!” commented another.

Guy in black? That had to be Rikki! Blade inched a bit further around the tree, not wanting to miss a word.

“Who was that joker?” asked a portly biker as he climbed from his cycle.

“Beats me,” answered the bearded one. “The messenger from Terza didn’t know. He told me she wanted us to get these bikes and take care of the dogs. That was all.”

“Damn!” fumed the third driver as he walked up to the slain dogs.

“Look at this! How the hell did the guy do it?”

The bearded biker shook his head. “I don’t know. But he must be one mean son of a bitch.”

One of the other men snorted. “Not for long, he won’t be. You can bet Terza will rack his ass for what he did to Pat and the others.”

“And we’ll probably miss out on the fun,” complained the third driver.

“I wouldn’t say that,” interjected a deep voice from the edge of the highway.

Startled, the bikers spun, shocked to behold a towering man with dark hair and simmering eyes pointing a machine gun in their general direction.

“Who the hell are you?” demanded the bearded biker.

“Would you believe the tooth fairy?” replied the big man.

The bikers exchanged confused, worried glances.

“Drop your weapons,” Blade commanded.

All of the bikers were armed, four with revolvers and two with knives. A Winchester was strapped to one of their motorcycles.

Blade waited, sensing one of them would make a play, watching their eyes for the telltale hint of an impending violent attack. Very few fighters could disguise this instinctive reaction, a slight tightening of the eyes, a shifting of the pupils, prior to galvanizing their body into action. Almost every fighter telegraphed his assault in one way or another, whether it was a movement of the eyes or a contracting of the shoulder muscles right before he threw a punch. Only an extremely skilled and accomplished fighter was capable of perfectly masking his intent. Such a fighter didn’t reveal his maneuver or foreshadow his blow beforehand; he simply executed it with lightning speed and devastating results. While all the Family’s Warriors were trained in hand-to-hand combat, only a few demonstrated this exceptional ability of concealment, and Blade knew of only one who was the acme of perfection: Rikki-Tikki-Tavi.

One of the bikers, a hefty, unkempt individual with pink hair and an earring in his left lobe, was cautiously moving his right hand toward the revolver tucked under his belt.

“I don’t want to kill you if I don’t have to,” Blade said, hoping they would wisely avoid a clash.

They weren’t that wise.

Pink Hair clutched at his revolver, and that was the signal for the rest of them to go for their respective weapons.

Blade was left with no other option. He swung the Commando in an arc as he pulled the trigger, holding the barrel at chest height.

Pink Hair was the first to drop, his torso racked by the Commando’s heavy slugs, his body spurting crimson geysers as he was flung backwards onto the highway. The three other bikers with guns were likewise decimated. One of the bikers with a knife managed to whip his weapon from its sheath and lunge at the giant with the machine gun, but a veritable hail of lead knocked him for a loop. Only one biker was left standing, untouched, with his knife partially drawn; it was the skinny man with the baggy leather pants and the bushy brown beard.

“Drop it or die!” Blade snapped.

Bushy Beard promptly discarded his knife. “Don’t k-kill me, m-mister!” he wailed, stuttering, in fear for his life.

Blade strolled up to the biker. “Whether you die or not will depend on you. I’m going to ask some questions and I want truthful answers.” He rammed the Commando barrel into the biker’s abdomen. “One answer I don’t like and you’re going to develop a split personality. Understand?”

The biker nodded vigorously.

“What’s your name?” Blade asked.

“Jeff,” the biker replied.

“What are you?”

Jeff’s eyes narrowed and his brow furrowed, as if he was puzzled. “How do you mean?”

“Are you part of a gang?” Blade queried. He nodded at the bodies around him. “All of you wear black leather. Why?”

“That’s our color, man,” Jeff said.

“Color?”

“Yeah. Where are you from? Don’t they have colors where you come from?” Jeff inquired.

Blade pressed on the Commando and Jeff blanched. “I’ll ask the questions,” Blade reminded him.

“Sure thing,” Jeff promptly responded.

“What is the name of your gang?”

“We’re called the Leather Knights,” Jeff said proudly.

“And do the Leather Knights have their…” Blade paused, trying to recall the words he wanted. Once before, during Alpha Triad’s run to the Twin Cities, he had dealt with street gangs. What was the name they used for their territory? Something to do with grass or sod or—“…turf in St. Louis?” he said as the word came to him.