David Robbins - Capital Run

Hickok grinned. “Thanks, pard.” He waved and walked toward the far end of the Reflecting Pool. What a stroke of luck! If he could reach West Potomac Park, he could lay over for a spell and figure out how to return to St. Louis. That was going to be the tough part. Evidently, they’d flown him from St. Louis to Washington, D.C., in just one night. The feat sounded impossible, but then he didn’t know how fast one of those Red copters could fly. What was it General Malenkov had said? St. Louis was 860 miles from Washington? Did the Red Copters need to refuel en route?

Seemed likely to him.

More people were in the vicinity of the Reflecting Pool, enjoying the sunshine, idly strolling or chatting with friends. Several kids were floating wooden boats in the water.

Hickok realized he was attracting a lot of attention; nearly everyone was staring at him, a few going so far as to stop and gape. The residents he saw wore cheaply constructed clothing of an indeterminate fashion.

None wore buckskins. And none packed hardware. That youth had been right on the money. He did stand out like a sore thumb.

The gunman reached the west end of the Reflecting Pool and paused, gazing at the edifice before him. The Lincoln Memorial, the youth had said. The structure was immense and impressive, with a massive dome and elaborate columns. Unlike the obelisk, the Lincoln Memorial hadn’t been damaged during the war. A red banner with white lettering was suspended above the portal. The sign was in English: “Lincoln, Champion of the Proletariat.”

Hickok absently scratched his chin.

What the blazes was a proletariat?

“Excuse me, comrade,” intruded an insistent voice.

Hickok swiveled to his right.

A stocky man in a blue uniform and carrying a nightstick was approaching.

“Howdy,” Hickok said to him.

“What play are you with?” the man asked.

Play? Hickok casually placed his right hand on the right Python.

“I’m Dimitri, Capitol Police,” the man said, smiling, revealing even spaced teeth. “I saw a play last year at the People’s Center. You know, the old Kennedy Center. It was about the reign of Napoleon, and the costumes were fabulous. What play are you with?”

“ Scouts of the Prairie ,” Hickok replied.

“When did it open?” the man asked, excited. “What is it about? I just love the plays!” he gushed. “There are so few anymore.”

“It opens tonight,” Hickok told him. “At the… People’s Center!”

“What is it about?” the policeman reiterated.

A flash of inspiration motivated the gunman. “It’s all about how the Old West capitalists exploited the Indians and stole their land.”

“Ahhhh, yes,” the policeman stated. “We studied it in school. What part do you play? Your costume is most excellent.”

“I play a man named Hickok,” Hickok said. “He was what they called a gunfighter, or some such. It’s a real exciting play.”

“I can’t wait to see it!” the policeman declared enthusiastically.

“Tell you what,” Hickok said, leaning closer to the policeman. “I’m not supposed to do this, but I’ll leave a message with the head honcho. Why don’t you come and tell them Hickok sent you. I can promise you a time you won’t forget. Bring the missus too.”

“Free seats?” The policeman laughed, elated at his good fortune. “I can’t thank you enough, comrade!”

Hickok shrugged, feigning humility. “That’s what comrades are for, right?”

“Thank you just the same.” The policeman continued on his rounds, whistling, content with the world.

Hickok turned from the Lincoln Memorial, bearing south. Yes, sir.

There’s no idiot like a happy idiot! He glanced behind him and detected a commotion at the eastern end of the Reflecting Pool.

Uh-oh.

Time to make tracks.

Hickok hurried, cutting across a lawn until he reached an avenue. Was it the one he wanted? Independence Avenue? There was no way of telling.

But on the other side of the avenue was a veritable wall of vegetation, dense underbrush, and abundant trees.

The racket had reached the steps of the Lincoln Memorial.

Hickok looked both ways; nobody was nearby. Perfect! He ran across the avenue and into the bushes on the far side. The vegetation was thick, but negotiable. He pressed onward, keeping low, crawling under low limbs and protruding foliage or skirting them where possible. After 30 yards he stopped and listened.

Nothing behind him.

Maybe he had the breather he needed.

Hickok crept to the base of a spreading maple and leaned against the trunk.

So what was next?

The gunman thought of Blade and Rikki, and speculated on how they were faring in St. Louis. He certainly hoped they were doing better than he was. How would Sherry take it if he never returned to the Home? And what about little Ringo…

Hickok shook his head, annoyed at himself. Sure, he was in a tight scrape, but that was no reason to get all negative. He must look at the positive side of things.

There had to be a way out of this mess!

The air above abruptly became agitated by a stiff wind, and the tops of the trees started whipping from side to side as a funny “thupping” sound drew nearer and nearer.

Hickok drew his left Colt, craning his neck for a clear view through the tree limbs.

An enormous helicopter appeared, flying slowly to the southeast. It dwarfed the other helicopter Hickok had seen, the one responsible for flipping the SEAL on its side. This one was easily ten times as big. For a moment, the gunman believed the copter was searching for him, but it maintained a steady course to the southeast without deviating. A helicopter seeking him would be zigzagging all over the woods.

Where was it heading?

Hickok holstered his Python and rose. He hastened after the copter, striving to keep it in sight, flinching as thorns bit into his legs and arms.

He felt the helicopter might be landing close by. Why else would it be so low? He reached a small glade and stared upward.

The helicopter was descending toward the southeast.

He was right!

Hickok resumed running, ignoring the jabs and stabs from the sundry branches and twigs he passed. If he could reach that helicopter, and if he could force the pilot to fly him, he might be able to escape from Washington and head for St. Louis.

If.

If.

If.

Whoever invented that word should have been shot!

“The holding cell should be just ahead,” Lex said.

Rikki nodded, a barely perceptible movement in the darkened hallway.

“I can’t understand why we haven’t seen any of the Knights,” Lex whispered. “I doubt they gave up looking for us.”

Rikki was bothered by the same consideration. Where were the Leather Knights? Even if Blade had been caught, it was doubtful the Knights would abandon their hunt for Lex and her “lover boy.”

“I wish we were packing,” Lex commented.

Rikki brandished the knife Blade had given him. “We’re not defenseless,” he reminded her.

“Oh, great,” Lex said. “One lousy knife against all of their guns!”

A lantern hanging from a metal hook illuminated one of the recessed doors into the holding cell.

Rikki reached the door and gripped the doorknob. He listened, but all was quiet on the other side. Fully realizing he might be waltzing into a trap, he threw the door open. And there it was: the dirt floor, the balcony, the brick wall, and the chains.

But nothing else.

“We could try Terza’s quarters,” Lex recommended.

“Lead the way,” Rikki said, stepping aside.

Lex crossed the holding cell to the far door. After ascertaining the hallway was unoccupied, she led Rikki to the nearest stairs and up to the top floor of the library. “There might be guards,” she whispered.