David Robbins - Capital Run

Lieutenant Voroshilov walked up to the soldiers and returned the salute of a big man at the end of the line. They conversed for a moment, then the lieutenant walked back to the copter and the six men stood at ease.

Hickok thoughtfully gnawed on his lower lip. Those six must be the men Voroshilov was taking on the mission. He speculated on whether the copter would be departing soon, or if they would wait for nightfall.

Considering the bustle of activity, they probably intended to take off soon.

Not so good.

If they waited for dark, he might easily slip aboard and hitch a ride to the SEAL. In a helicopter that tremendous, with so many crates and boxes being stacked in the cargo bay, it would be a cinch to hide out until they reached their destination.

But what if they didn’t wait for night?

Hickok surveyed his surroundings. About 15 feet away was the edge of the airstrip. About 20 feet beyond rested an unattended small helicopter.

About 40 feet past the small whirlybird was the tanker truck. And then came the jumbo copter.

How the blazes was he going to get from—

A portly military man was walking toward the small helicopter, a clipboard in his left hand. He whistled as he walked, and as he neared the copter he consulted his clipboard.

Hickok lowered his body until just his eyes were elevated. What was this hombre up to with the small copter?

The man peered inside the helicopter’s bubble, studying the instrument panel. Then he slowly walked around the aircraft.

Hickok glanced in both directions.

None of the technicians or other personnel was nearby.

The gunman waited until the military man had his back to him, and then he charged, sprinting forward, his moccasins nearly soundless on the hard tarmac.

At the last second, the man with the clipboard sensed someone was behind him and started to turn.

Hickok rammed his right hand against the man’s head, driving the soldier’s skull into the helicopter bubble.

There was a resounding crack, and the clipboard clattered to the blacktop. The man weaved back and forth, then slumped to the ground, a trail of crimson descending from the right side of his head.

Hickok knelt and scanned the airstrip.

No one had noticed.

Yet.

Hickok’s vanquished antagonist was less than an inch shorter than the gunman, but his limbs were heftier and his stomach was downright paunchy.

Might do.

Hickok hastily removed the soldier’s clothing, then his own gunbelt, and hurriedly donned the uniform, covering his buckskins. The shoulders and elbows felt a bit tight, but they adequately hid his buckskins and that was the important thing. Although the pants were too short, with the hem two inches above his ankles, Hickok decided to risk it anyway and hope the ill-fitting uniform was inconspicuous.

But what to do about the Pythons and the gunbelt?

Hickok frowned. There was no way he could wear the gunbelt in the open; the Reds would spot him right off. He could tuck the Colts under his belt, under the uniform shirt. And he could stuff the bullets from the gunbelt in his pockets. But where did that leave the gunbelt?

There was a sharp retort from the huge tandem helicopter, a mechanical coughing and sputtering, and suddenly the two rotors began to rotate.

They were getting set to leave!

Blast! Hickok reluctantly extracted his spare ammo from the gunbelt and filled his pants pockets. He dropped the gunbelt on the ground next to the unconscious soldier.

“Think of it as a trade for the duds,” the gunman said.

The rotors were increasing their revolutions, and a distinct hum carried on the breeze.

Hickok scooped up the clipboard and jogged around the small copter.

It was now or never!

The hose had been secured on the red tanker, and the three men were standing near the truck watching the tandem helicopter.

Hickok raced for the copter.

Lieutenant Voroshilov was nowhere in sight. The six troopers had likewise disappeared.

The rotors were revolving at a fantastic clip.

Hickok passed the red tanker and darted toward the helicopter. The cargo bay doors were still open, and he angled for them, waving the clipboard over his head.

One of the troopers stepped into view, framed in the cargo doors. He was reaching for one of the doors, intending to close them, when he spotted the blond man with the clipboard.

Hickok plainly saw the confused expression on the soldier’s face. He smiled up at the trooper as he neared the cargo doors.

The tandem helicopter started to rise.

No!

Hickok estimated there were ten feet to go. He took three bounding steps and leaped, his arms extended, his fingers outstretched, discarding the clipboard as he clutched at the helicopter. He gripped the lower edge of the cargo bay and held on for dear life.

The helicopter was ascending at a rapid speed.

Hickok could feel his body swaying in the wind as his hands threatened to be torn from his wrists.

The tandem copter was 20 feet up and climbing.

Hickok grimaced as he attempted to clamber aboard. He wanted to hook his elbows, then swing his legs up, but the helicopter abruptly changed direction, swinging from a southeastern heading to a westerly course. The motion caused the gunman to slip and sag, and his left hand lost most of its hold. He made a valiant effort to haul himself up, but his tenuous grasp was unequal to the endeavor.

He was going to fall!

The copter was 60 feet up and still rising.

Hickok’s left arm slipped free, and for a few precarious seconds he dangled from his right arm, envisioning what it would be like to be splattered all over the landscape below.

Sturdy hands clasped the gunfighter’s right wrist, and he was unceremoniously lifted into the cargo bay, scraping his shins as he was hauled onto his back.

Two soldiers straddled him. One of them, the one he’d seen in the doorway earlier, was holding an AK-47 pointed at the gunman’s chest.

Hickok almost went for his Pythons. But they were under the uniform shirt and their barrels were wedged under his belt. He knew the trooper would blast him before he could whip the Colts clear.

The one with the AK-47 said some words to the Warrior in what Hickok assumed was Russian.

Hickok grinned.

The trooper repeated his sentence.

Hickok grinned wider.

The soldier leaned over and pressed the barrel of the AK-47 against the gunman’s nose. “I will use English,” the trooper stated. “I think I know who you are, and if you so much as twitch one of your little muscles, I will blow your nose off!”

Blade was beginning to think Grotto would never appear.

Hours had passed. Six more Leather Knights had joined the others already in the room. They took turns pounding the board against the side of the pit. Twice Blade had tried to initiate a conversation, but each time Terza had ordered him to shut his mouth. She became testier as the hours lengthened, pacing the lip of the pit, her hands entwined in the small of her back.

“Maybe Grotto ain’t gonna show,” Cardew said, voicing the thought most of the assembled Knights entertained.

“He’ll show!” Terza barked.

“He’s taken a long time before,” Erika interjected.

“Probably because he was far off in the sewers. But the damn thing has never taken this long.”

“He’ll show!” Terza repeated.

“What’s the big deal?” Erika demanded. “So what if we don’t feed this bastard to Grotto today? There’s always tomorrow.”

Terza ceased her nervous pacing and glared at Krika. “We’re not leaving this room until Grotto shows.”

“But why?” Erika insisted. “We’re getting hungry. Why don’t we call it quits for today?”