David Robbins - Capital Run

“Yes, we’d better,” Blade agreed. He carefully wheeled the transport between the trees and other vegetation as he executed a wide circle back to the highway. “He shouldn’t be too far ahead.”

“What if he heard the fireworks and came a-runnin’?” Hickok inquired.

“That helicopter might have went after him.”

“We would have heard it,” Blade said. “What I want to know,” he added thoughtfully, “is what was all that shooting we heard when we first saw the copter?”

The SEAL broke though the final row of trees and reached the highway, coming out into the open about 20 yards from the point where they entered.

“Did you see that red star?” Hickok asked.

“I saw it,” Blade confirmed, driving east.

“What’s it mean?” Hickok questioned.

“Beats me,” Blade responded. “We’ll have to study up on insignias after we return to the Home.”

“If we return to our Home,” Hickok mumbled.

“Nothing’s going to prevent us from returning to our loved ones,” Blade vowed.

As if on cue, the helicopter zipped into sight from the north. It hovered stationary for a moment directly in front of the SEAL. There was a puff of white smoke from the underbelly of the craft.

“They’ve fired a rocket!” Hickok shouted.

Blade could see the black rocket or missile hurtling toward the transport. There wasn’t time to reach the safety of the woods again! And they certainly couldn’t outrun it!

What else could they do?

Rikki-Tikki-Tavi’s skills as a martial artist was renowned, the tales of his exploits matched or surpassed by only a few of the Warriors: Blade, Geronimo, Yama, and definitely Hickok. For years his deadly expertise as the consummate lethal perfectionist in hand-to-hand combat or with Oriental weaponry had been common knowledge among the Family in northwestern Minnesota. Later, when the Family and the other members of the Freedom Federation fought the demented Doktor in a battle clubbed Armageddon, and again when the Freedom Federation launched an assault on Denver, Rikki had demonstrated his prowess against human and bestial foes. True, the stories told about him had not attained the epic proportions of those told about Hickok, but in an age devoid of mass entertainment, when television and movies no longer fabricated false heroes for the populace, when the lost art of storytelling had regained its deserved prominence around countless campfires and dinner tables, the name of Rikki-Tikki-Tavi was one to be reckoned with. From northwestern Minnesota south to Texas, from Denver east to Kansas City, whenever people talked about the monumental clash between the Freedom Federation and the Civilized Zone, whenever the principles in that bloody, brutal conflict were mentioned, his name was high among them. And on this day Rikki lived up to his reputation.

Lexine drew her survival knife as the dog pack closed in. She backed against the motorcycle, hoping the bike would protect her flank while she concentrated on the dogs in front of her.

None of them reached her.

Rikki’s katana was an invisible blur as he waded into the ferocious mass of canines. The first dog lost its front legs, the second half of its head, and the third was gutted in the twinkling of an eye. Rikki spun and slashed, twisted and sliced, constantly moving, his sharp-edged sword cleaving a foreleg here, a stomach there, or splitting a skull as easily as an overripe melon. The bravest dogs and the fleetest of foot were the first to die; eight went down in as many seconds, some gushing blood and howling in torment. Rikki’s custom-made black clothing, especially sewn together by the Family Weavers, was spattered with crimson splotches and chunks of furry flesh.

The six dogs remaining hesitated, deterred by the swift demise of their leaders. They warily circled their prey, growling and snapping, searching for a weakness, any opening they could exploit. A large Doberman, overeager, crouched and sprang.

Rikki was ready. He dropped to his right knee, below the hurtling dog, and swung his katana with all of his considerable strength.

The Doberman yipped as it lost three of its legs.

A shepherd attempted to reach the man while he was down on one knee, but its throat was neatly cut open before it could sink its fangs in its intended victim, and it withdrew, gurgling and whining, blood pumping everywhere.

The last three dogs.were reluctant to engage the man. The sight of their dead or dying comrades, many writhing in sheer agony and uttering pitiable cries, was too much for them. They broke and ran, heading for the hill to the east.

Rikki slowly straightened, his alert eyes scanning his fallen foes for any capable of jumping him.

All of them were out of commission.

Lexine, a silent, stupefied witness to the fierce fight, shook her head in disbelief.

Rikki glanced at her. “Are you all right?” he asked.

“Never been better,” Lexine responded in a daze.

Rikki walked toward one of the crippled dogs, intending to dispatch the lot of them and put them out of their misery.

A burst of gunfire erupted from the direction of the other side of the hill, followed by a peculiar noise from above.

Rikki looked up, startled.

A strange flying contraption was almost overhead, hearing to the west, powered by a spinning blade on its top and a smaller one located at its rear.

“A red copter!” Lex shouted. “Slave hunters!”

A what? Rikki looked at her, puzzled.

“Did you hear those shots?” Lex inquired nervously.

Rikki nodded. “Was it the… Red copter?”

Lexine’s green eyes widened as she stared over Rikki’s left shoulder.

“No,” she replied, pointing. “It was them!”

Rikki turned and was surprised to discover the crest of the hill crammed with bikers. Where had they come from? Why hadn’t he heard them approach? The answer to both questions was self-evident: they had approached from the east while he was battling the dog pack, and he’d been so intent on dispatching the dogs he’d failed to note the bikers. Until now.

The one called Cardew was with them.

“We’ve got to get out of here!” Lex exclaimed, starting to climb onto one of the abandoned motorcycles.

The riders on the crest gunned their bikes and roared down toward the pair below.

Lex, straddling the cycle, was futilely striving to start the machine.

“What the hell is the matter with this thing!” she fumed. “Why won’t it kick over?”

Rikki ignored her rhetorical question and faced the bikers. He noticed all of them wore black-leather apparel and all were armed. Two women were in the lead. One was a tall brunette, the other a hefty blonde.

Lexine jumped from the useless cycle and ran to another of the bikes.

“We’ve got to get out of here!” she repeated.

Rikki knew it was too late. Departure was out of the question. Already 20 bikers appeared, and more were rumbling over the hill every second.

The tall brunette motioned with her right arm and the bikers fanned out, some veering to the left, others to the right, surrounding the man in black and Lexine.

Lexine, finally realizing escape was impossible, crossed to Rikki’s side, standing to his left, her survival knife at the ready. “Looks like we blew it, handsome!” she shouted to make herself heard over the thundering cycles.

“Sorry!”

Over 40 bikers had encircled the pair. At a signal from the brunette all of the riders killed their engines.

Rikki studied the brunette, the apparent leader. She wore a leather jacket and pants. A pair of revolvers were strapped around her lean waist, and Rikki recognized the handguns as Llama Super Comanche V’s. Her facial features were angular and hard, her mouth set in a tight frown. Pale blue eyes regarded him with calculating intent. Under her right eye, in a ragged line from the eye to the tip of her chin, was an old scar, as if one side of her face had once been torn apart.