David Robbins - Denver Run

“Maybe he’s so mad at me he decided to ride in one of the troop transports,” Blade speculated.

They rode in silence, alertly surveying the countryside for any hint of a threat.

“Are you certain I can’t prevail on you to take one of us with you?”

Rikki inquired after the SEAL had gone a mile.

“Samuel wants to meet me alone,” Blade noted. “But I’ll tell you what I’ll do, just to allay your fears. The driver said one of us could inspect the tent before the meeting, right?”

“Yes,” Rikki affirmed.

“Then you’ll do the inspecting,” Blade stated.

“Thank you,” Rikki responded.

The SEAL purred along Interstate 25. Off to the west was a small herd of cattle. Beyond the grazing cows loomed the imposing mountains, many of the pointed peaks wearing white caps, draped in mantles of snow.

The terrain ahead began to gradually rise, forming a rounded hill. The highway went up and over the center of the hill.

“This should be it,” Rikki said.

Blade drove slowly up the hill. He could feel his stomach churning in anxious anticipation. A quick glance in the rearview mirror assured him the convoy was barreling up the hill; two of the jeeps were in the lead, followed by the half-track, then the troop transports, and a solitary jeep at the very end. Kilrane had divided his Cavalry riders; half of them were riding on the west side of the Interstate, the remainder on the eastern side.

The SEAL reached the crest of the hill.

Blade applied the brakes and placed the vehicle in park.

“There’s the tent,” Yama commented.

There it was, situated between two hills, exactly as Samuel’s messenger had said it would be. The other hill was a half-mile or so to the south.

Waiting in formation on the far hill was Samuel’s army, a thousand strong according to George, the captured Assassin. The sunlight reflected off the windshields of various military vehicles. Banners and flags flapped in the wind. And in the middle of the level area between the hills was a large green tent.

Rikki opened the door. “I will inspect the tent most carefully,” he pledged.

“We’ll be waiting,” Blade said, switching off the engine.

Rikki, his katana in his right hand, jogged down the hill toward the green tent. His mind was deeply troubled. This had to be a trap! There was no doubt about it. But what kind of trap? Would Samuel II draw Blade into the tent and then have his troops attack? No. That made no sense. Samuel knew the Freedom Federation would immediately come to Blade’s rescue. Was Samuel attempting to kidnap Blade and hold him hostage? Again, the idea was ludicrous. How would Samuel get Blade from the tent to his own forces without being spotted? Both armies were equidistant from the green tent. Neither army could reach the tent any faster than the other. Did Samuel intend to murder Blade during their meeting? If so, how? Blade wasn’t an easy man to kill, and Samuel II must be in his 70s or 80s. How would Samuel overcome Blade? And what would he gain? Killing Blade wouldn’t stop the Freedom Federation Army.

So what did Samuel II have up his sleeve?

Rikki slowed as he neared the green tent. He saw the tent was constructed of green canvas. Samuel had placed the square tent to the west of Interstate 25, not four feet from the highway. A field surrounded the tent, and there wasn’t a tree or boulder or any conceivable hiding place within two hundred yards of the site.

To all intents and purposes, the location was ideal, insuring neither side could spring an ambush without detection by the armies on either hill.

So far, so good.

Rikki stopped and cautiously walked to the flap. Someone had imbedded a pole in the ground and tied the flap to the pole, leaving the front entrance wide open.

How nice of them.

Rikki paused in the entranceway. He could clearly see every inch of the interior of the tent. The ceiling was 10 feet above the ground, while the tent walls were 15 yards in length. There was ample room for 50 men, but the spacious interior was unoccupied except for a small folding table and a pair of folding chairs. Nothing else. The rough ground served as the tent’s floor, with patches of grass and weeds serving as the carpet. A pitcher of water rested on the table, next to two tall glasses.

And that was it.

Rikki entered the tent, annoyed. There had to be more to it than this!

His intuition was blaring a siren warning in his mind. But what could be wrong? The field outside the tent was deserted. The inside was empty except for the table and the chairs. The tent walls were swaying slightly in the breeze, indicating there weren’t any secret passages. The roof appeared to be exactly that: a roof. Every element of the meeting place was perfectly ordinary. There was nothing to arouse suspicion.

So why did he feel uneasy?

Rikki walked to the table, studying the arrangement. The table and chairs were ten feet from the entranceway. Sparsely covered ground took up the remainder of the space. There was simply nowhere a foe could hide.

But something was wrong.

Rikki felt it. And he always trusted his instincts. But what was it? If he didn’t find concrete evidence, Blade would laugh off his anxiety and attend the meeting.

What? What? What?

Rikki turned and exited the tent. He began walking around the exterior, examining the walls and the earth at his feet. All he found were the stakes used to erect the tent walls, neatly imbedded in the ground at regular intervals with sturdy cord extending from each stake to a metal ring affixed to the canvas wall of the tent.

That was all.

Irritated by his failure, Rikki completed a circuit of the tent and stopped at the entranceway. He would have to report the tent was safe.

There was no other choice. He took a few steps, then paused, perplexed.

What was this?

There were huge tire tracks in the center of the Interstate. They ran from the front of the tent and disappeared up the hill to the south. What made the tracks so odd was their exceptionally muddy condition.

Normally, a truck wouldn’t leave visible tracks on the surface of a road.

But this one had, apparently because its tires were so caked with dirt and mud, that it left a trail of muddy imprints behind it.

Why the mud?

Rikki glanced around. Had the truck delivered the tent to this site? Had it backed into the field? The ground was hard, and it hadn’t rained in days.

So why the mud?

Something nagged at Rikki’s mind, but he couldn’t identify the cause of his distress. And if all he had to report was a set of muddy truck tracks, he wouldn’t be able to dissuade Blade from coming.

Back to square one.

Rikki started jogging toward the SEAL. He was disgusted at his ineptitude. There was something wrong, something out of kilter with that tent, but for the life of him he couldn’t determine what it was.

Blade, Yama, Teucer, and Kilrane were waiting for him near the SEAL.

“Well?” Blade asked. “What did you find?”

Rikki drew up next to them. He frowned and shook his head. “I didn’t find a thing,” he admitted.

“Nothing?” Yama demanded.

“Nothing I could put my finger on,” Rikki stated.

“Then I’m going,” Blade announced.

“Look!” Teucer exclaimed, pointing at the far hill.

A single jeep was headed down the south hill toward the tent.

“It must be the dictator,” Yama conjectured.

The jeep slowed as it approached the tent, then pulled over on the east side of the Interstate. One man, and only one man, stepped from the vehicle and walked into the tent.

“It has to be Samuel,” Blade said. “I’d better be going.”

“What weapons are you taking?” Rikki inquired.