David Robbins - Denver Run

“In good time, dear lad,” Samuel said patronizingly. “There are a few more items to cover. What happened to the Flatheads?”

“Which Flatheads?” Blade responded.

Samuel chuckled, his eyes sparkling. “You must think I’m a doddering old fool. I assure you, Blade, I am not. I’m referring to the Flathead Indians you rescued from Callow.”

How did Samuel know about them? Blade couldn’t see any harm in divulging the truth. “They’re on their way back to Montana,” he said.

“They wanted to return to their homeland.”

“Why?”

“They wanted to search for other survivors of your attack,” Blade explained, his mind straying to his run to Kalispell and the war between the Flatheads and the Civilized Zone Army, a war the Flatheads lost. “You didn’t kill or capture all of them, you know. The survivors are going to march to our Home for Star and take her to Montana if she wants to go.”

“Who is Star?” Samuel inquired.

“The daughter of the Flathead chief,” Blade commented. “You should remember him,” he said, baiting the dictator. “Your men slaughtered his people and killed him. You still use some of the Flatheads as slave labor.”

“You sound like you disagree,” Samuel remarked.

“Of course!” Blade said angrily. “Do you expect me to condone slavery?”

“A moot point,” Samuel declared. He took a sip of water. “Do you know who Clarissa is?”

The name didn’t ring a bell. “Should I?” Blade retorted.

“Clarissa was the Doktor’s assistant,” Samuel elaborated. “My spies reported her traveling south through Denver over a week ago. You have no inkling of her destination?”

“How would I know?” Blade responded.

“No harm in asking,” Samuel said. He straightened in his seat. “Now to the important matters. How many thermos do you have at your disposal?”

Blade suppressed a grin. So! Lynx had hit the nail on the head! The dictator believed the Family possessed some of the portable thermonuclear devices! “Why should I tell you?” he retorted.

“Then you admit you do have some?” Samuel asked, his voice lowering as he peered intently at the strapping Warrior.

“Do you doubt it?” Blade confidently replied.

Samuel unexpectedly nodded. “Yes, I do.”

Blade nonchalantly reclined in his chair. Uh-oh. This was trouble. His only hope of swiftly ending the war, of preventing more carnage, lay in convincing the dictator the Family had confiscated some thermos. “We have three thermos,” he lied.

“Oh, you do, do you?” Samuel said skeptically.

“If you don’t think we have the thermos,” Blade noted, “then why did you evacuate Fort Collins, Love-land, and the other cities?”

“Because my generals think you have the thermos,” Samuel revealed.

“They suspect you stole them from the Cheyenne Citadel before it was nuked.”

“That’s what we did,” Blade stated belligerently.

Samuel’s eyes narrowed as he scrutinized the Warrior. “And you have these thermos with your column?”

“Yes.”

“And you plan to use them on Denver if we don’t capitulate?” Samuel speculated.

“Exactly,” Blade confirmed.

A smile creased Samuel’s features, one more wrinkle in the sea of lines.

“I… don’t… think… so,” he stated slowly.

This wasn’t going as anticipated. Blade rested his hands on his Bowies.

“Why not?”

Samuel calmly placed his elbows on the table top and cradled his chin in his palms. “I consider myself to be an excellent judge of character. You don’t stay in power as long as I have if you can’t distinguish your friends from your enemies, or potential enemies. You become extremely adept at reading people, at assessing their character. My newly appointed generals believe you have thermos. They pressured me into this meeting. The fools are afraid you will nuke Denver.” He paused, smiling. “I agreed to this meeting on the remote possibility you might, indeed, possess thermos. But one look at your face convinces me you don’t have them. You’re a rotten liar, Blade.”

Blade frowned, annoyed at himself. He never could lie well.

Samuel cackled at his triumph. “Don’t feel so bad. Honesty is, by its very nature, transparent.”

“So now we go to war,” Blade stated regretfully.

“Perhaps not,” Samuel said.

“You’re willing to forget your goals of conquering the territory formerly controlled by the United States of America?” Blade asked in disbelief.

“No.”

“I didn’t think so,” Blade muttered. “Then there will be a war, after all.

The Freedom Federation is not going to stand by and watch you subdue the entire country,” he declared. “We won’t forsake our freedom for a dictatorship. We will use everything in our power to stop you.”

“One step at a time,” Samuel cryptically commented.

“What do you mean by that?”

“I mean,” Samuel said, leering, “you learn to take life one step at a time when you reach my age. I’ll dispose of the rabble comprising the so-called Freedom Federation presently. First, though, I will dispose of their commander-in-chief.”

Blade glared at the dictator. “I won’t be easy to dispose of,” he growled, his resentment toward this smug, sanguinary megalomaniac growing by the moment.

“Not easy,” Samuel agreed, “but not impossible either.”

“I can’t wait for you to try!” Blade snapped.

Samuel laughed. “I’m not crazy! I wouldn’t think of trying to kill you myself.” He paused, smirking. “I’ll leave it to them.” He waved his left hand in an arc.

Blade glanced to his right, then froze, dumbfounded.

There were 17 of them, all dressed in black, their faces covered by black masks, all armed with sharp Oriental swords. They completely encircled the folding table and the chairs.

How?

Samuel chuckled, delighted by the Warrior’s astonished reaction.

Blade suddenly perceived the brilliance of their strategem. They had dug holes in the ground large enough to accommodate a man, 17 holes spaced at ten-foot intervals, aligned along the inner walls of the tent, invisible from the outside and imperceptible inside. An outstanding job of camouflage.

“You won’t leave this tent alive,” Samuel predicted.

Blade tensed, about to draw his Bowies. The odds were too great against him. His only consolation would be to take out Samuel before the Imperial Assassins got him.

“There’s one more question,” Samuel casually mentioned.

Blade started to ease his Bowies from their sheaths.

“Do you miss your father?” Samuel asked.

The unforeseen query startled Blade. His father? What did his father have to do with anything?

Samuel was grinning, obviously relishing the emotional torment he was causing the Warrior. “How many years has it been now? Four years since your father was killed?”

“Leave my father out of this!” Blade said, his tone low and threatening.

Samuel ignored him. “Do you remember how your father was killed?” he taunted.

Blade’s face was turning red.

“Of course you do,” Samuel answered his own question. “Your father was killed by a big cat. Did you ever wonder where that big cat came from?”

Blade felt as if he would explode. “I know where the cat came from! The Doktor sent it to kill my father!”

Samuel’s white eyebrows arched upward. “Oh? You know that, do you? The Doktor must have told you the cat was one of his earlier genetically engineered creations. A test-tube animal. Did you know the Doktor developed the cat from a mountain lion embryo? He raised the animal from a kitten. It would do whatever he wanted.”

Blade’s mind was spinning. Why was Samuel reminding him of all this?