David Robbins - Citadel Run

Slowly, carefully, he retraced his steps, walking backwards, meticulously placing his feet in the exact print or impression he’d made while first coming around the trunk. When he was between the trunk and the boulder he tensed his leg muscles, took a deep breath, and leaped as far as he could in the direction of the boulder. He landed in front of it and moved to the other side, scrambling up the boulder until he was just below the rim.

Okay.

Let them mangy wimps come!

They did.

Within minutes, Hickok heard them approaching through the underbrush. For a couple of supposedly professional military types, they made more noise than a pregnant horse! He clutched the branch and patiently waited, unwilling to risk a peek and jeopardize his chances.

“He’s moving faster,” someone whispered.

“Think he knows we’re after him?” inquired a second man.

“No way. The jerk doesn’t know his butt from a hole in the ground,” replied the first voice.

There was a moment’s silence.

“What’s the matter?” asked the second man.

“His tracks stop.”

“They what?”

“They stop right here,” said the first man.

“How can tracks just stop in the middle of nowhere?”

“They can’t,” stated the first man, evidently the tracker. “I must have made a mistake. Let’s go back a bit.”

Hickok slowly counted to himself, and when he reached ten he launched his body over the top of the boulder.

Bingo!

The two soldiers were almost directly under the gunman, one of them kneeling and examining the tracks while the other was staring at the charred trunk. Something warned the second man, perhaps his sixth sense, but whatever it was he suddenly looked up and tried to bring his M-16 into play.

Hickok wasn’t Rikki-Tikki-Tavi, the Family’s exceptional martial artist, but he had been trained in hand-to-hand combat, spending years under the tutelage of a Family Elder with vast experience at infighting, and the gunman applied his knowledge now as his life hung in the balance. He lashed out with his right leg, his foot catching the standing soldier in the face and knocking him aside. The kneeling tracker glanced up, puzzled, his mouth widening in alarm.

The Warrior brutally rammed the pointed end of the limb into the trooper’s left eye, imbedding the tip of the branch at least four inches into the man’s skull. The soldier screamed and recoiled, grasping at the limb in a feeble attempt to extract it.

Hickok shot a glance over his left shoulder, just in time.

The other soldier had recovered. He’d lost his M-16 when kicked in the face, but now he whipped out a long knife from a sheath on his left hip and lunged.

Hickok released the branch and dodged aside, grabbing the trooper’s wrist with both hands and driving the forearm down onto his right knee.

There was a distinct snapping sound and the soldier shrieked at the top of his lungs.

Hickok swept his right hand up and in, his fingers straight and hard, using the edge of his hand as he slashed the trooper across the throat.

Once.

Twice.

The soldier gurgled, his chin falling limply to his chest, as blood and froth spewed from his mouth.

Hickok glanced at the tracker. He was lying on the ground, on his back, the limb sticking upward as if it were trying to take root.

The second soldier moaned once, then fell, dead.

Hickok nodded in satisfaction. “A piece of cake,” he said to himself. He bent over the troopers and rummaged through their uniforms.

Quite a collection!

He found wallets on both men, each containing paper money in varied denominations. He also discovered a handful of coins, each imprinted with the countenance of a stern man with a beard and a funny hat and the words “In Samuel We Trust” encircling the coin. One of the men, the tracker, had a photograph in his shirt pocket, a picture of the tracker and a pretty young woman and a small child, a boy of four or five years old.

Dear Spirit!

Were they the soldier’s wife and son?

Hickok stared at the photograph for a long, long time, considering the ramifications. In all the fights he’d been in, all the gunfights and battles, he’d never given a thought to the relatives of the enemies he killed in combat. This trooper had had a wife and son! How would they feel when they learned he was gone? How many widows, the gunman wondered, had he made during the course of his illustrious career? He thought of his own wife of a couple of weeks, his beloved Sherry. How would she…

A bird singing nearby shattered his reflection.

He vigorously shook his head, his blond locks flying, ending his morbid introspection. As a Warrior, he couldn’t afford the luxury of grieving over his opponents. He had to tell himself, over and over, his whole duty involved preserving the Home and protecting the Family. Nothing else mattered.

Besides, these men were soldiers. They knew they were in a deadly profession. They were aware of the hazards.

Hickok stood and glared at the tracker. Idiot! Why did you leave your family alone and neglected, just so you could get your thrills in the military?

Inexplicably angered, the gunman hauled off and kicked the tracker in the face.

Served the varmint right!

He scooped up their M-16’s and spare ammunition, gazed at them one last time, then began jogging northward.

There was still plenty of daylight left.

Good.

He wouldn’t stumble over a mutate on his way to the SEAL.

The first thing Blade noticed as he was thrown into the stockade was his miscalculation of the density. True, the captives were jammed inside in a compact mass, but there was a good foot or so between each person, enough room to move around somewhat freely. The second thing he noted was the intensifying of their malevolent expressions.

“What the hell is this?” a big man demanded as the gate was quickly slammed shut.

“Who are these two?” asked another.

“I don’t know them,” stated a woman.

“Neither do I,” confirmed another. “Does anyone know these two clowns?”

Blade and Geronimo found themselves backed against the fence with precious little room available to maneuver should they be attacked.

A tall black man, taller even than Blade, sauntered up and jabbed the Warrior in the chest with his right index finger.

“Who are you, mister?” the black arrogantly inquired.

“Are they spies?” questioned an elderly woman.

“If they’re spies, kill them!” suggested a thin man.

The black was powerfully built, attired in a pair of torn and aged jeans.

He forcibly poked Blade in the chest again. “You’d best answer me, mother, or I’ll take your head off!”

Blade looked at Geronimo, who grinned. “I was getting flabby sitting in the SEAL all day,” Geronimo said. “I can use the exercise.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” the black queried.

“It means,” Blade told him, his voice low and gravely, “you’d better not touch me again.”

“Oh?” The black smiled, his dark eyes twinkling in his handsome face.

“Is that so?” He drove his finger into Blade’s chest again. “What’s going to happen if I do, white boy?” And again. “You aim to do somethin’ about it?”

“Yes.”

“Like what?”

Blade’s right hand streaked upward and clamped on the black’s neck.

The black reacted instantly, swinging his right fist at the Warrior’s head.

Blade ducked under the blow and slammed his left hand into the black’s crotch, gripping with all of his strength and heaving, lifting the man completely over his head.

The black was struggling and gasping, striving to break the Warrior’s hold on his throat and groin.