David Robbins - Citadel Run

Lynx was bent over the control board. “Let me see. This digital display here will give us the range if I flick this switch.” He did, and the indicated display began showing a series of numbers. “We’re just over a mile and a half from the Biological Center,” Lynx disclosed. He punched several of the buttons and threw another switch. A row of six red lights brightened.

“Good,” he stated, and glanced at Yama. His right index finger hovered near a yellow button. “Once I press this button, there’s no turning back. I’ve set the automatic timer for ten minutes. In ten minutes, this unit will automatically fire the thermo at the preset target.”

“What about them?” Yama indicated the people in the park.

“Don’t worry about them, chuckles. They won’t touch this thing. Are you ready?”

“Do it.”

Lynx pressed the yellow button and smiled mischievously. “I just hope the Doc is in when our surprise package is delivered.”

“Speaking of surprises,” Yama remarked, “we have company.”

Lynx straightened and turned.

A black and white patrol car had turned into the cul-de-sac and was heading their way.

“Cops!” Lynx hissed. “Not now! We’ve got to get out of here!”

The patrol car stopped next to the jeep.

The blast of Bertha’s M-16 within inches of his left ear caused Hickok to wince, even as he spun, raising the Henry to his shoulder, knowing she was too skilled a fighter to fire without justification.

This time she had it.

A soldier had been standing not more than ten feet behind them, prepared to fire, when her shot caught him in the chest and knocked him to the ground. Behind him, other troopers were advancing across the field toward the troop transports.

Hickok sighted and the Henry boomed. He heard a soldier scream as he was struck.

Bertha was firing indiscriminately.

Hickok grabbed her by the arm and pulled her down to the grass. “Stay low!” he warned her. “They can see you better if you’re standing up.”

The troopers had opened up, most of them directing their shots at the crowd near the tent.

“I’m gonna flank ’em,” Bertha declared, and proceeded to crawl off.

Up on the highway, the ten volunteers had just reached the road when the first gunshots erupted.

Hickok, observing from his prone position, saw headlights abruptly come on, three sets of them, not more than twenty yards from his men.

The ten were exposed in the glare of the headlamps as three fifty-caliber machine guns let loose.

“Get out of there!” Hickok shouted at the top of his lungs.

Too late.

The ten were unable to flee before being cut to ribbons by the big fifties.

With a roar, the three jeeps gunned their engines, leaving the highway and making for the stockade.

Hickok found himself directly in their path. He aimed the Henry at the spot where he assumed the driver of the first jeep would be sitting and squeezed the trigger.

The result was better than he could have anticipated.

The first jeep suddenly slewed to the left, apparently out of control, and slammed into the second jeep. There was a tremendous crash and the second jeep was knocked over by the force of the impact, flipped onto one side. The third and final jeep swerved sharply to avoid colliding with the other two.

Hickok rose to his knees, sighted, and fired, hoping to repeat his performance and nail the driver of the third jeep.

Evidently, he missed.

The last jeep bore down on the Warrior, its machine gun belching lead and flame.

The slugs were kicking dirt into the air all around him as Hickok dropped the Henry and stood, his Pythons streaking from their holsters.

The Colts bucked in twin precision as he fired off the rounds, one revolver right after the other, eight, nine, ten rounds in rapid succession, and only ten because he seldom kept a round in the chamber under the firing pin.

The jeep was only six feet from the gunman, its fifty-caliber strangely silent, but still moving at a high rate of speed.

Hickok felt someone plow into his right side and he was yanked to the ground as the jeep hurtled past. He twisted and found his face next to Bertha’s.

“Watch yourself, White Meat!” she exclaimed. “We want you in one piece when we get you home to the missus!” She pecked him on the cheek, grinned, and was gone.

Hickok rose to his feet, smiling. The focus of the battle had shifted nearer the stockade as the remaining soldiers conducted a futile assault on the defenders of the troop transports. Were the Army troopers attempting to knock the transports out of commission? They were plainly outnumbered and outgunned and it was only a matter of time before they were mopped up.

The two jeeps that had collided were in flames, while the third jeep had mysteriously stopped in the middle of the field and was sitting there, the motor idling.

Hickok bolstered his Pythons. He detected the gleam of his Henry reflected in the fire from the jeeps and walked over to the rifle. As he stooped to retrieve it, a high, squeaky voice stopped him cold.

“Touch it and you’re dead!”

Hickok slowly straightened and turned. “I was wondering when you’d show up.”

Rat was standing to the right of the burning jeeps, an M-16 in his hands, a wicked look on his feral face. “You remember me, then?”

“How could I forget vermin like you?”

“Yeah! That’s right! Have your fun while you can!” Rat cackled. “I’ve been waitin’ for this chance for so long! I’m gonna repay you for what you did to Maggot, you prick!”

“Too bad I wasn’t able to do the same to you,” Hickok said goading him.

Rat laughed. “I love it! I just love it! I’m gonna waste you! Are you scared, Hickok? Afraid I might pull this trigger?”

Hickok feigned a gaping yawn. “Nope. I’m bored to tears.”

“You’re faking it!” Rat snapped. “You just don’t want me to have my fun!”

“No. I’m just waiting for my friend, Geronimo, to put a bullet in your miserable head. He’s right behind you.” Hickok held his breath, hoping Rat would take the bait. It was literally the oldest trick in the book.

“You’re full of shit!” Rat declared. “You must think I’m really stupid to fall for a gag like that!”

“You have no idea of how stupid I think you are,” Hickok said.

“There’s no one behind me!”

Hickok yawned again. “Want to bet your life on it?”

Rat’s features mirrored his quandary. He didn’t believe the gunfighter for a minute. At least, he didn’t want to believe him. But a nagging doubt persisted in his mind. Maybe Geronimo was behind him. Otherwise, how could Hickok be so calm about his fate?

The issue was decided by the burning jeeps. One of the rear-view mirrors, overheated by the raging flames, suddenly shattered with a loud pop.

Rat, fearing the worst, whirled, firing the M-16 wildly. It took only seconds to realize he’d been duped. Geronimo wasn’t behind him! He spun toward Hickok, continuing to fire the M-16, spraying the automatic at waist level.

The gunfighter was prone on the ground, the Henry to his shoulder. He saw Rat’s mouth drop and his beady eyes widen in alarm. Perfect. The Henry thundered and recoiled against his arm.

Rat’s forehead was caved inward by the impact of the 44-40 slug. The back of his head spewed blood, brains, and greasy hair in every direction.

The M-16 flew from his hands as he slammed to the ground and lay still.

“Got ya!” Hickok elated, rising. He walked to his long-time foe and stared at the lifeless eyes.

The night was deathly still.

Blade and Geronimo materalized out of the darkness and reached Hickok’s side.