David Robbins - Twin Cities Run

The saboteur darted across the compound and safely reached the corner of C Block. He entertained the notion of using his explosive on the Blocks, but disregarded the idea. His superiors were quite specific in their orders, and he dared not disobey. Not if he valued his life. No, the Blocks weren’t his target. He was after the SEAL. Cautiously, he peeked around the corner and spotted the vehicle parked in the center of the cleared area between the Blocks. It was exactly where the infrared had revealed it would be.

Smiling under his mask, the commando jogged toward the transport, keeping his body low, minimizing his profile. This assignment was proceeding smoothly. He’d be able to achieve his objective and depart before these dimwits knew what hit them!

Someone coughed, and the dark figure dropped and flattened. He could see a Family member coming from the direction of D Block, heading his way. What the hell was someone doing up so early? He held his breath and tensed, hoping the fool would bypass him.

The early bird continued walking directly toward him.

He could not afford to waste precious time. Slowly, he eased the pistol from its holster and sighted on the approaching person, a man. When the unsuspecting victim was fifteen yards distant, he squeezed the trigger and watched as the heavy slug ripped through the man’s chest and knocked him to the turf. The silenced pistol produced a slight whishing noise.

Satisfied with his shot and positive the Family member was dead, the commando bolstered the pistol and stood. Timing for this venture was critical. He’d been instructed to insure the explosion occurred an hour after sunrise, when the area would be packed with the members of the Family. They invariably congregated here after first light to engage in their morning worship.

The saboteur casually walked to the SEAL, forcing his nerves to remain calm. No one would realize he wasn’t a Family member until they were right on top of him, and he wasn’t about to let any of them get that close.

The Warrior on the west wall was gazing at the field and the forest beyond, unaware an intruder was in the compound.

Grinning, the commando reached the vehicle and crouched next to the front tire on the driver’s side. The tires were huge, the body of the SEAL resting several feet off the ground. He reached into his pouch and removed the packet of plastic explosive.

“Are you the new chauffeur?” a deep voice behind him asked.

Instinctively, the saboteur dropped the packet and whirled, going for his automatic. He recognized the wavy hair and massive muscles belonging to the one they called Blade, their chief Warrior, and he marveled at the stealth displayed, the skill necessary to sneak up on him, even as he drew the pistol.

Blade lunged, grabbing the man in black by the wrists and hauling him to his feet. His shoulders and arms rippling, Blade twisted his opponent’s left wrist. “Drop it, or I’ll snap your wrists!” he barked.

In response, the commando slammed his right knee into Blade’s groin area.

Blade grunted, then savagely wrenched on the left wrist he held, bending it back. The pistol fell to the grass, and Blade forcefully smashed his foe into the SEAL. “I want some answers from you, and I want them now!”

The commando was an expert at his craft. He swept his forehead back and up, driving it against Blade’s chin, momentarily stunning the Warrior and causing him to relax his grasp. The saboteur moved swiftly, putting his left foot behind Blade’s ankles and heaving, knocking the Warrior to the ground. He wrenched his hands free from Blade’s clutches and dove for his pistol.

Blade rolled to his feet, drawing his right Bowie and throwing, the keen blade imbedding itself in the commando’s left shoulder as he picked up the pistol. The man in black spun and fell onto his back, still clinging to the automatic. Before Blade could reach him, he tossed the pistol from his left hand to his right, flicking a small lever above the trigger from SINGLE to FULL AUTO.

His body moving with incredible speed for one so large, Blade dove under the transport, seeking the protection of the SEAL’S bulletproof body.

The commando fired as he rose to his knees, the bullets striking the vehicle and ricocheting off, the slugs missing Blade by a fraction as he disappeared from view. Leaning over, the saboteur peered under the transport, his pistol at the ready. There was no sign of the red-headed Warrior. Stymied, the man in black rose, resisting the excruciating pain in his injured shoulder, and alertly moved around the SEAL, surmising Blade was hiding behind one of the large tires.

The Warrior was gone.

The saboteur calmly scanned the area, puzzled. The closest cover, a stand of trees, was at least twenty-five yards away. Blade couldn’t possibly have reached those trees. But where could he be? The commando knew he must eliminate the Warrior before departing the Home. Leaving no witnesses was a prime directive. His shoulder was throbbing, but he ignored the agony, sweat beading his brow under the wool mask. An operative of his expertise was thoroughly trained, including intensive courses on the conscious suppression of pain. The mission came first; nothing else mattered.

The Warrior must be circling the vehicle.

Treading softly, the commando eased around the rear of the SEAL, his automatic ready.

Again, no one.

Stumped, the figure in black crouched and looked under the transport one more time. Where the hell was Blade? As he slowly straightened, the saboteur saw the ladder leading to the roof of the SEAL. At his briefing—was it just ten hours ago?—he was told the Family vehicle was solar powered, so the metal rungs must permit anyone to climb to the roof and inspect the collectors…

The roof!

Sensing he was too late, the commando spun, aiming his pistol upward.

The Warrior was perched at the edge of the roof, his other Bowie already in his hand. He swept his arm down, and the heavy knife flew, slicing into the saboteur’s throat and ripping through his jugular.

Gasping, the commando dropped the pistol and stumbled to his knees.

In vain, he attempted to pull the Bowie from his neck. Blood was flowing over his chest, thick, rich streams of red.

Blade jumped from the top of the SEAL, landing lightly beside his foe.

Gurgling, the man in black looked up at Blade, his eyes pleading for aid.

“There’s nothing I can do,” Blade informed him.

The saboteur sobbed, his eyes beginning to glaze.

“You shouldn’t have shot one of my Family,” Blade stated grimly. “I just spotted him from the roof. No one harms one of our Family and gets away with it!”

The man in black was past hearing. He toppled to the grass, the only sound the peculiar squishing noise his throat made as the blood continued to flow.

Blade turned and ran to the fallen Family member. The sun was beginning to make its presence known. Although the fiery orb was still below the horizon, the sky was becoming lighter.

Who was it?

Blade reached the man and stopped, sadness filling his heart. His assumption proved correct; poor Brian was shot in the heart. Brian was charged with keeping the drawbridge in flawless operating condition. Last evening, while enjoying conversation around a fire, he’d mentioned he was going to rise early and perform some work on the massive mechanism required for raising and lowering the drawbridge. His wife would be devastated.

Why?

Blade clenched his ponderous fists and glared at the rising sun. His sinewy body, fully recuperated after six weeks of rest and rehabilitation, assumed a posture of defiance, his square chin jutting outward. The late August air was cool and refreshing.

Why, Oh Spirit, was it necessary for Brian to die? Why was constant hardship and struggle the lot of those still toiling to wring a living from the hostile land? Maybe Hickok was right. A person should take what they could get while the getting was good. Look at Joshua. He was continually striving to live spiritually, and his inner turmoil never ceased. The run to Thief River Falls had been a horrifying experience for Joshua, yet Hickok had enjoyed himself immensely. Hickok craved action, Joshua longed for peace. They were living, sterling examples of diametrically opposed viewpoints. Which one of them was right? Hickok? Or Joshua? The preeminent gunfighter or the spirit child of a Cosmic Creator? Or was the answer lying somewhere between the two extremes, somewhere…