Anaheim Run

Chapter Two

“I can’t believe I missed,” Hickok said gloomily, absently starring out the limousine window.

“No one hits the bull’s-eye every time,” Blade commented by way of consolation.

“I do,” Hickok stated morosely.

The two Warriors and Plato were in a black limousine, speeding to the southeast on the Santa Ana Freeway. Traffic was light. Plato, seated in the middle of the rear seat, glanced at the Warriors. Blade was behind the driver, a sergeant; Hickok was on the passenger side.

“Don’t be so hard on yourself, Nathan,” Plato advised Hickok, using the name bestowed on the gunfighter by his parents. Hickok, like most of the Family members, had chosen to adopt a new name on his sixteenth birthday, and he had selected the name of an ancient gunman he admired.

The Founder of the Family’s compound, the man responsible for spending millions of dollars to have the retreat constructed prior to World War Three, the man responsible for designating the site as the Home and dubbing his followers the Family, had instituted a special ceremony for all Family members. Upon turning sixteen, they were encouraged to research the vast Family library and pick any historical name they desired as their very own. The Founder had hoped this practice would insure that his descendants never lost sight of their antecedents. Later, the Family Elders had decided that any book, not just historical works, could serve as a source for the Naming ceremony, and Family members were even permitted to choose a name of their own devising. Blade had selected a new name predicated on his affinity for knives, while Nathan had taken the name of his childhood hero, James Butler Hickok. Over the years the gunman had lived up to his name, repeatedly exhibiting an infallible marksmanship. All of these thoughts went through Plato’s mind as he gazed at the sullen gunfighter.

“I must not be gettin’ enough practice,” Hickok said.

“You practice more than anyone I know,” Blade remarked, instantly regretting his lack of tact when his friend frowned and sighed.

“Then I’m gettin’ old,” Hickok declared.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Plato admonished. “You’re only thirty.”

Hickok studied his hands. “Then I must be losin’ my touch. And if I can’t hit what I aim at, then I ain’t much use as a Warrior.”

“This isn’t like you,” Blade said. “You’d better snap out of it before we reach Anaheim, because I need you in top form for the summit meeting.”

“Top form?” Hickok responded, and snorted.

Plato elected to change the topic. “This limousine is truly luxurious. We’re receiving the red-carpet treatment.”

“A limo. An army escort. Governor Melnick is pulling out all the stops,” Blade noted, his features saddening. “I feel sorry for Melnick. We should have stayed in L.A.”

“Governor Melnick insisted we leave for Anaheim,” Plato reminded him. “I believe he was afraid of another assassination attempt.”

“I have to admire the man’s fortitude,” Blade commented. “He wants to conduct the summit as planned. If something happened to Jenny, I don’t know if I could go on with business as usual.”

“We’ve come too far to turn back now,” Plato mentioned. “Months of meticulous arranging and negotiating have gone into the preparation for this summit. Melnick knows we can’t cancel the meeting.” He paused, pondering for a moment. “Why would someone want to kill Governor Melnick? Except for the Raiders and other misfits General Owens told us about on the flight here, there isn’t any organized opposition to the Free State government.”

“So far as we know,” Blade said. “And we’ve had to rely on government officials for our information.”

“Do you suspect they have lied to us?” Plato inquired.

“No,” Blade replied. “And I don’t think Melnick was the only target.”

“What?” Plato said. “Why?”

“Because the first shot was meant for you,” Blade stated. “Don’t you remember? Sharon Melnick was about to shake your hand, and she stepped between the terminal and you, probably just as the sniper fired.”

“Coincidence,” Plato opined.

“Why?” Blade queried.

“Because only Governor Melnick and a few of his trusted aides knew we were arriving today,” Plato detailed. “I seriously doubt they would want me dead. What motive would they have?”

“I’m not saying Governor Melnick was behind the assassination attempt,” Blade explained. “I saw how his wife’s death affected him. He loved her, and he wouldn’t have brought her near us if he knew a sniper was on the terminal roof.”

“Then who could be behind it?” Plato questioned. “We don’t have any enemies in California.”

“None we know about,” Blade corrected him.

“It’s the summit,” Hickok unexpectedly interrupted.

“Why do you say that?” Plato asked.

Hickok glanced at the Family Leader. “The bozo I went after was a real pro. He wore an army uniform so he could blend in at the terminal without arousin’ suspicion. He used a sophisticated weapon of some kind.

And he had his getaway planned, right down to committin’ suicide if he was captured. The man was a pro,” he reiterated. “It was a professional hit, and Melnick and you were the targets.”

“I agree,” Blade concurred. “Hickok’s right. I think someone is trying to disrupt the summit, and what better way to wreck the meeting than by killing off the leaders of the Federation factions and California?”

Plato frowned. “If your deductions are accurate, we can expect more trouble.”

“We’ll keep on our toes,” Blade vowed. “We’re at a disadvantage, though, because there’s just the two of us to protect you.”

“All of the leaders will be in the same boat,” Plato observed. “We were each allowed to bring two security personnel or assistants, and no more.”

“I’m sure Melnick will tighten security at the summit site,” Blade said.

“But if professionals are after the leaders, there’s no way we can prevent them from making more attempts.”

Plato gazed out the front window at the four jeeps escorting the limousine. He looked over his right shoulder, finding four more. Each jeep contained four Free State troopers. “I think we can relax until we reach Anaheim,” he declared.

Plato was wrong.

The lead jeep was cresting a low hill, well in advance of the rest, when there was a stupendous explosion and the jeep was engulfed in a brilliant fireball.

The sergeant slammed on the brakes, and the limousine slewed to a stop slantwise across the highway.

“Out!” barked Blade, yanking on the handle and flinging the door open.

He looped his right arm around Plato’s waist and leaped, his steely leg muscles carrying both of them to the hard asphalt. They landed with Blade on the bottom, intentionally cushioning the brunt of the contact. He surged erect, bearing Plato with him, racing for a stand of trees at the side of the Freeway.

A second jeep was blown to smithereens.

Blade carried Plato the final few feet, reaching the first tree and dodging for cover in the shelter of its wide trunk. None too soon.

Another detonation enveloped the black limousine, and the strike was dead center. The limo split in half as it was catapulted into the air, enshrouded by a sheet of reddish-orange flame.

Blade felt the ground tremble under his boots, and the stand of trees was buffeted by a gust of hot wind. He heard a deafening crash and risked a peek around the trunk.

The limousine was destroyed, a contorted jumble of scorched metal and burning rubber.

The other jeeps had stopped, and the soldiers were scanning the surrounding countryside for the source of the blasts.

Hickok!

Blade stood and ran to the edge of the highway, heedless of the danger, searching in both directions for his friend. “Hickok?”

The limousine was crackling and snapping as it burned.

A square-jawed officer, a captain, rushed up to the Warrior. “Are you okay?”

“Where’s Hickok?” Blade queried anxiously.

“What?”

“Where the hell is Hickok?” Blade snapped, moving closer to the limo, as close as the intense heat would allow.

“Didn’t he get out?” the captain asked.

Blade was worried by the same thought. What if Hickok hadn’t made it out of the limo? What if the gunman’s glum disposition had slowed his reflexes? What if…

“What the heck is the matter with you, pard? You look like somebody walloped you in the dingus.”

Blade whirled to the right, and there was the gunfighter, nonchalantly emerging from a swirl of whitish smoke, his thumbs hooked in his gunbelt. “Where were you? I thought you bought the farm!”

“Nope,” Hickok responded. “I lit out the passenger-side door and bruised my shins takin’ cover behind this big old rock.”

Blade breathed a sigh of relief. “Any signs of who did it?”

“I didn’t see hide nor hair of the rascals,” Hickok said.

“There’s no sign of them,” the captain confirmed. “But at least they’ve stopped.”

Blade glanced at the gunman. “Mortar, you think?”

“Yep,” Hickok laconically replied. “Or somethin’ similar.”

“Well, that settles it,” Blade stated brusquely.

“Settles what?” the captain inquired.

Blade stared into the officer’s eyes. “From now on we do this my way.”

“We what? I’m under orders—” the captain began.

Blade’s right hand flicked out and grasped the front of the officer’s shirt. “Until we reach Anaheim, you’ll take your orders from me.”

“From you?” the captain exclaimed, futilely trying to pry the giant’s fingers from his uniform. “Now just hold on!”

Blade’s eyes narrowed and his tone lowered. “You’ll do as I say or else!”

“Blade! Don’t!” Plato came around Blade’s left and placed a restraining hand on the giant’s arm. “Release him.”

Blade ignored the command. “I’m responsible for your safety, Plato.

And nothing is going to happen to you on this trip, not while I’m alive.

We’re going to do this my way from now on!” He glared at the captain.

“Any objections?”

The officer, clearly flustered, nodded. “I’m under orders to get you safely to Anaheim. I don’t care how we do it.”

Blade released the captain’s shirt. “I can rely on your cooperation?”

“You’ve got it,” the officer pledged. “I don’t want any trouble.”

Blade pointed at the limo. “We’ve already run into some trouble.”

“So what do you want me to do?” the captain asked.

“Strip.”

The captain did a double take. “What?”

“Are you hard of hearing?” Blade queried impatiently. “I want you to strip. Remove your uniform.”

“You’re crazy,” the captain commented.

Blade folded his arms across his chest. “Were you at the airport earlier?”

“Yes, I was,” the captain answered.

“Then you know this is the second assassination try so far,” Blade said.

“Odds are there will be more. They were after the limo this time, and they stopped because they nailed it. They probably believe they’ve killed Plato, but we can’t take that for granted. They might hit us again before we reach Anaheim, and I want to discourage them from trying.”

“How?”

“If these bastards don’t see any sign of Plato, they might leave us alone,” Blade speculated. “So I want you, or one of your men, to give Plato a uniform and a helmet. If we dress him up as a soldier and tuck his hair under the helmet, we might get away with it.”

The captain grinned. “That’s an excellent suggestion. I’ve been assigned to the summit detail, so I brought my dress uniform along. It’s with my gear. I’ll get it.” He started off, then paused and looked at Blade. “See? All you had to do was explain what you wanted. I’m here to help you.” He walked off.

“You shouldn’t have manhandled him,” Plato said to Blade. “We mustn’t antagonize these people. We want them for our friends.”

Blade shrugged. “Couldn’t be helped.”

Plato gazed at the smoldering limousine. “This attack confirms your theory. The persons responsible are trying to terminate the summit.”

“Or terminate the summit leaders,” Blade amended.

Hickok was surveying the landscape. “You know, it’s right pretty hereabouts.” He glanced up at the sky. “But a mite too warm for my tastes.”

“We should have worn lighter clothing,” Plato remarked. “California has always been famous for its salubrious climate.”

“I wish you’d stop usin’ them highfalutin’ words,” Hickok said. “Half the time I don’t know what the blazes you’re talkin’ about.”

Plato grinned. “Nathan, you’re not as dumb as you pretend to be.”

“What makes you say that?” Hickok rejoined.

“You never request definitions for the words I employ,” Plato noted.

Blade stretched, his huge muscles bulging. “I like this weather. Minnesota gets too cold in the winter for my taste. I wouldn’t mind living here all year long.”

“California’s weather is not always this mild in January,” Plato mentioned. “In fact, General Owens told me they were in a cold snap until yesterday.”

“A cold snap is better than four months of lousy weather,” Blade observed.

“Who are you tryin’ to kid, pard?” Hickok quipped. “You like this weather because you can prance around half naked without gettin’ goose bumps.”

The captain returned carrying his dress uniform. “Here you go. I hope it fits.” He handed the uniform to Plato.

“Just so whoever’s after us can’t identify him from a distance,” Blade said.

“The ploy might succeed,” Plato stated. “A helmet will hide my hair, but what about my beard?”

“Tuck it under your shirt,” Blade directed. “If you keep your chin down, you’ll pass as a soldier.”

Plato walked to the stand of trees.

The captain nervously scanned the vegetation on both sides of the highway. “I’ll be glad when we get going. I don’t like being out in the open.”

“You and me both,” Blade agreed.

“I radioed in a report,” the captain said. “They’re sending a helicopter from L.A. to provide aerial cover.”

“Has Governor Melnick ever been attacked before?” Blade asked.

“No,” the captain replied. “Except for the damn Raiders and the mutants and such, we never have any trouble. California holds elections every four years, just like the state did before the war. If the people don’t like a politician, all they have to do is vote him or her out of office.”

“When was your last election?” Blade queried.

“November,” the captain said.

“What’s with Plato?” Hickok interjected.

Blade glanced toward the side of the road.

Plato was emerging from the trees, but he was only partially clothed, wearing his brown corduroy pants and holding the uniform shirt in his right hand, and he was walking backwards.

Blade stared at Plato’s naked back, puzzled, and then he detected a slight movement beyond the Family Leader. He whipped his Bowies from their scabbards and charged forward, bearing a bit to the right for a clearer view, his intuition shrieking a warning, knowing what he would see, his stomach tightening in anticipation. He came around Plato’s right side, and there it was, a repulsive monstrosity straight from a madman’s nightmare.

A slavering mutant.