Anaheim Run

Chapter Six

“So how’s it goin’ to be, bro?” Bear asked.

Blade glanced at the muscular black. They, along with the other Federation delegates, were standing in the hallway outside the conference room. The five faction leaders were in conference behind the closed door.

A pair of Free State soldiers, both armed with M-16’s, stood at attention outside the room. “I’m going to request M-16’s for each of us,” he said. “At least four of us will be in the conference room with our leaders at all times. We’ll work in shifts.”

“They might prefer to conduct their meeting in privacy,” Brother Timothy mentioned.

“Tough. We’re going to protect them with or without their cooperation,” Blade stated. “I don’t see where they’d object. At the Home all meetings of the Elders are open to everyone in the Family.”

“This isn’t the Home,” Wolfe’s flunky commented.

“The same principle applies,” Blade rejoined. “When leaders start holding secret meetings, they breed distrust and a sense of inferiority in those they serve.”

“Tell that to Wolfe,” the Mole boldly ventured.

“Where’s that machine gun of yours?” Bear questioned Blade.

“Back in Minnesota,” Blade replied, thinking of his favorite firearm, a Commando Arms Carbine. He’d also used a similar weapon, an Auto-Ordnance Model 27 A-1, for a while. Both resembled the antique Thompson submachine gun. After experimenting with both, he’d eventually decided to incorporate the Commando into his personal arsenal, merely because he liked the feel of the gun a bit better.

“You didn’t bring it along?” Bear queried in surprise.

Blade shrugged. He didn’t mention Plato had argued against journeying to California armed to the teeth, as it were, as a show of trust in Governor Melnick and the good people of the Free State of California.

Hickok had hotly debated the issue, but Blade had readily assented.

Arriving in California packing enough hardware to waste half the state would have been counterproductive to their mission. Besides, in all his years as a Warrior, he had yet to encounter a foe his Bowies couldn’t dispatch.

“Who’s this?” Bear asked.

Blade looked to the right.

Captain Vinnie Di Nofrio was approaching the conference room, whistling happily.

“It’s okay,” Blade said. “I know him.”

“Blade!” Di Nofrio greeted him. “It’s official!”

“It is?” Blade questioned.

“Yep. I’ve been appointed your liaison for the summit,” Di Nofrio disclosed.

“Perfect,” Blade said. “As your first official act, you can get M-16’s for each of us. And while you’re at it, pick up four spare magazines apiece.”

Di Nofrio promptly lost his cheery disposition. “I don’t know,” he balked.

Blade stepped up to the captain and placed his right hand on the officer’s slim shoulder. “Now don’t disappoint me, Vinnie. I was under the impression you’re a real go-getter. You can get the M-16’s for us. Clear it with Governor Melnick if you have to.”

Di Nofrio’s jaw muscles hardened with resolve. “I can get them,” he vowed.

“Did you see the attack in the lobby?” Blade asked.

“No. I was in the elevator,” Di Nofrio divulged. “But I heard Plato and you were okay. Where’s Hickok?”

“I don’t know,” Blade said, frowning. “He should be back soon.”

Di Nofrio started to turn. “Oh! Before I forget. President Toland has arrived in L.A. earlier than expected. Governor Melnick is escorting him here. They should arrive within an hour or so.”

“Thanks for relaying the news,” Blade said. “And hurry with those M-16’s.”

“On my way.” Di Nofrio hastened off.

“You sure got him eatin’ out of your hand,” Bear remarked.

“We have this adage at the Home,” Blade mentioned. “It goes something like this: If we want to make friends, we have to be friendly.”

“Where’s the rest of it?” Bear inquired. He’d been through many a battle with the Warriors, both in the Twin Cities and at the Home, and he knew them well.

“The rest of it?” Blade repeated, puzzled.

“Yeah,” Bear said. “Your motto should go like this: If we want to make friends, we have to be friendly, but if you mess with us we’ll stomp your face.”

Some of the others chuckled.

A lean man with black hair and brown eyes, wearing a white shirt and white pants, was walking toward the conference room. He held a tray of water glasses in his right hand.

Blade moved to the conference door, blocking the newcomer’s path.

“I beg your pardon,” the man said stiffly.

“Who are you?” Blade demanded.

The man in white glanced at the two troopers, then at the giant.

“Emery, sir. I’m with the kitchen staff. I was instructed to bring water to the heads of the Freedom Federation and inquire about your culinary needs.”

“It’s all right, sir,” the soldier to the left of the door commented. “He works here. I’ve seen him before. Yesterday, in fact.”

Blade relaxed. “Very well. Go ahead.” He stepped aside, to the left, toward the other delegates, and as he did his eyes detected a slight bulge under the kitchen worker’s white shirt above the right hip.

Emery was reaching for the doorknob.

“Hold it,” Blade said.

Emery paused, looking up at the giant.

“What’s that under your shirt?” Blade asked, not really expecting trouble.

Emery’s reaction, coming after the confirmation by the soldier, was totally unforeseen. He swept the tray of glasses straight up into the Warrior’s eyes, and as the giant instinctively took a stride backwards and raised his right arm to shield his face, Emery went into action. His right hand, the fingers rigid, the callused edge slanted upward, whipped up and around, catching the soldier to the right of the conference door in the throat, crushing the trooper’s windpipe, and even as the blow landed Emery was sweeping his right knee in a tight turn to the left, ramming it into the groin of the guard on the left. Before the guard could double over in abject misery, gurgling and sputtering, Emery was in motion, leaping into the air with his right leg snapping out and connecting with Bear’s chin, sending the huge black stumbling into his companions.

Hamlin, the small Cavalryman with the Winchester slung over his back, attempted to bring the rifle into play.

Emery landed in a crouch, never hesitating for a moment as he drove his left leg up and around, delivering a high round kick to the Cavalryman’s right cheek and knocking him to the floor.

Blade closed in as the man called Emery was trying to grab at something under his shirt. The Warrior adopted the Kokutsu-tachi, the back stance.

Emery’s right hand emerged from under the shirt gripping a pistol, a Taurus Model PT 92.

Blade automatically performed the Migi-mawashi-geri, a right roundhouse kick, slamming his right foot against Emery’s right hand.

Emery lost his grip on the pistol and the Taurus went skidding across the floor. Undaunted, he aimed a Yoko-geri, a side kick, at the Warrior’s crotch.

Blade whirled, narrowly evading the foot blow, driving his left elbow down and around in a vicious circle. His elbow caught his opponent above the left eye, staggering him, and before Emery could recover Blade pounded his elbow into the man’s face two more times.

Emery staggered backwards, his arms flailing.

Blade didn’t let up for an instant. He lashed his right boot in a jamming heel kick, smashing Emery’s left kneecap with a loud popping sound.

Emery’s left leg buckled and he started to fall.

Blade delivered a haymaker with his right fist to the tip of Emery’s chin. The alleged kitchen worker’s teeth crunched together, his head jerked back, and he was lifted from his feet and sailed for a yard before crashing onto the floor.

Blade straightened, his hands dropping to his Bowies, scanning the lobby for any more threats. Dozens of soldiers and stunned bureaucrats were staring at him. Otherwise, all appeared normal.

Bear and Hamlin were recovered and glaring at the fallen assassin.

The conference door opened and Plato was framed in the doorway.

“What is all the commotion out…” he began, then stopped, shocked. “Not again!”

“Again,” Blade confirmed.

Bear, rubbing his chin, stood over the unconscious Emery. “What do you want done with this sucker?” he asked.

“We’ll interrogate him,” Blade said. He knelt next to the soldier slashed in the throat and felt for a pulse. “This one is dead,” he announced.

The second guard was doubled over on the floor, clutching his groin. He looked at Blade through pain-filled green eyes. “I don’t understand! I know I saw him yesterday in the kitchen!”

“Hang in there,” Blade advised. “Help is on the way.”

And it was. Troopers and others were converging on the conference room from all points. A stocky officer with a general’s insignia on his uniform was the first to reach the prone assassin. “I’m General Gallagher,” he declared brusquely.

“General,” Blade said. He had seen the general earlier, supervising the cleanup after the lobby attack. Plato had conversed with him briefly, but Blade hadn’t had the chance.

General Gallagher moved to the soldier with the crushed throat.

“He’s dead,” Blade stated.

Gallagher squatted alongside the other guard. “Are you hurt bad, son?”

His brown eyes reflected sincere concern.

The second guard groaned, holding his privates. “He… kicked me, sir.”

“The medics will be here in a moment,” Gallagher assured the man. The general peered up at Blade. “Any of your people hurt?”

“No,” Blade answered.

Gallagher glanced at the downed assassin. “At least we have one of the sons of bitches alive! I’ll get him to talk.”

“We will question the prisoner,” Blade said, disputing him.

General Gallagher rose, his thin lips compressing. “The prisoner is under my authority, and I will handle his interrogation.”

“We will,” Blade reiterated.

“Now see here!” General Gallagher thundered.

“One moment, gentlemen,” Plato intervened, walking from the conference room. “We are allies. We should be working in tandem. Why not interrogate the captive jointly?”

General Gallagher scowled. “I don’t need his help, thank you! The Free State Army has functioned acceptably tor over a century without the assistance of the almighty Warriors! And we don’t want the Family meddling in our affairs!”

Plato and Blade exchanged glances. “Do I detect animosity in your tone?” Plato asked.

Gallagher stepped up to the Family Leader and poked Plato in the chest with his right forefinger. “You’re damn right you do, Socrates!”

“My name is Plato,” Plato corrected him.

“Whatever you say, Socrates,” Gallagher stated sarcastically.

“Why do you dislike the Family?” Plato inquired.

“I’ll tell you,” General Gallagher replied, jabbing Plato again. “It’s not just your Family I don’t like. I don’t like any of the Freedom Federation clowns! Governor Melnick and his advisors may think signing a treaty with your Federation is essential to California’s future, but I don’t!”

“Why not?” Plato queried politely.

“We don’t need your Federation,” General Gallagher declared.

“California has managed quite well without you. What can you offer us that we don’t already have? Nothing!”

“We offer you our hand in friendship,” Plato said. “We will be your allies. We can establish trade routes and mutually benefit from our association in other respects.”

General Gallagher laughed. “Trade? What can your Family possibly offer us? It seems to me we’re coming out on the short end of the stick.”

“Having allies could be crucial should the Soviets, the Technics, or the Androxians decide to attack California,” Plato remarked.

General Gallagher snorted derisively. “Let them try! We can defeat any of them!”

“Aren’t you being somewhat overconfident?” Plato asked.

“I’m being realistic,” General Gallagher snapped. “Our military power is the equal of anyone else’s! We’re as strong as the Commies or the Technics and the rest, and we’re a hell of a lot stronger than the Family.”

Gallagher snickered. “I’ve heard all that bull about how great your Warriors are, but I don’t buy the lies.”

“Our Warriors are quite skilled,” Plato commented.

“Your Warriors aren’t shit!” Gallagher retorted, poking Plato one more time.

One time too many.

Gallagher was opening his mouth to lambaste the Family Leader some more, when an iron hand clamped on his throat, and a vise grabbed him by the scruff of his neck. He was bodily lifted from the floor and shoved against the wall, scraping his nose and forehead. His neck and throat were released, and he angrily turned to confront his assailant.

Blade loomed above the general, his fists clenched at his sides, his face a livid scarlet. His right arm snaked up, his right forefinger jabbing Gallagher and slamming the officer against the wall. “If you ever lay a finger on Plato again,” Blade warned, his voice an ominous growl, “I’ll break it off and shove it up your ass!”

General Gallagher couldn’t seem to think of what to say. He sputtered, his mouth working like that of a fish out of water, plainly enraged.

“Governor Melnick should be here soon,” Blade said. “If you have a complaint, we’ll take it up with him.”

“I handle my problems myself!” Gallagher stated belligerently.

Blade pointed at the injured soldier. “Why don’t you tend to your man, and then get the hell out of my sight!”

Gallagher glared balefully at the Warrior. For a moment, it appeared he would launch himself at Blade. But his attention was fortuitously distracted by the arrival of a pair of medics. “Take care of him!” he barked, indicating the guard, and then stalked off.

Bear moved closer to Blade. “Whew! What got him so bent out of shape?”

“That’s what I’d like to know,” Blade responded.

“His attitude is most peculiar,” Plato agreed. “Perhaps he is an isolationist.”

“What’s that?” Bear asked.

“Someone who believes a country or state is better off left to its own devices,” Plato explained. “They’re of the opinion that peace can only be achieved if they do not enter into alliances or make commitments with other nations.” He paused. “There were a considerable number of isolationists in the U.S. before the war.”

“Could be,” Bear said doubtfully. “But if you ask me, that turkey hates our guts.”

“I think you’re right,” Blade said to Bear. “We’ll need to keep our eyes on him.”

“I will discuss Gallagher’s behavior with Governor Melnick when he arrives,” Plato mentioned.

Bear gazed across the lobby. “Hey, Blade! Here comes your buddy!”

Blade glanced up, hoping to see Hickok approaching. Instead, Captain Di Nofrio was heading toward them laden with four M-16’s.

“He got the guns,” Bear remarked eagerly.

Di Nofrio halted, looking at the assassin and the two troopers in amazement. “What happened here?”

“We had a party-crasher,” Blade quipped. “You always miss out on all the fun.”

Di Nofrio was studying the hit man. “I know him! He works in the kitchen! I saw him serving coffee to General Gallagher when we arrived.”

“You don’t say?” Blade crossed to the captain and took one of the M-16’s. “Thanks for getting these.”

“I have two men bringing the rest here in a few minutes,” Di Nofrio said.

“Did anyone give you a hard time?” Blade inquired.

“No.” Di Nofrio grinned. “I had a call patched through to the Governor’s limousine. Only took a minute. The Governor said you’re to have whatever you want.”

“I’ll have to put in a good word to Melnick about you,” Blade commented.

“You will? Really?”

“Really,” Blade said. He lowered his voice. “What can you tell me about General Gallagher?”

“Why do you ask?” Di Nofrio rejoined.

“I need to know,” Blade said. “I take it he doesn’t like us.”

Di Nofrio nodded. “I heard he argued with the Governor about the treaty we’re going to sign. He’s dead set against it.”

“Why?”

Di Nofrio shrugged. “I don’t know. Gallagher has always given the governor a hard time. He’s real hard-line military, you know? Sometimes I think General Gallagher would like to be running the state himself. Don’t underestimate him, Blade. Gallagher is popular with the troops. General Owens always sided with the governor, which annoyed Gallagher no end. And Owens was just as popular as Gallagher.”

“But General Owens is dead,” Blade observed. “Who else can keep a rein on Gallagher?”

Di Nofrio pondered for a moment. “No one.”

Blade looked at the assassin, reflecting. How far was the general willing to go to insure the treaty wasn’t signed? Would Gallagher hire a hit squad to eliminate the Federation delegates? Was the man genuinely concerned about his state, or was the general over the edge, a fanatic?

Someone was nudging his left elbow.

Blade turned, finding Plato at his side.

“Boone,” Plato said, pointing toward the rear of the hotel.

The Cavalryman was hurrying toward the conference room, winding through the crowd in the lobby.

Blade moved out to meet him. “Where’s Hickok?” he demanded.

“Sorry,” Boone said, his mouth curling downward. “I lost him.”

“You what?”

“He took off after the man we were chasing,” Boone detailed, “and I lost them both. Those gardens back there are a real maze.”

“Damn!” Blade muttered. “And I can’t leave the summit!”

“I’ll keep looking,” Boone offered. “Just be sure to let Kilrane know where I am.”

“Will do,” Blade said. “And thanks.”

Boone jogged away.

Blade turned, frowning, telling himself there was nothing to worry about. No one was faster than Hickok. No one was more deadly. So why was he apprehensive? Because Hickok was one of his very best friends? Or because the gunman had this uncanny knack for blundering into dangerous situations? Trouble seemed to be attracted to the Family’s preeminent gunfighter like metal to a magnet, and the more bizarre the peril, the more outlandish the jeopardy, the more likely the gunman was to be involved.

Blade sighed. The best he could do was pray Hickok wasn’t performing up to par.

Now he was really worried!