Denver Run

Chapter Twenty

“What do you make of it?” Rikki-Tikki-Tavi asked.

“I don’t know,” Blade admitted.

“It’s a trap,” Yama warned.

“You can’t trust him,” Teucer added.

The SEAL was parked on a low rise on Interstate Highway 25 north of Denver, not far past the DACONO exit. To the west rose the majestic Rocky Mountains with Longs Peak prominent among them. To the east was a flat plain, farmland. Outlined in stark contrast on the southern horizon was the metropolis of Denver, Colorado, the capital of the Civilized Zone and the stronghold of Samuel II. The gigantic wall constructed by the Army Corps of Engineers was visible, as were a dozen towering skyscrapers behind the wall. A peculiar brown cloud hung over the fortress city, pollution created by the widespread usage of wood-burning stoves and vehicle emissions, an atmospheric symbol of the evil controlling the city and dominating the Civilized Zone.

The four Warriors were standing in front of the SEAL. To the rear of the transport stretched the Freedom Federation Army. Ahead of the SEAL 30 yards was a jeep with a white flag attached to its radio antenna. Three soldiers occupied the jeep, their eyes fixed on the Warriors, their expressions clearly showing their nervousness.

There was the clatter of hooves on the tarmac, and Kilrane galloped up to the Warriors on his palomino.

“What’s going on?” he demanded.

Blade pointed at the jeep. “They’ve brought a message from Samuel. He wants to meet with me. Alone.”

“You’re not thinking of going, are you?” Kilrane asked.

Blade nodded.

“You’re nuts,” Kilrane said. “It’s a trick.”

“That’s what we’ve been telling him,” Rikki mentioned.

“But he won’t listen to us,” Yama added.

“Why does Samuel want to meet with you?” Kilrane inquired.

“Supposedly to talk about terms for a truce,” Blade replied. “There’s a hill a couple of miles down the road. On the other side of the hill Samuel has pitched a tent. He wants to meet me there.”

“You can’t trust him,” Kilrane stated.

“I know that,” Blade agreed.

“But you’re going anyway?” Kilrane queried.

“I have no other choice,” Blade said. He turned to Rikki. “Let those soldiers know I’ve decided to accept Samuel’s invitation. Tell them we’ll abide by Samuel’s rules.”

Rikki frowned, disgruntled. “I’ll inform them,” he said sullenly. He walked toward the jeep.

Kilrane leaned forward, patting the neck of his palomino. “What are you trying to prove?”

“I have to hear what he has to say,” Blade said defensively.

Kilrane straightened. “I guess you do. But if the son of a bitch tries anything, if he kills you, I want you to know my men won’t rest until your death is avenged.”

Blade grinned. “That’s comforting.”

Kilrane smiled and rode off to rejoin his Cavalry.

“The same holds true for us,” Yama remarked.

Blade put his left hand on Yama’s shoulder. “I appreciate your concern.

I really do. But I must go. You see that, don’t you?”

Yama nodded. “We understand.”

“Well, I don’t!” interjected a new voice.

Lynx stood behind them, appearing as if from nowhere.

“Now don’t you start,” Blade said.

“Are you out of your gourd?” Lynx angrily demanded. “Sammy wants to get you alone so he can eliminate your buns. It’s as simple as that!”

“Undoubtedly,” Blade concurred.

“Then let me come with you,” Lynx urged. “I have a score to settle with Sammy.”

“No.”

“Why not?” Lynx demanded, peeved.

“He wants to meet me alone,” Blade reminded the fiery creature.

“I could sneak up on the tent,” Lynx offered, “and rip the sucker to shreds before he knew what hit him.”

“No.”

“It’s your funeral,” Lynx snapped, and left.

Blade watched Rikki deliver his reply to the soldiers in the jeep. The driver said something to Rikki, gunned the engine, and wheeled the vehicle in a tight U-turn. The jeep drove due south on Interstate 25, spewing a trail of black exhaust fumes.

Rikki returned to his companions.

“What did the driver say?” Blade inquired.

“The tent is positioned between two hills. Samuel will have his army on one hill. We’ll be on the other. We can send one person down to the tent to inspect it. Then Samuel will drive down and you’re to join him,” Rikki detailed.

“Sounds simple enough,” Blade commented.

“I still don’t like it,” Yama groused.

“Let’s get going,” Blade suggested.

They filed into the SEAL.

Blade started the transport and slowly pulled out. The column took his cue and followed, the trucks traveling at a reduced speed so as not to tire the Cavalry’s horses.

“Has anyone seen Lynx?” Teucer asked.

Blade glanced over his right shoulder. Rikki-Tikki-Tavi was seated in the front, in the other bucket seat. Yama and Teucer were in the wide seat.

Behind them was the rear section containing their provisions, where Lynx usually sprawled while the convoy was on the road.

Only Lynx wasn’t there.

“I haven’t seen him since he argued with Blade,” Yama mentioned.

“Maybe he’s so mad at me he decided to ride in one of the troop transports,” Blade speculated.

They rode in silence, alertly surveying the countryside for any hint of a threat.

“Are you certain I can’t prevail on you to take one of us with you?”

Rikki inquired after the SEAL had gone a mile.

“Samuel wants to meet me alone,” Blade noted. “But I’ll tell you what I’ll do, just to allay your fears. The driver said one of us could inspect the tent before the meeting, right?”

“Yes,” Rikki affirmed.

“Then you’ll do the inspecting,” Blade stated.

“Thank you,” Rikki responded.

The SEAL purred along Interstate 25. Off to the west was a small herd of cattle. Beyond the grazing cows loomed the imposing mountains, many of the pointed peaks wearing white caps, draped in mantles of snow.

The terrain ahead began to gradually rise, forming a rounded hill. The highway went up and over the center of the hill.

“This should be it,” Rikki said.

Blade drove slowly up the hill. He could feel his stomach churning in anxious anticipation. A quick glance in the rearview mirror assured him the convoy was barreling up the hill; two of the jeeps were in the lead, followed by the half-track, then the troop transports, and a solitary jeep at the very end. Kilrane had divided his Cavalry riders; half of them were riding on the west side of the Interstate, the remainder on the eastern side.

The SEAL reached the crest of the hill.

Blade applied the brakes and placed the vehicle in park.

“There’s the tent,” Yama commented.

There it was, situated between two hills, exactly as Samuel’s messenger had said it would be. The other hill was a half-mile or so to the south.

Waiting in formation on the far hill was Samuel’s army, a thousand strong according to George, the captured Assassin. The sunlight reflected off the windshields of various military vehicles. Banners and flags flapped in the wind. And in the middle of the level area between the hills was a large green tent.

Rikki opened the door. “I will inspect the tent most carefully,” he pledged.

“We’ll be waiting,” Blade said, switching off the engine.

Rikki, his katana in his right hand, jogged down the hill toward the green tent. His mind was deeply troubled. This had to be a trap! There was no doubt about it. But what kind of trap? Would Samuel II draw Blade into the tent and then have his troops attack? No. That made no sense. Samuel knew the Freedom Federation would immediately come to Blade’s rescue. Was Samuel attempting to kidnap Blade and hold him hostage? Again, the idea was ludicrous. How would Samuel get Blade from the tent to his own forces without being spotted? Both armies were equidistant from the green tent. Neither army could reach the tent any faster than the other. Did Samuel intend to murder Blade during their meeting? If so, how? Blade wasn’t an easy man to kill, and Samuel II must be in his 70s or 80s. How would Samuel overcome Blade? And what would he gain? Killing Blade wouldn’t stop the Freedom Federation Army.

So what did Samuel II have up his sleeve?

Rikki slowed as he neared the green tent. He saw the tent was constructed of green canvas. Samuel had placed the square tent to the west of Interstate 25, not four feet from the highway. A field surrounded the tent, and there wasn’t a tree or boulder or any conceivable hiding place within two hundred yards of the site.

To all intents and purposes, the location was ideal, insuring neither side could spring an ambush without detection by the armies on either hill.

So far, so good.

Rikki stopped and cautiously walked to the flap. Someone had imbedded a pole in the ground and tied the flap to the pole, leaving the front entrance wide open.

How nice of them.

Rikki paused in the entranceway. He could clearly see every inch of the interior of the tent. The ceiling was 10 feet above the ground, while the tent walls were 15 yards in length. There was ample room for 50 men, but the spacious interior was unoccupied except for a small folding table and a pair of folding chairs. Nothing else. The rough ground served as the tent’s floor, with patches of grass and weeds serving as the carpet. A pitcher of water rested on the table, next to two tall glasses.

And that was it.

Rikki entered the tent, annoyed. There had to be more to it than this!

His intuition was blaring a siren warning in his mind. But what could be wrong? The field outside the tent was deserted. The inside was empty except for the table and the chairs. The tent walls were swaying slightly in the breeze, indicating there weren’t any secret passages. The roof appeared to be exactly that: a roof. Every element of the meeting place was perfectly ordinary. There was nothing to arouse suspicion.

So why did he feel uneasy?

Rikki walked to the table, studying the arrangement. The table and chairs were ten feet from the entranceway. Sparsely covered ground took up the remainder of the space. There was simply nowhere a foe could hide.

But something was wrong.

Rikki felt it. And he always trusted his instincts. But what was it? If he didn’t find concrete evidence, Blade would laugh off his anxiety and attend the meeting.

What? What? What?

Rikki turned and exited the tent. He began walking around the exterior, examining the walls and the earth at his feet. All he found were the stakes used to erect the tent walls, neatly imbedded in the ground at regular intervals with sturdy cord extending from each stake to a metal ring affixed to the canvas wall of the tent.

That was all.

Irritated by his failure, Rikki completed a circuit of the tent and stopped at the entranceway. He would have to report the tent was safe.

There was no other choice. He took a few steps, then paused, perplexed.

What was this?

There were huge tire tracks in the center of the Interstate. They ran from the front of the tent and disappeared up the hill to the south. What made the tracks so odd was their exceptionally muddy condition.

Normally, a truck wouldn’t leave visible tracks on the surface of a road.

But this one had, apparently because its tires were so caked with dirt and mud, that it left a trail of muddy imprints behind it.

Why the mud?

Rikki glanced around. Had the truck delivered the tent to this site? Had it backed into the field? The ground was hard, and it hadn’t rained in days.

So why the mud?

Something nagged at Rikki’s mind, but he couldn’t identify the cause of his distress. And if all he had to report was a set of muddy truck tracks, he wouldn’t be able to dissuade Blade from coming.

Back to square one.

Rikki started jogging toward the SEAL. He was disgusted at his ineptitude. There was something wrong, something out of kilter with that tent, but for the life of him he couldn’t determine what it was.

Blade, Yama, Teucer, and Kilrane were waiting for him near the SEAL.

“Well?” Blade asked. “What did you find?”

Rikki drew up next to them. He frowned and shook his head. “I didn’t find a thing,” he admitted.

“Nothing?” Yama demanded.

“Nothing I could put my finger on,” Rikki stated.

“Then I’m going,” Blade announced.

“Look!” Teucer exclaimed, pointing at the far hill.

A single jeep was headed down the south hill toward the tent.

“It must be the dictator,” Yama conjectured.

The jeep slowed as it approached the tent, then pulled over on the east side of the Interstate. One man, and only one man, stepped from the vehicle and walked into the tent.

“It has to be Samuel,” Blade said. “I’d better be going.”

“What weapons are you taking?” Rikki inquired.

Blade patted his Bowies. “Just these.”

“No gun?” Rikki responded, surprised.

“The driver told us Samuel would be unarmed,” Blade stated. “I’m not about to waltz into the tent packing a lot of hardware. My Bowies have never failed me before. They’ll suffice.”

“Are you taking the SEAL?” Yama asked him.

“Nope,” Blade answered. He glanced at Kilrane. “Would you have one of our jeeps driven up here?”

“On its way,” Kilrane said, and departed.

“Why won’t you take the SEAL?” Rikki wanted to know. “Its bulletproof body can protect you in case of an ambush.”

“The SEAL stays here,” Blade declared. “We can’t run the risk of it falling into enemy hands. With all the firepower it has, the SEAL is invaluable to our Family.” He paused. “Besides, if I do get into hot water, you can bail me out with the SEAL.”

“I don’t know,” Rikki commented doubtfully.

“You have been paying attention to the driving lessons I gave you on the way down here, haven’t you?” Blade asked.

“You know I have,” Rikki retorted.

“Then what’s the problem?” Blade queried him.

Further conversation was precluded by the arrival of the jeep. The driver, a brown-haired man from the Clan, parked the vehicle and hopped out, leaving the engine idling. “It’s all yours,” he said to Blade.

Blade walked around the front of the jeep and climbed into the driver’s seat. He fondly gazed at Rikki-Tikki-Tavi. “Hold the fort until I return.” He hesitated. “If I shouldn’t return,” he added, “then you know what to tell Jenny.”

Rikki nodded.

“Give a yell if you need us,” Yama advised.

Blade smiled at them and shifted into gear.

“The Spirit be with you,” Rikki offered.

Blade drove toward the tent. He didn’t want to alarm his friends, but he agreed with their assessment. Knowing Samuel II as he did, there was no doubt this arrangement was a setup. But if he refused to attend, the violent clash between the Freedom Federation and the Civilized Zone’s army became inevitable. If he did meet with Samuel, there was always the prospect, no matter how unlikely, of resolving the conflict, of settling the war, without the further loss of lives.

Rikki-Tikki-Tavi had been right; the needless loss of life appalled him.

He could kill when necessary, even ruthlessly on occasion, but not wantonly, not indiscriminately.

The tent reared its dark green shape directly ahead, its sides whipping in the wind like a ghastly green ghost.

Blade parked his jeep alongside the front one. He peered into Samuel’s vehicle before climbing from his own, noting it empty. As he slid from his jeep he happened to notice a brown tarp bundled on the back seat.

The sun was almost overhead, at the noontime point in its aerial trajectory.

Blade insured his Bowies were loose in their sheaths, took a deep breath, and entered the tent.

“I was beginning to believe you wouldn’t show,” stated the lone occupant.

Blade scanned the interior, noting the table, the chairs, the wide empty space beyond. A disturbing thought flitted across his mind: why so large a tent for a meeting between two men?

“Did you have to bring them?” demanded the speaker.

Blade stared at the man sitting to the left of the folding table, and it was only with consumate self-control that he was able to prevent his shock from showing.

Samuel II was well on in years, and his aged body displayed every wrinkle, every crack in his dry, sagging skin. His shiny pate was bald, utterly devoid of hair, but laced with a prominent network of protruding veins. The man’s face seemed to have sunk, to have turned inward on itself; his cheeks were pronounced hollows, his eyes black pools in their recessed sockets, and even his chin had a decidedly cleft aspect. His nose, a long pointed extention of flesh and cartilage, was the only elevated feature on his countenance. Thin, tight lips covered his small mouth. Not much of his body was visible owing to the ill-fitting green fatigues he wore. He raised his withered right hand and pointed at the Bowies. “Did you have to bring them?” he repeated in his raspy voice.

“I never go anywhere without them,” Blade replied.

“Ahhhh, yes. Ever the devoted Warrior.” Samuel II indicated the vacant chair. “Why don’t you have a seat?”

Blade slowly crossed to the chair and sat down.

“Care for some water?” Samuel asked.

“No thanks,” Blade replied.

“Suit yourself,” Samuel said. He poured himself a tall glass and held it close to his lips. “Here’s to progress,” the remarked, and gulped a mouthful.

What was that supposed to mean? Blade gazed around the tent again.

“A bit nervous, are we?” Samuel inquired a trifle sarcastically.

“You wanted to discuss a truce,” Blade reminded him.

Samuel tittered, his dark eyes twinkling in their sockets. Despite his advanced years, there was considerable vitality left in the man.

“What’s so funny?” Blade demanded.

“A private joke,” Samuel responded. “We’ll talk about the truce soon enough. First, though, I’d like to get to know you a little better.”

“What?”

“I thought we’d have a nice chitchat,” Samuel mentioned.

A nice chitchat? Blade studied the dictator, perplexed. What kind of game was Samuel playing? Was he senile? Here they were, the Civilized Zone and the Freedom Federation, embroiled in an all-out war, and Samuel wanted to “chitchat”?

Something wasn’t right.

“I must say,” Samuel said politely, “your Family has caused me no end of trouble. You Warriors are a fierce bunch.”

Was that intended as a compliment? Blade remained silent.

“If you don’t mind,” Samuel continued undeterred, “I’d like to pose a few questions your way.”

Blade leaned forward in his chair. “Questions?”

“Yes,” Samuel said, nodding, his skin quivering as he moved. “For instance, what have you done with the Doktor?”

Blade didn’t reply.

“Is he dead?” Samuel inquired. “I haven’t heard from him, and the last I knew he was heading for Catlow, Wyoming. I’ve received reports of a terrible battle there. Was that you?”

“We were in Catlow,” Blade disclosed.

“And now you are here and the Doktor isn’t,” Samuel observed. “The answer to my question is self-evident.” He examined Blade for a moment.

“You are much younger than I expected.”

Why was Samuel being so courteous? Blade was stumped. This didn’t conform to the dictator’s reputation as a singularly blood-thirsty individual.

“Still,” Samuel went on, “I know age is no determiner of ability. You must be equally as surprised to find someone of my advanced years ruling the Civilized Zone.”

“I am,” Blade admitted.

“Do you know how I do it?” Samuel queried.

“I know how you do it,” Blade snapped. “You rule with an iron fist and you crush all opposition.”

Samuel nodded, cackling. “True. But that’s only half of my secret. Do you know what the other half is?”

Blade shook his head.

“Giving the people a third of the things they think they want. You can’t have them completely unsatisfied or a spontaneous revolution will develop practically overnight. No, you give them some of the luxuries of life, just enough to keep them contented and under your thumb. It works every time.” Samuel beamed.

“And you admit it?” Blade asked, surprised.

Samuel swept the tent with his spindly right arm. “There’s no one else here. Who’s to tell?”

“Your audacity astounds me,” Blade stated.

“Thank you,” Samuel rejoined.

“About the truce,” Blade prompted him.

“In good time, dear lad,” Samuel said patronizingly. “There are a few more items to cover. What happened to the Flatheads?”

“Which Flatheads?” Blade responded.

Samuel chuckled, his eyes sparkling. “You must think I’m a doddering old fool. I assure you, Blade, I am not. I’m referring to the Flathead Indians you rescued from Callow.”

How did Samuel know about them? Blade couldn’t see any harm in divulging the truth. “They’re on their way back to Montana,” he said.

“They wanted to return to their homeland.”

“Why?”

“They wanted to search for other survivors of your attack,” Blade explained, his mind straying to his run to Kalispell and the war between the Flatheads and the Civilized Zone Army, a war the Flatheads lost. “You didn’t kill or capture all of them, you know. The survivors are going to march to our Home for Star and take her to Montana if she wants to go.”

“Who is Star?” Samuel inquired.

“The daughter of the Flathead chief,” Blade commented. “You should remember him,” he said, baiting the dictator. “Your men slaughtered his people and killed him. You still use some of the Flatheads as slave labor.”

“You sound like you disagree,” Samuel remarked.

“Of course!” Blade said angrily. “Do you expect me to condone slavery?”

“A moot point,” Samuel declared. He took a sip of water. “Do you know who Clarissa is?”

The name didn’t ring a bell. “Should I?” Blade retorted.

“Clarissa was the Doktor’s assistant,” Samuel elaborated. “My spies reported her traveling south through Denver over a week ago. You have no inkling of her destination?”

“How would I know?” Blade responded.

“No harm in asking,” Samuel said. He straightened in his seat. “Now to the important matters. How many thermos do you have at your disposal?”

Blade suppressed a grin. So! Lynx had hit the nail on the head! The dictator believed the Family possessed some of the portable thermonuclear devices! “Why should I tell you?” he retorted.

“Then you admit you do have some?” Samuel asked, his voice lowering as he peered intently at the strapping Warrior.

“Do you doubt it?” Blade confidently replied.

Samuel unexpectedly nodded. “Yes, I do.”

Blade nonchalantly reclined in his chair. Uh-oh. This was trouble. His only hope of swiftly ending the war, of preventing more carnage, lay in convincing the dictator the Family had confiscated some thermos. “We have three thermos,” he lied.

“Oh, you do, do you?” Samuel said skeptically.

“If you don’t think we have the thermos,” Blade noted, “then why did you evacuate Fort Collins, Love-land, and the other cities?”

“Because my generals think you have the thermos,” Samuel revealed.

“They suspect you stole them from the Cheyenne Citadel before it was nuked.”

“That’s what we did,” Blade stated belligerently.

Samuel’s eyes narrowed as he scrutinized the Warrior. “And you have these thermos with your column?”

“Yes.”

“And you plan to use them on Denver if we don’t capitulate?” Samuel speculated.

“Exactly,” Blade confirmed.

A smile creased Samuel’s features, one more wrinkle in the sea of lines.

“I… don’t… think… so,” he stated slowly.

This wasn’t going as anticipated. Blade rested his hands on his Bowies.

“Why not?”

Samuel calmly placed his elbows on the table top and cradled his chin in his palms. “I consider myself to be an excellent judge of character. You don’t stay in power as long as I have if you can’t distinguish your friends from your enemies, or potential enemies. You become extremely adept at reading people, at assessing their character. My newly appointed generals believe you have thermos. They pressured me into this meeting. The fools are afraid you will nuke Denver.” He paused, smiling. “I agreed to this meeting on the remote possibility you might, indeed, possess thermos. But one look at your face convinces me you don’t have them. You’re a rotten liar, Blade.”

Blade frowned, annoyed at himself. He never could lie well.

Samuel cackled at his triumph. “Don’t feel so bad. Honesty is, by its very nature, transparent.”

“So now we go to war,” Blade stated regretfully.

“Perhaps not,” Samuel said.

“You’re willing to forget your goals of conquering the territory formerly controlled by the United States of America?” Blade asked in disbelief.

“No.”

“I didn’t think so,” Blade muttered. “Then there will be a war, after all.

The Freedom Federation is not going to stand by and watch you subdue the entire country,” he declared. “We won’t forsake our freedom for a dictatorship. We will use everything in our power to stop you.”

“One step at a time,” Samuel cryptically commented.

“What do you mean by that?”

“I mean,” Samuel said, leering, “you learn to take life one step at a time when you reach my age. I’ll dispose of the rabble comprising the so-called Freedom Federation presently. First, though, I will dispose of their commander-in-chief.”

Blade glared at the dictator. “I won’t be easy to dispose of,” he growled, his resentment toward this smug, sanguinary megalomaniac growing by the moment.

“Not easy,” Samuel agreed, “but not impossible either.”

“I can’t wait for you to try!” Blade snapped.

Samuel laughed. “I’m not crazy! I wouldn’t think of trying to kill you myself.” He paused, smirking. “I’ll leave it to them.” He waved his left hand in an arc.

Blade glanced to his right, then froze, dumbfounded.

There were 17 of them, all dressed in black, their faces covered by black masks, all armed with sharp Oriental swords. They completely encircled the folding table and the chairs.

How?

Samuel chuckled, delighted by the Warrior’s astonished reaction.

Blade suddenly perceived the brilliance of their strategem. They had dug holes in the ground large enough to accommodate a man, 17 holes spaced at ten-foot intervals, aligned along the inner walls of the tent, invisible from the outside and imperceptible inside. An outstanding job of camouflage.

“You won’t leave this tent alive,” Samuel predicted.

Blade tensed, about to draw his Bowies. The odds were too great against him. His only consolation would be to take out Samuel before the Imperial Assassins got him.

“There’s one more question,” Samuel casually mentioned.

Blade started to ease his Bowies from their sheaths.

“Do you miss your father?” Samuel asked.

The unforeseen query startled Blade. His father? What did his father have to do with anything?

Samuel was grinning, obviously relishing the emotional torment he was causing the Warrior. “How many years has it been now? Four years since your father was killed?”

“Leave my father out of this!” Blade said, his tone low and threatening.

Samuel ignored him. “Do you remember how your father was killed?” he taunted.

Blade’s face was turning red.

“Of course you do,” Samuel answered his own question. “Your father was killed by a big cat. Did you ever wonder where that big cat came from?”

Blade felt as if he would explode. “I know where the cat came from! The Doktor sent it to kill my father!”

Samuel’s white eyebrows arched upward. “Oh? You know that, do you? The Doktor must have told you the cat was one of his earlier genetically engineered creations. A test-tube animal. Did you know the Doktor developed the cat from a mountain lion embryo? He raised the animal from a kitten. It would do whatever he wanted.”

Blade’s mind was spinning. Why was Samuel reminding him of all this?

“Actually,” Samuel resumed as if lecturing a student, “the animal was a consequence of the Doktor’s research with test-tube produced mutations and his work with the chemical clouds.”

Blade’s rage was almost uncontrollable.

“You must hate the creature responsible for your father’s demise,” Samuel remarked.

Blade slowly stood.

“Would you like to meet it?” Samuel innocently asked.

Blade couldn’t seem to find his voice. “What?”

“Would you like to meet it? I thought a reunion might be in order,” Samuel said. He nodded at one of the Imperial Assassins.

Four of the Assassins immediately lowered their swords and slid them into their scabbards. The four moved to a spot eight feet from the folding table. They formed a line, knelt, and felt along the ground with their hands. Satisfied, they rose as one and began walking to the right, pulling a section of the “ground” after them.

“Take a look,” Samuel urged Blade. “It’s an old friend of yours.”

Blade, bewildered, moved around the table.

The quartet of Assassins had uncovered a circular pit 20 feet in diameter.

So!

This explained why the tent was so large.

The pit had been covered by a heavy tarp, and the tarp coated with a layer of earth and clumps of weeds and grass.

But what had held aloft the tarp?

Blade walked to the edge of the pit and glanced down.

There was a thin, clear sheet of plastic covering the pit. The plastic sheet was half an inch thick and attached to the edge of the pit by a series of huge metal clamps. Apparently, one end of each clamp was shaped like a stake and imbedded in the upper wall of the pit. The clamp portion was secured to the plastic sheet, supporting it. Small holes had been drilled in the plastic sheet for ventilation purposes.

“A person could walk on that plastic without breaking it,” Samuel commented behind the Warrior. “It’s incredibly strong.”

Blade barely heard the words. His eyes were riveted on the creature reclining on the earthen floor of the pit, the creature responsible for ripping his father to shreds.

The monstrosity was eight feet in length, not counting the two-foot tail.

In general, its contours resembled a mountain lion. But there the resemblance ended. Its skin wasn’t smooth like a cougar’s; the texture was scabrous, with clumps of its light brown hair missing and replaced by festering sores. The creature’s ears were large and tapered to a point; its eyes were vivid green orbs, slanted at an angle across its forehead; its upper teeth protruded over its red lower lip; and saliva was drooling over his chin.

“The Doktor gave it to me as a gift after he tired of it,” Samuel was saying. “He named it Beelzebub.”

The deformed genetic deviate—Beelzebub—rose to its feet. Its paws were immense. A studded leather collar encircled its neck.

Blade’s body erupted in a cold sweat.

“You have no idea how much effort was entailed in arranging this touching reunion,” Samuel said. “But it was all worth it! I vowed to seek revenge for all of the trouble you’ve caused me. For what you did in Fox and Thief River Falls, for the disruption of my meticulous timetable in the Twin Cities, for Kalispell, and for the nuking of the Citadel at Cheyenne.

For all of them!” The dictator’s voice was rising in intensity.

Blade ignored Samuel. His eyes were locked on Beelzebub’s. The cat was staring up at him and snarling.

“After I’ve disposed of you,” Samuel was raving, “I will return to my army. We will withdraw to Denver and await the coming of spring. I will consolidate my empire and conscript more civilians into my military.

Then, when we outnumber your pitiful Freedom Federation force by five to one, I will attack.” He giggled inanely. “So much for the Freedom Federation.”

Blade’s hands were on his Bowies. He absently gazed at the floor of the pit, 12 feet below.

“By the time your people on the hill realize something is wrong and hurry down here,” Samuel gloated, “I will be safe with my troops. My Assassins will secret themselves until your army departs.”

Beelzebub suddenly roared, glaring fixedly at Blade, instinctively sensing the animosity, the sheer fury, welling up within the human.

“As I was saying before,” Samuel stated gleefully, “that plastic can sustain a man’s weight under normal circumstances. If you’re walking on it or standing on it you’ll be safe.” He snickered. “But I wonder what would happen if someone fell on it?”

Blade, his attention arrested by the killer of his father, realized his danger too late.

A pair of hands slammed into the Warrior’s back, hurtling him forward, over the edge of the pit and onto the sheet of plastic. He managed to brace his impact with his hands, but it wasn’t enough to reduce the shuddering shock to the plastic. The abrupt collision rocked the sheet, vibrating the plastic, causing it to bounce, to sway violently, to tremble and crack, and finally split in two.

Samuel screeched in delight.

Blade felt the plastic sheet give way. He slid through the gap, trying to retain a tenuous grip on part of the plastic. His left side bore the brunt of the impact. One half of the sheet thudded into the earth an inch from his head, almost decapitating him.

“Pull!” the dictator was bellowing. “Pull! Pull!”

Blade found himself on the ground in the middle of the pit. The two halves of the plastic sheet had caved inward, their inner rims digging into the floor of the pit, their outer rims pressed against the pit top.

Beelzebub was unscathed, but pinned behind one of the plastic sections.

The Imperial Assassins were grouped around the pit, bent over. They had hold of one section of plastic and were laboriously heaving the slab to the surface.

The section imprisoning Beelzebub was still in place. Evidently they were saving the best for last.

“Pull! Pull!” Samuel was dancing and prancing in ecstasy.

With a united effort, the Imperial Assassins were able to lift the first section over the rim of the pit and slide it aside.

“The other one!” Samuel goaded them. “The other one!”

Blade rose to his feet, drawing his Bowies. He began backing away from the plastic section restraining the incensed feline.

The second section slowly climbed upward as the Assassins strained to clear the pit.

Beelzebub snarled and clawed at the plastic sheet.

Blade clutched his Bowies and waited.

The second section was a foot above the dirt floor.

Beelzebub pawed at the receding edge of the sheet, growling.

Blade’s mouth felt dry. He struggled to compose his whirling thoughts.

Be calm! he told himself. You’ll lose it if you can’t concentrate! He had to forget this thing was responsible for slaying his father. His acute hatred would impair his skill, would make him fatally careless. Concentrate! his mind screamed. Concentrate!

The second section was four feet above the floor.

Beelzebub watched the plastic sheet, fascinated by its ascent.

“Kill him!” Samuel shouted down. “Kill him!”

The Assassins raised the second section above the lip of the pit and deposited it near the first.

“Kill him!” Samuel cried.

Beelzebub finally focused on the human in the pit. It rose on all fours and roared.

“Kill him!”

Blade inched backwards. His body made contact with the pit wall.

“Kill him!”

He was trapped! There was nowhere else to turn.

“Kill him!”

Beelzebub hissed and charged.

Blade met the rush head-on. He drew his right Bowie back and plunged its keen blade in Beelzebub’s chest as the creature pounced. The force of the cat’s attack drove Blade into the pit wall. His breath was expelled from his lungs in an audible whoosh. He grunted and recovered, slicing his left Bowie into Beelzebub’s thick neck as the deviate slashed and raked with its six-inch claws.

Beelzebub shrieked and snarled, trying to bury its teeth in the human’s throat.

Blade knew his arms and legs were being torn to ribbons. He had to break free or the loss of blood alone would be his undoing. He jammed his right elbow into the cat’s neck, pressing those razor teeth from him, and swept his left Bowie up and in, hoping his hasty aim would hit the mark.

It did.

The Bowie stabbed into Beelzebub’s right eye.

Roaring in shock and agony, Beelzebub bounded to the left. Its right eye was split open, streaming a greenish-red fluid down its furry cheek and over its chin.

Samuel II was gaping at the fight in amazement, unable to believe his champion was hurt.

The 17 Imperial Assassins ringed the pit, watching expectantly.

Blade staggered aside, putting distance between the cat and himself.

Blood was pouring from his arms and legs; fortunately, the deviate had missed his abdomen.

Beelzebub crouched along the far wall, licking its face.

Blade gripped his Bowies tightly and stopped. What would be the best killing stroke? To the neck? To the heart? To the head? The cat wasn’t—

Something sharp lanced into Blade’s right shoulder. He twisted to the right as a lancing spasm tore through his arm.

What?

Samuel was laughing.

Blade grit his teeth and glanced at his right arm. A throwing knife was sunk to the hilt in his shoulder. He looked up at the pit rim.

Samuel II was patting an Assassin on the back.

Now what? Was Samuel expecting him to fight Beelzebub and the Assassins simultaneously? Blade slid his left Bowie into its sheath, reached across his broad chest, and wrenched the throwing knife from his shoulder. His right arm became a river of blood.

Samuel leaned over the edge of the pit. “What’s wrong, Warrior?” he baited Blade. “Where’s your vaunted proficiency now? I was misled. My men told me you were deadly, someone to be feared. Yet all I see is a pathetic muscle-bound clod!” He giggled, rubbing his boney hands together. “Did you really think you could defeat me? Me?”

Blade saw Beelzebub crouching for another spring. Taking on the deviate and the Assassins at the same time was impossible. He needed a distraction, something completely unexpected, something to divert the Assassins while he dealt with the cat.

But what?

Samuel’s smirking visage provided the answer. He was still leaning over the pit, reveling in his impending victory.

“You’re forgetting one thing!” Blade shouted, keeping his eyes on Beelzebub.

“What’s that?” Samuel replied, scoffing.

“An old saying we have in the Family,” Blade stated, dropping his left arm to his side.

“Well, what the hell is it?” Samuel demanded.

Blade slowly smiled. “Never count your chickens until they’re hatched.”

“I don’t get the point,” Samuel said, puzzled.

“You will.” Blade’s left arm flashed upward. The throwing knife streaked straight and true, the result of innumerable hours spent in practice.

Samuel’s eyes widened in startled wonder as the throwing knife penetrated his throat and stuck fast. He gagged, dribbling blood from his mouth, and reached for the knife in an attempt to draw it out. His body quivered, then pitched headlong into the pit.

Just as Beelzebub charged again.

Blade ducked to his right, avoiding those raking claws, and the cat reached the wall and whirled to confront its foe.

Samuel’s body thumped to the dirt floor a foot to the left of the deviate.

Beelzebub spun, automatically facing in the direction of the sound, thinking the noise was produced by another opponent.

Blade made his move. He leaped, diving for the cat, his arms outstretched, the Bowies angled outwards. Before Beelzebub could react, Blade was on him, plunging the Bowies home. The left Bowie drove into the cat’s right ear, even as the right speared into its left eye.

Beelzebub went into a frenzy, its body contorting and writhing, jerking spasmodically, wildly jerking and twisting in every direction.

Blade was tossed from the uncontrollable deviate, unable to withstand the animal’s death throes. He felt his head smack against a hard surface, and the world reeled before his eyes. Vertigo engulfed him and he fell to his knees.

Get up!

On your feet!

His mind was screaming at him to stand! The Assassins would use him for a pincushion if he didn’t get to his feet! Blade struggled to stand. He heard a loud cry arise overhead, followed by the clanging of metal upon metal. A machine gun burped. He shook his head, his vision clearing.

Beelzebub was lying on the floor, flat on its stomach, the Bowies protruding from its head, dead.

There was a confused blur of activity on the rim of the pit. Swords swinging. Guns blasting. Yelling.

Blade thought he saw Rikki-Tikki-Tavi cut an Assassin from chin to navel with his katana. And wasn’t that Yama, scimitar in hand, taking the arm off another man in black? His mind was rambling. What had he hit his head on?

One of the Assassins jumped to the pit floor. He raised his sword and closed on the Warrior.

The last sight Blade saw before losing conscious was that of a brown, furry form leaping onto the Assassin and bearing him to the ground.

Who the…