Green Bay Run

Chapter Nine

Blade placed his left arm on the window, drew the .44 Magnum, nestled the barrel under his arm pointing outward, and cocked the hammer. He looked into the side mirror, watching the oncoming jeep, and saw the driver slant the vehicle toward his side of the SEAL. “Slip out your door,” he ordered Samson. “Cue on me.”

“May the Lord guide your hands,” the Nazarite said. He cracked the passenger door, then slid to the ground.

Plastering a friendly smile on his face, Blade glanced down as the jeep coasted to a stop alongside the transport.

A tall man sporting silver insignia on his lapels stared suspiciously at the Warrior. Lying in his lap was one of the distinctive assault rifles specifically manufactured by the Technics for their troops, a Dakon II. The entire weapon, including the folding stock and the 20-inch barrel, was black to reduce reflection. A short silencer suppressed each shot, and a 30-shot magazine provided ample rounds. Mounted above the ejection chamber was an elaborate scope, and atop the scope at the front end projected a four-inch tube capable of generating a red beam of light, a targeting laser used to pinpoint foes with astounding accuracy. A button on top of the scope activated the Laser Sighting Mode. There were four other buttons, located on the stock on the right side, and a small digital display above them. The digital readout kept track of the number of rounds expended and would light up when the first button was pressed.

The second button put the Dakon in full automatic, the third semiautomatic, and the fourth ejected spent magazines.

Blade knew the weapon well. He had used one extensively during his last run-in with the Technics. “Hi there,” he greeted the officer. “Can I help you?”

“Hello,” the Technic said, his brown eyes roving over the SEAL. “I’m Lieutenant Mitchell, First Corps, Technic Army. Who might you be?”

Neither he nor his fellow Technics wore helmets.

“Bomba,” Blade fibbed, thinking of a series of books he’s enjoyed in his younger years.

“Strange name,” Lieutenant Mitchell commented, still studying the transport. “Where are you from? I have the weirdest feeling that I should know you, and there’s something vaguely familiar about your van.”

“I’m from Shangri-la.”

“Never heard of it.”

“But I’ve heard of the Technics,” Blade said. “I didn’t know I’d strayed into your territory. I thought the Technics are based down dear Chicago.”

“We are. But we call Chicago Technic City.”

“I think I like the old name better.”

“Did I ask you, mister?” Mitchell responded, his brow knit in contemplation.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you,” Blade stated, continuing to beam good-naturedly.

“What are you doing here?” Lieutenant Mitchell inquired arrogantly.

“Excuse me, but I don’t see why I should answer your questions when I’m not even in your territory.”

“You’ll answer them or else,” the officer informed the giant. “You’re in the vicinity of a top-secret Technic installation, and I’m required to verify the intentions of everyone in this sector.”

Blade glanced at the two Technics seated in the rear of the jeep. Both held Dakon II’s. “Really? There’s a Technic instal-lation hereabouts?

Where is it? What kind of installation is it?”

“Our facility is located in Green Bay, and you would be smart to avoid the city at all costs,” Lieutenant Mitchell said.

“What are you doing there?” Blade probed.

“Do you really expect me to reveal classified information?”

“No, I guess not,” Blade responded. “But maybe you can tell me one thing.”

“Which is?”

“I came across several bodies near a wagon earlier. The people had been torn apart. Do you happen to know what killed them?”

“We saw them too,” Mitchell mentioned. “And no, I don’t know how they died.”

“A horrible way to go.”

“I agree,” Mitchell stated, sounding sincere. He straight-ened and tried to peer past the Warrior. “Are you all alone?”

“Yep.”

“It’s dangerous to travel in the Outlands alone.”

“I know.”

“Have you seen anyone else in this area?”

“No,” Blade said. “I’d stopped to eat some jerky when I saw you driving down the road. Why?”

“You haven’t seen anyone at all?” Mitchell inquired.

“Not a soul.”

Lieutenant Mitchell exchanged glances with the driver, then smiled at the giant. “Would you mind if we searched your vehicle?”

Blade pretended to be shocked by the request. “What?”

“I can’t permit you to proceed until I’ve checked your vehicle. We’re looking for a fugitive.”

“And you believe this fugitive might be in my van?”

“There’s always the possibility.”

“I’m the only one in here.”

“I need to be certain,” Mitchell said.

“Are you calling me a liar?” Blade asked.

“Of course not. It’s just my job.”

“Because I am,” Blade stated.

“What?”

Blade leaned toward them and lowered his voice in a conspiratorial whisper. “I am, you see.”

Lieutenant Mitchell missed the connection. “You’re what?” he snapped.

“A liar.”

The officer rested his left hand on his Dakon II. “Oh? What did you lie about?”

“Everything.”

“Do tell.”

“Even my name. It isn’t Bomba.”

Mitchell shifted, studying the giant’s features, mystified by the admission and uncertain of where the conversation might be leading.

“What is your real name?”

Blade grinned. “I’ll give you a clue.”

“I don’t want a damn clue. I want your name.”

“Where were you three years ago?”

“Three years ago? What difference does it make?”

“Humor me,” Blade said. “Think back. What were you doing three years ago this month?”

“I was an instructor at our Training Academy, teaching—” Mitchell began, and amazement set in. He scrutinized the transport, stunned, as if he couldn’t believe his own eyes. “You!”

“Me,” Blade said, and shot him. The .44 Magnum thundered, the bullet boring into Lieutenant Mitchell’s forehead and slamming him against the driver. Blade dropped onto his right side, knowing Sampson would cut loose, and the burping of the Bushmaster proved him to be right. He waited for the firing to stop, all of five seconds, and popped back up.

The Technics had been unable to squeeze off a single round. Samson had crept to the back of the jeep while the officer conversed with Blade, then risen when the Magnum boomed and poured half of his magazine into their backs. They were sprawled in grotesque positions, their uniforms dotted with red holes.

“Nice job,” Blade remarked.

“I dislike shooting anyone in the back, but I couldn’t ask them to turn around, could I?” Samson replied.

“You did just fine,” Blade assured him.

The jeep abruptly moved slowly forward as the driver’s limp foot slipped from the brake pedal.

“What do I do?” Samson asked. “I’ve never driven a vehicle before.”

Blade grabbed the door handle, about to vault out and stop the creeping jeep, when he happened to glance in the side mirror and discovered three more Technic vehicles racing toward the SEAL. They were less than 90 yards away. “Get in! Quick!” he commanded.

Samson looked over his left shoulder, then dashed around the front of the van to the passenger side. “Do we stand and fight?” he asked as he climbed inside.

“No,” Blade replied. “They might have grenades. We’ll make them come after us, then give them a little surprise.” He gunned the engine and took off, accelerating rapidly, his eyes on the mirror.

“What about Yama?”

“He’ll wait for us if he returns while we’re gone. He knows we wouldn’t leave without a good reason.”

“I’m surprised he isn’t back already.”

“So am I,” Blade admitted. The speedometer indicated 40 miles an hour and climbing.

“They’re gaining on us,” Samson commented.

“Perfect,” Blade said, and smiled grimly. He saw one of the Technics in the lead jeep talking into a radio. The sight angered him. Now the Technics in Green Bay would know the SEAL was in the area. Now the Mad Scientist, or whoever the blazes he was, would be expecting them.

Typical.

Just once, he mentally noted, he’d like for a mission to unfold without a hitch. Something always went wrong. Always. Whether he was on a run for the Family or on an assignment for the Freedom Force, the sequence of events never proceeded exactly as he planned. If a mission ever did go smoothly, he might not be able to stand the shock. The thought made him grin.

“Enjoying yourself?” Samson inquired.

“Are you kidding?” Blade responded. “Who wouldn’t have fun on one of our missions? We get to travel hundreds, sometimes thousands of miles from the ones we love the most. We go up against every wacko who comes down the pike. And we have to watch our back every minute of every day while we’re away.” He paused. “Who wouldn’t enjoy himself.”

“Forget I asked.”

Blade transferred the .44 Magnum to his left hand and extended his arm backwards out the open window, pointing the barrel in the general direction of the three jeeps, not really expecting to hit any of the Technics but hoping to slow them down. He squeezed off a shot and the Technic drivers, predictably, reduced speed.

A curve appeared several hundred yards to the east.

“Do you want me to try and nail them?” Samson queried.

“Save your ammo,” Blade advised, withdrawing his arm and sliding the Dan Wesson into its holster. He intended to round the curve, brake, and execute a sharp U-turn. When the Technics came into view, he’d cut loose with the 50-caliber machine guns.

The jeeps were still in hot pursuit.

“Why are there so many Technics this far from Green Bay?” Samson wondered aloud. “Why are they concentrating in this area?”

“My guess is they’re searching for someone,” Blade speculated.

“So you think that business about looking for a fugitive was legitimate?”

“Yeah. And if we can find this fugitive before the Technics, maybe we can learn a lot more about their activities in Green Bay,” Blade said. He kept the pedal pressed to the floor, gauging the distance between the transport and the jeeps, estimate he would have ample time to complete his man-euver.

Several of the Technics opened fire and a few rounds whined off the rear of the SEAL.

Blade gripped the steering wheel tightly as he neared the curve. He swung the van wide, taking the turn at 60. The SEAL slewed sharply and seemed about to veer off the road into the trees, but came through the curve on all four tires. He went to slam his foot on the brake.

“Look out!” Samson bellowed.

Blade spotted her at the instant the Nazarite yelled, an elderly woman attired in a beige dress who stood in the center of the highway not 100 feet from the curve. He tramped on the brake pedal and jerked the wheel to the right, frantically hoping he could miss her. In the brief glimpse he had of the woman, she appeared to be in a daze, walking westward with her arms limp at her sides and her eyes wide. As the SEAL streaked toward her, a veritable juggernaut of doom, he could see her lined features and gray hair. The van hugged the outside of the road, and for a second he believed he would shoot past her.

And then she did the unexpected.

The elderly woman deliberately stepped into the transport’s path.

“Dear Lord!” Samson cried.

Blade wanted to echo his companion, but instead he gaped in sheer horror as the SEAL plowed into the woman, catching her squarely in the middle of the grill. He heard a loud thump, and then the van bounced, as if going over an obstruction. Dreading what he would see, he glanced over his right shoulder.

The woman had fallen onto her left side, and the SEAL’s heavy tires had crushed both of her spindly legs to a pulp. Astonishingly, she was trying to push herself up, and her face reflected the same dazed expression. She did not betray the slightest trace of pain.

No screaming.

No hysterics.

Nothing.

“We should help her,” Samson said.

Blade slowed, uncertain, bewildered by her demeanor, sensing an alien quality about her. How could anyone be run over by a vehicle weighing tons and not be a bit bent out of shape by the experience?

The Nazarite gazed at the giant. “What’s wrong? Why aren’t you turning around?”

“Look at her face.”

“What?”

“The woman’s face,” Blade reiterated. He continued to the east at 40 miles an hour, watching in the side mirror.

Moments later the first of the Technic vehicles screeched around the curve. The driver spotted the woman and brought the jeep to an abrupt halt within yards of her still-struggling form. Three other troopers bailed out and hurried to the woman. A lean man, a noncom with four black stripes on his uniform, knelt alongside her. The two other jeeps stopped nearby.

Blade slowed the transport even more, his curiosity getting the better of his prudence. He observed the noncom speaking to the elderly woman, and he was surprised the Technics were so solicitous. His surprise became amazement seconds later when the gray-haired woman reached up and clamped her right hand on the noncom’s throat.

“What is she doing?” Samson exclaimed.

The noncom tried to rise. He released his Dakon II and grabbed her wrist. His fellow soldiers came to his aid, attempting to yank her hand free. But she clung to the noncom tenaciously and endeavored to claw out his eyes with her left hand.

“She’s trying to kill him,” the Nazarite commented, astounded by the development. “Why?”

“I wish I knew,” Blade answered absently.

The woman was holding her own, resisting the efforts of the troopers, her fingers locked on the noncom. He beat her on the arm and face, striving to break her choking grip. Another trooper stepped in close and smashed the stock of his Dakon II on her head. She ignored the blow, concentrating on the noncom.

Blade brought the transport to a halt. He twisted and stuck his head out the window for a better view, confounded by the tableau.

The noncom had risen to a crouching posture, raining punches all the while, swinging his body from side to side, hauling her from the ground.

She clung to his neck, her mangled, bloody legs dangling under her, jagged pieces of bone protruding from her pulverized skin. Other soldiers pummeled her mercilessly, but she hung on and succeeded in ripping open the noncom’s left cheek.

Blade saw a heavyset trooper get out of the second jeep and walk over to the seemingly unequal contest, a pistol clutched in his right hand. The heavyset soldier placed the pistol against the elderly woman’s temple and fired. She stiffened, let go of the noncom, and collapsed on the asphalt.

Thinking the fight was over, Blade went to turn in his seat when the woman suddenly sat bolt upright.

“The Lord preserve us!” Samson breathed.

In complete consternation, Blade watched the heavyset trooper empty the pistol into the woman’s head. Only then did she topple over and stay down. He exchanged glances with the Nazarite.

“What have we gotten ourselves into?” Samson asked.

“I wish I knew.”