Anaheim Run

Chapter Nine

Hickok’s reaction was as instantaneous as it was unexpected. The assassin had him covered, his Colts in his holsters. No one in their right mind, looking down the barrel of a rifle, would try to buck the odds. By all rights, the gunman should have raised his hands over his head and meekly surrendered. Instead, Hickok relied on his lightning speed to pull his fat out of the fire. The gunfighter threw himself to the right, his right Colt streaking up and out.

Only Nightshade’s inhuman reflexes saved him from the Warrior’s incredible speed and accuracy. He darted to the left of the door as Hickok’s Python boomed, the slug plowing into the jamb a hairsbreadth from his head.

Hickok was caught between the proverbial rock and a hard place.

Nightshade would be waiting for him outside if he tried to get away through the front door. And to his rear was a chamber filled with deadly assassins. His agile mind weighed the probabilities, and in the space of two seconds his mind was made up.

The Warrior whirled and dashed into the meeting room.

All of the Gild members were on their feet, staring in confusion at the door in the west wall.

Hickok expected the majority of the assassins to have weapons concealed under their robes. He knew he couldn’t nail all off them without being seriously injured or worse. And since his top priority was still to warn Blade and Plato, he had to stay alive if he ever hoped to see them again. Accordingly, as he entered the west door, he was already angling toward the door in the north wall.

The Gild members were highly trained. They overcame their initial bewilderment and went into action. Several ran toward the mystery rifles leaning against the north wall, while others made a grab for arms hidden in their black robes.

Hickok opened up, three shots in astonishingly rapid succession, and the trio of assassins, two women and a man bolting toward the mystery weapons, were downed on the run, each one struck in the head, each one dying in a spray of blood and brains.

“Get him!” Kraken thundered.

Two of the Gild assassins began blasting with pistols.

Hickok was a stride from the north door when the first rounds thudded into the wall, and he ducked and hurtled through the doorway as the Gild members fired in earnest. He was in a narrow hallway leading to an exit door, and he wasn’t alone.

The assassin known as Leftwich, the hit man with the sallow complexion, was halfway between the Warrior and the exit. He was alongside a dust-covered clothing rack, in the act of changing from his black robe into one of the four Free State Army uniforms suspended on hangers from the rack. Leftwich was gaping at the gunman in unbelieving stupefaction.

Hickok was about to gun down the skinny hit man when a pistol roared to his rear and a bullet missed his left ear by a fraction. The gunfighter spun, his left Colt belching lead.

A female assassin poised in the north doorway was hit in the left eye, the impact propelling her backward out of sight.

Hickok faced the exit just in time.

Leftwich, a 14-inch survival knife in his right hand, was almost upon the gunman, mere feet away.

Hickok side stepped to the right as the knife sliced toward his face, evading the blow, slanting the Python barrels upward, intending to perforate the assassin’s noggin. But the hit man tripped.

Leftwich had been only partially dressed when a solitary shot had sounded from the direction of the west entrance. He’d already removed his black robe and slid into a pair of fatigue pants and combat boots when he’d heard the shot. He’d frozen, his fingers gripping the laces to his right boot, about to tie them, listening. When, just moments later, three shots had thundered in the meeting room, he’d straightened, forgetting all about his untied laces. And now, as he charged the gunman, his oversight saved his life. He tripped on the flapping bootlaces, stumbling forward, past the man in the buckskins, his momentum catapulting him toward the meeting room door in a wild cartwheel of limbs and tangled clothing.

Hickok kept going, sprinting to the exit door and shoving it open.

A weed-choked expanse of ten yards separated the building he was in from several more towering structures. Off to the left was the forest, and to the right, to the east, was dense brush, stands of trees, and a glimpse of another body of water.

Hickok bore to the right, heading for a stand of trees about 40 feet from the door. If he went to the left, he knew he risked exposing himself to the assassin named Nightshade—if the mutant was still near the front porch. By going straight he would have entered one of the other buildings, and he didn’t want to be confined with a passel of murderers on his tail.

Bearing to the right seemed to be the wisest course. He covered 20 feet with no signs of pursuit, and he was congratulating himself on his brilliant escape from the jaws of death, when there was a buzzing noise close to his right ear and the ground in front of him abruptly exploded, peppering his buckskins with dirt.

Uh-oh!

Hickok ran even faster, glancing over his left shoulder. The silent shot had obviously come from one of the mystery rifles, and since the trajectory went from his ear to the turf, the sniper had to be positioned somewhere far above the ground. He looked up and found his foe, yet another of the Gild assassins on the roof of the building to his left. He realized the guard must have been posted there all along, but had somehow missed spotting his approach earlier. The dense foliage in the forest must have screened him from view from the roof.

The assassin was trying to get a bead on the racing figure.

Hickok weaved to the right, and another section of sod erupted in the space he’d occupied a millisecond before.

The assassin swiveled, trying to compensate for his target’s deliberately evasive pattern.

Hickok jogged to the left, then the right again, never running for more than two steps in a straight line. He was ten feet from the trees when the sniper tried a third time, hitting the ground a few inches to the Warrior’s left.

Someone to the rear was yelling.

Hickok reached the stand of trees, diving for cover behind the wide trunk of an oak tree. He flattened on the musty earth, turning to see if they were after him.

They were.

All of them were gathered outside the exit door, checking their weapons. Kraken was barking orders and gesturing angrily. Nightshade stood by his side. Charley, the Englishman, was listening attentively.

Leftwich was hurriedly donning a fatigue shirt.

Was that all that were left? Hickok quickly calculated the numbers.

There had been nine in the room initially. Neborak had been killed by Nightshade. And he had personally accounted for four of them. So counting the cow chips on the roof, there were five Gild members remaining. Five he knew of, anyway, but there could be more.

Kraken waved his right arm and all four assassins jogged after the Warrior.

Hickok crawled backwards until he was obscured by a thick bush. He rose and ran deeper into the trees, seeking a likely hiding place. How good could the assassins track? he wondered. The soil underfoot was soft and would readily leave prints. He needed a stretch of rocky terrain to throw his enemies off the scent.

More shouting to his rear.

What a bunch of dummies! Hickok chuckled. They weren’t making any effort to conceal their pursuit. For professional assassins, these yo-yos were pathetic.

The stand of trees came to an end. Beyond was a section of brush, then more trees, then more water, either another lake or river or the continuation of the one he’d been following after entering the amusement park.

Hickok looked over his right shoulder to insure they weren’t gaining on him, then ran toward the line of trees ahead. He hoped he wouldn’t stumble on another alligator —or something worse.

The Gild members were making quite a racket, yelling back and forth.

Hickok paused when he reached the line of trees near the water, glancing back. Why were Kraken and company being so careless?

Something wasn’t right here. He moved through the trees until he found the lake.

Dominating the landscape to the northeast were a pair of miniature mountains. The highest of the pair was brownish in color, and there seemed to be a half-dozen caves dotting its side. The smaller mountain was a gray spire with a waterfall cascading from its peak to its base. Both mountains were on the far side of the lake. In the middle of the water, and not all that far from shore, was a large island. Docked next to the island’s southern bank was a giant antiquated boat.

Hickok eyed the island speculatively. If he could swim to it before the assassins reached the lake shore, they’d never be able to find him. He glanced to the left, and there was a wooden dock projecting into the lake at least a third of the distance to the island.

Perfect!

Hickok sprinted to the edge of the dock. The wood was old and sections were rotted, but the dock appeared to be sturdy enough to support his weight. He tentatively placed his right food on the nearest board to test its strength.

“Any sign of him yet?” bellowed a voice perhaps 30 yards from the lake.

Hickok threw caution to the wind and hastened to the end of the creaking, sagging dock, carefully avoiding ragged holes in the planks, keeping his eyes on the trees behind him. A few small, ramshackle structures bordered the dock, none of which betrayed any hint of recent habitation. He stepped to the very rim and stared at the blue water below.

Countless hours of frolicking in the moat at the Home as a child qualified him as a passable swimmer. He could easily reach the island, which was not more than 20 yards from the dock. But he didn’t like the notion of getting his cherished Pythons wet. The water wouldn’t damage the revolvers, and he would clean them thoroughly at the earliest opportunity, but the idea bothered him and he hesitated.

“Over this way!” someone shouted.

There wasn’t any time to waste! Hickok slid his Colts into their holsters, clamped his hands on the grips to insure he didn’t lose them, and dropped into the lake feet first. He held his body rigid as the cool water closed about him, keeping his eyes open, and he waited until his descent had ceased before kicking his way back to the surface.

The lake was quiet and peaceful.

Hickok released his Pythons and started swimming toward the island in even, powerful strokes.

“He’s heading for the lake!” yelled someone in the trees near the shore.

The assassins were almost to the lake! Hickok swam faster, feeling a clammy sensation as his drenched buckskins clung to him, slightly impeding his progress.

There was a run-down building on the southwest tip of the island.

Between the building and the shore, fringing the bank in a verdant cloak, was a ring of dense vegetation.

Hickok marveled at California’s prolific plant life. Even in January, which was one of the coldest months of the year back in Minnesota, much of the flora was green and healthy. If he could just reach that bank before the assassins appeared! He looked over his right shoulder as he swam, elated to discover the Gild members hadn’t caught up with him yet.

Move!

The Warrior churned the water, his legs and arms pumping, as he rapidly closed the gap to the island. He thought he glimpsed a shadowy form skulking near the building, but when he forced his full attention no one was there.

Must be a case of nerves.

Hickok’s moccasins struck bottom when he was eight feet from the bank. He plunged ahead, checking to insure his Pythons were in their holsters, and paddled behind the protective shelter of a clump of overhanging bushes.

Voices rose from the direction of the dock.

Hickok twisted in the water, peering through a crack in the vegetation.

Kraken and the others were standing on the dock.

Hickok waited to see if they were going to come after him. They were gazing at the island, but they weren’t acting as if they’d seen him. In fact, they were smiling and joking together. Now what was that all about? he wondered. A twig snapped behind him.