Anaheim Run

Chapter Twelve

“You shouldn’t leave the grounds, sir,” the lieutenant warned. “It could be dangerous out there.”

Boone gazed at the brick wall, his brown hair waving in a gust of wind, his brown eyes studying the red streak before him. “If Hickok went over, then I’m going over.”

The lieutenant in charge of the cleanup detail shook his head. “I can’t stop you, but I don’t think you’re doing the right thing.”

Boone stared at the corpse lying at the base of the wall. A pair of soldiers were wrapping their deceased comrade in a body bag.

“We don’t really know if the Warrior went over the wall,” the lieutenant noted.

“There’s nowhere else he could have gone,” Boone countered. “I know he’s not in the hotel, and I’ve searched the garden from one end to the other. Hickok isn’t on the grounds. He was after the hit man. If the trail of dead soldiers ends here, then the assassin went over the wall at this spot and Hickok followed him.”

“If you’re determined to see this through,” the lieutenant offered, “I can go with you.”

“Thanks, but no,” Boone said. “I can make a lot faster time by myself.

But you can do me a favor.”

“Name it.”

“Find Blade, the other Warrior,” Boone directed.

“The one with all the muscles?” the lieutenant queried.

“That’s him. Tell him where I’ve gone, and ask him to relay the news to Kilrane. He’ll understand.”

“Will do,” the lieutenant promised. He moved next to the wall and cupped his hands at his waist. “Can I give you a boost?”

“Thanks.” Boone placed his right moccasin in the officer’s hands and nodded.

The lieutenant heaved.

Boone sailed upward, easily gripping the top of the wall and sliding over to the far side. He landed upright, his hands on his 44 Magnums. He had to find Hickok, if only to redeem himself in his own eyes. If he hadn’t rushed headlong into the garden in pursuit of the Warrior and the assassin, if he’d only paid more attention to their tracks and less to keeping Hickok in sight, he wouldn’t have lost them. His stupidity bothered him, and he knew he wouldn’t live it down if the Warrior was killed.

The Cavalryman crouched and examined bootprints and moccasin tracks, both leading off to the northeast. Elated his hunch had been right, Boone rose and jogged across the field. He found an animal trail in the forest beyond and ran along the path until he reached an obstruction, a chain-link fence covered with plant growth.

Now which way? he wondered.

Boone spotted a hole in the vegetation and squatted to peer through it.

A flock of sparrows perched in a tree on the far side of the chain-link fence suddenly broke into flight, chirping wildly.

Boone stood, listening. A lifetime on the Dakota plains had taught him to recognize and react to the subtle signals nature provided. Something had spooked the sparrows, but what? He detected the pounding of feet coming from the other side of the fence, and he quickly moved to the right and ducked around a thick bush.

A moment later a head poked through the hole in the fence. A thin man in a soldier’s uniform crawled into view with an unusual rifle slung over his left shoulder.

Boone was on him while the man was still on his hands and knees, pressing the barrel of his right Hombre against the startled crawler’s left ear.

The man stiffened and gasped.

“Howdy,” Boone greeted him. “Who are you?”

“Leftwich,” the man blurted. “Private Leftwich. I was sent out to look for the guy who tried to kill the leaders earlier.”

“I don’t think so,” Boone said.

“Why don’t you believe me?” Leftwich asked in annoyance.

“For starters your rifle isn’t Free State Army issue,” Boone mentioned.

“I’ve never seen a gun like it. What is it?”

Leftwich clamped his thin lips together.

“Suit yourself,” Boone said, his right foot lashing forward.

Leftwich was struck in the ribs. He grunted and tumbled onto his right side, wheezing, clutching at his chest.

Boone leaned over the sickly-looking man. “One more time. What kind of rifle is that?”

“A Darter!” Leftwich replied breathlessly.

Boone reached out and tapped the oblong cylinder under the Darter’s barrel. “This is what was used on the soldiers in the garden, and somebody tried to kill me with one of these. What’s it shoot?”

“Explosive darts,” Leftwich revealed, grimacing in pain.

“You don’t say,” Boone commented. “How?”

Leftwich was rubbing his left side. “Compressed air. The Darters are accurate up to one hundred yards. Semiautomatic or full auto.”

“Do they explode on contact?” Boone inquired.

“They detonate on penetration of the target,” Leftwich detailed.

Boone straightened. “Slip your Darter to the ground.”

Leftwich slowly removed the sling and gingerly deposited the Darter on the grass.

Boone squatted, his right Hombre trained on the assassin, and lifted the Darter in his left hand. “I’ll hang onto this for you. Stand up.”

Leftwich complied, his eyes pinpoints of hatred.

“Where’s Hickok?” Boone asked.

“I don’t know any Hickok,” Leftwich answered.

“Suit yourself,” Boone said. He backed up several strides.

“I don’t know any Hickok!” Leftwich reiterated.

“Does your mom know she raised a chronic liar?” Boone commented.

He checked the Darter and found a safety located over the trigger. “Is this thing loaded?” he questioned while flicking the safety off.

Leftwich’s beady eyes widened. “Be careful with that!”

Boone aimed the Darter at the assassin’s head. “I think I’d like a demonstration.”

Leftwich glanced from the Darter to the Hombre. “I don’t know where Hickok is! Honest! He got away from us!”

“Us?”

“The Gild,” Leftwich disclosed.

“You’re going to take me to where you last saw Hickok,” Boone ordered.

“If I suspect you’re playing me for a fool, I’ll shoot you with your own gun.”

Leftwich scowled. “This just isn’t my day,” he muttered.

Boone holstered his right Magnum, gripping the Darter with both hands. “After you.” He indicated the hole in the fence with a sweep of the barrel. “Stay on your hands and knees when you get to the other side.

Don’t stand until I tell you to.”

Leftwich knelt next to the hole. “Who are you? Another Warrior?”

“No,” Boone replied.

“You look like one,” Leftwich said.

“Through the hole,” Boone stated. He crouched and watched Leftwich obey, then went through himself. “On your feet,” he commanded, rising.

“Now what?” Leftwich asked.

“I told you. Take me to where you last saw Hickok,” Boone directed.

Leftwich dejectedly started off.

Boone refrained from interrogating the phony soldier, concerned their voices might attract unwanted attention. The assassin could be questioned after Hickok was safe and sound. He followed Leftwich to a lake, then north along the shore. When they reached a large gray beast in a stand of trees, he halted. “What’s that?”

“An artificial elephant, you hick,” Leftwich responded.

“Wasn’t civilization grand?” Boone remarked. “Keep going.”

Leftwich headed toward tall structures to the northeast.

As he trod on the heals of the weasel of an assassin, Boone reflected on the chain of circumstances resulting in his presence in the Free State of California. Five years ago, before the Cavalry had made contact with the Family, prior to the Cavalry joining the Freedom Federation, his life had been much simpler. Boone had been raised on a ranch in central South Dakota, and he deeply missed those relatively carefree days spent as a young horseman on the plains. He enjoyed fond memories of his four brothers and three sisters, and he looked forward to seeing them again in June at the annual Boone reunion. They would swap tales about their experiences during the past year, and his brothers and sisters would undoubtedly pester him, as they had done the past five years, to hear about his exploits. They were undeniably proud of the degree of notoriety he had achieved as best friend and chief adviser to Kilrane, the Cavalry leader. Not to mention his fame as a pistoleer.

Boone disliked his fame and the consequences of having an exaggerated reputation. He sighed, thinking of the time four relatives of the previous Cavalry leader had attempted to bushwack Kilrane. Instead, the simpletons had caught Boone in their trap, and he had slain all four in a stand-up gunfight. That unfortunate incident had increased his celebrity tenfold, and Boone had resented every undeserved iota of attention. Killing someone was not his idea of a worthwhile accomplishment, not an act to be extolled to high heaven. He knew Hickok actually relished his renown, and he couldn’t comprehend how the Warrior could abide all those overstated stories and fawning idiots a man with a rep inevitably encountered.

Give him the bouncing rhythm of a sturdy stallion, the comfortable feel of a well-worn saddle, and a cool breeze on his face! He longed for the good old days, the days before the Cavalry joined the Federation, when there were less complications. As Kilrane’s right hand and personal bodyguard, Boone was entrusted with protecting his friend at all times, including the periodic extended trips to attend Federation Council meetings. Initially, when the Federation had first been formed, Boone had liked the traveling, the meeting of new people, and the making of new friends. But enough was enough! Five years of being at Kilrane’s beck and call, five years of living an unsettled existence, five years during which his own ranch had suffered from neglect and his relationships with the fairer sex had fizzled to zero had all taken their toll. He was eager for a prolonged rest, a chance to work on his spread and court one of the local ladies. And he promised himself he would bring the matter up with Kilrane at the first opportunity.

They were about a hundred yards from the buildings.

“That’s where I last saw Hickok,” Leftwich said, pointing at the second building from the right.

“In there?” Boone questioned skeptically.

“That’s right,” Leftwich maintained. “He attacked us, then took off. The last I saw him, he was going into the tunnels.”

“What are the tunnels?” Boone queried.

“There’s a whole network of them under those buildings,” Leftwich said.

“I don’t know who dug them. I only know they’re there.”

“He must be out of there by now,” Boone commented.

“Maybe not,” Leftwich said. “Those tunnels are a damn maze. It’s real easy to get lost down there.”

A maze? Boone thoughtfully gazed at the structures. He’d used the exact same word a short while ago to describe the gardens behind the hotel. Was it possible Leftwich was telling the truth, that Hickok was lost in an underground labyrinth?

“Do you want me to show you the spot where I last saw the Warrior?”

Leftwich asked.

“Not so fast,” Boone said. “I want to know how many Gild members are around here and where they are right this minute.”

“There’s two more here,” Leftwich lied. He waved his right hand to the east. “They’re off that way, over by the old plaza.”

There was movement on the top of the second building from the right.

Boone glanced up, hoping to find Hickok, but all he saw were a pair of pigeons flying from the roof.

“Do you want me to take you or not?” Leftwich inquired impatiently.

“Lead on,” Boone directed. “But there’d better be some sign Hickok was there. Tracks, anything.”

“I think you’ll be surprised at what you find,” Leftwich declared.

They slowly approached the second building.

Boone held the Darter in his left hand while his right rested on the corresponding Hombre. He didn’t trust Leftwich for a minute! He recognized the slim likelihood of Leftwich being honest, but he couldn’t afford to discount the murderer’s information on the off chance of finding Hickok.

Leftwich angled toward the open door in the middle of the west wall of the second building. “We go in there.”

“You go first,” Boone ordered. “And no funny stuff!”

“Wouldn’t think of it,” Leftwich assured him, but as he turned toward the door he grinned maliciously.

Boone warily followed the assassin. If he was walking into a trap, he was going to be certain to use the Darter on Leftwich before they got him.

He briefly wished he’d undergone the extensive combat training Hickok, Blade, and the other Warriors had experienced. As was typical of the majority of Cavalrymen, he was a rugged individualist capable of surviving by relying on his wits and his strength, on his prowess at fisticuffs and his exceptional talent with his Hombres, but his actual combat experience had been limited to the war years ago between the Civilized Zone, then ruled by a dictator, and the other factions which later combined to form the Freedom Federation.

Leftwich reached the open door and glanced over his left shoulder.

“Stay close,” he said. “I wouldn’t want to lose you.”

“I’ll be right behind you,” Boone said.

Leftwich walked into the gloomy interior.

Boone took a tentative step forward, and his hesitancy saved his life.

A burly man with curly black hair, dressed in a flowing black robe secured by a red sash, lunged from the shadows to the right of the doorway, in the act of swinging a short curved sword at the Cavalryman’s head. But the Gild member had misjudged his swing, excepting his adversary to be a full stride inside the door.

Framed in the doorway, Boone threw himself backwards, the sword arching past his face and deflecting off the Darter barrel. He took two strides and leveled the Darter as his assailant charged after him.

The assassin raised his sword for another stroke.

Boone fired from the hip. There was no retort, no recoil, but the Darter was supremely effective and exceedingly lethal.

The burly assassin twisted to the right as the explosive dart penetrated his pelvic wall above the crotch and detonated, showering his kidney, intestines, and black fabric outward. Screeching, he doubled over, his face inches from the Darter barrel.

Boone squeezed the trigger again.

A spume of crimson, flesh, and gray and white matter burst out of the top of the assassin’s cranium and he tottered backwards, flopping onto his back.

There was no sign of Leftwich.

Boone was about to plunge into the building after the devious killer when a pair of steely hands fastened onto his back, one at the waist and the other on the nape of his neck. He was savagely wrenched into the air and shaken like a child’s rag doll.

“Get the bastard, Nightshade!” Leftwich cried, emerging from the structure.

Boone was slammed onto the ground, onto his knees, and he attempted to turn, to bring the Darter to bear. But a dark gray hand appeared from his rear and yanked the rifle from his grasp.

“Waste him!” Leftwich shouted in delight.

Boone rose and spun, his hands diving for his Hombres, but as fast as he was his opponent was faster. And what an opponent! Oily black hair, hooked nose, slanted yellow orbs, and gray skin, all trademarks of a genetically altered being, a mutant.

Nightshade grabbed Boone around the waist, pinning the Cavalryman’s arms, and hoisted him into the air.

Boone struggled in vain to break free. The mutant was endowed with incredible brute force!

“Kill him!” Leftwich cackled.

“No!” thundered a new voice.

Boone saw a towering man with pale blue eyes and auburn hair come into his line of vision from the left.

“Why not, Kraken?” Leftwich asked the newcomer.

Kraken stared at Leftwich, his jaw muscles twitching. “Because I said so! Do you need a better reason?”

“No,” Leftwich responded meekly.

Kraken studied the figure in Nightshade’s clutches. “You’re a Cavalryman, aren’t you?”

Boone didn’t answer.

“Nightshade,” Kraken said.

The mutant applied pressure on Boone’s back, squeezing until Boone thought his spine was on the verge of snapping. Boone’s face reddened and he gasped for air.

“Enough,” Kraken stated.

Nightshade relaxed his brawny arms.

“Obstinacy will gain you nothing,” Kraken said to Boone. “Nightshade will break you like a twig if you don’t cooperate.” He paused. “Are you a Cavalryman?”

Boone nodded, striving to suppress an acute pain in his chest.

“What’s your name?” Kraken asked.

The information was hardly worth dying for. “Boone,” the Cavalryman replied.

“Ahh, yes. I’ve heard of you,” Kraken mentioned. “A competent man in your limited way. You’re Kilrane’s bodyguard, or at least one of them.” He gazed at the dead Gild member. “I might have granted you a quick death, but you’ve killed one of our brothers.”

“Let me have him!” Leftwich requested.

Kraken glanced at Leftwich in stern disapproval. “I noticed you managed to get yourself captured.”

Leftwich blanched. “He got the drop on me!”

“Obviously,” Kraken said.

“It won’t happen again,” Leftwich asserted.

“I hope not,” Kraken stated, “for your sake.” He looked at Boone.

“Considering the level of incompetence demonstrated by my colleagues on this assignment, perhaps I should change our name from the Gild to the Simpletons.”

Boone said nothing.

Kraken sighed. “A keen sense of humor is so seldom appreciated.” He gazed at Leftwich. “Go up on the roof and tell Charley to come down here.

We are going to move our temporary base of operations to another part of the park. This place is prone to too many unwelcome guests.”

Leftwich ran into the building.

“And now to decide your fate,” Kraken said to Boone. “Your killing of Farino necessitates a gruesome demise. The code of the Gild and all that.”

“Why do you want to kill the Federation delegates?” Boone ventured to ask.

“I head an organization of professional assassins,” Kraken replied. “The answer should be readily apparent.”

“Someone must have hired you,” Boone noted. “Who?”

Kraken grinned. “That information is classified.” He looked at Nightshade. “Do you think our saurian friend might enjoy some dessert?”

The mutant smirked.

“Bring him,” Kraken directed, walking to the north.

Nightshade carted the Cavalryman without appearing to exert himself.

“As I was saying,” Kraken said over his right shoulder, “your killing of our brother Farino necessitates a fitting death. The Gild firmly believes in the ancient adage of an eye for an eye. Since you used a Darter on Farino and blew him to pieces, so to speak, it is only fitting you suffer a similar fate.”

Boone was endeavoring to quell a rising tide of panic. He desperately wanted to pry himself loose from Nightshade’s grip, but the mutant’s arms were like bands of iron. His fingers were touching the grips on his Hombres, yet the revolvers might as well have been on the moon for all the good they were doing him. What use could they be if he couldn’t move his hands to draw them?

“The second day after we arrived in the park we discovered we had a next-door neighbor,” Kraken was saying. “You’ll be interested in meeting him, I’m sure. Or should I say meeting ‘it’?”

“They’ll come looking for me,” Boone stated.

Kraken chuckled. “Perhaps. But by the time they do, we won’t be here and you will be in the belly of Leviathan.”

“The belly of what?” Boone queried.

“Why, I’m surprised at you,” Kraken said as they rounded the northwest corner of the building and walked toward a marshy track to the northeast. “Haven’t you read the Holy Bible?”

“The Bible? I’ve read parts of it,” Boone stated. “What’s the Bible have to do with this?”

“Have you ever read Job?” Kraken inquired.

“Years ago,” Boone disclosed. “When I was a kid.”

“And you don’t remember Leviathan?” Kraken said mockingly. “Well, never fear. You’re about to have your memory refreshed.”

They traversed a field and reached the bank of a large pool of brackish water.

“This swamp encompasses several acres,” Kraken divulged. “The water is drainage from the lake over there.” He pointed to the east.

Boone glanced in the indicated direction and spotted a lake containing a big island.

“Do you see the island?” Kraken asked.

Boone nodded.

“The one you were seeking, the Warrior Hickok, is on that island,” Kraken said.

“How do you know I was looking for Hickok?” Boone questioned.

Kraken stared at the Cavalryman. “Please. Don’t insult my intelligence.”

He surveyed the bank. “I see Leviathan has disposed of poor Neborak. The beast might not be hungry again for some time, but I trust you won’t mind the wait?”

Nightshade suddenly snapped his head back, then forward, butting his forehead against the Cavalryman’s chin.

Boone felt his teeth mash together as excruciating agony lanced his jaw and face. He was unceremoniously dumped onto his stomach on the hard earth and his arms were jerked behind his back.

“Secure the bonds tightly,” Kraken ordered.

Boone felt his wrists being lashed together and he tried to resist, but the mutant held him as easily as a cougar could control the feeble escape attempts of a fawn. His legs were roughly bent at the knee and his ankles were tied.

“That should suffice,” Kraken said.

Boone shook his head, clearing his mind. He strained, looking over his right shoulder and discovering a single leather cord had been used to bind both his wrists and his ankles. Six inches of cord separated his hands from his teet. His legs were bent backwards.

Kraken knelt alongside the Cavalryman. “An ingenious technique,” he commented. “If you try to straighten your legs, you must dislocate your arms in the process. And should you try to extricate your hands, you will tear the hell out of your knees. Either way, the torture will be exquisite.”

Boone glowered at the Gild chief.

Kraken straightened. “This park abounds in wildlife. Some of the animals are quite unique. I imagine the abundant vegetation and the water attracted them.” He grinned at Boone. “When we scouted the terrain after our arrival, we discovered a few mutants had taken up residence. This is an ideal habitat because there are very few humans here. As soon as Leviathan is hungry again, you will get to meet one of the mutants.” He chuckled. “In parting, allow me to wish you bon appetit.” He laughed at some private joke.

Boone watched Kraken and Nightshade walk off toward the buildings.

He craned his neck, getting his bearings. His feet were a yard from the pool, his head angled up the slightly sloping bank. He estimated he was 40 yards from the nearest building. The cord securing his wrists was tied to tightly, his forearms were tingling. Amazingly, they hadn’t taken his Hombres. But the guns were useless unless he could free his hands. He tried to wriggle his wrists from side to side in an effort to loosen the cord, only his wrists wouldn’t budge. How long, he wondered, before Leviathan showed up? A sound behind him drew his attention.

There was a commotion in the center of the pool, an underwater disturbance causing concentric ripples to fan outward.

Boone tensed. Was it Leviathan?

As if an answer to his silent query, a huge reptilian back broke the surface of the water.