Anaheim Run

Chapter Twenty-One

Blade was 20 feet from the elevator when the doors closed and it ascended. Fuming, he sped up to the elevator, watching the numeral display overhead.

“Wait for us, pard!”

Blade looked to his rear, smiling at the sight of Hickok and Boone running his way.

The elevator stopped on the first floor.

“Did those bastards take the elevator?” Hickok queried as he reached his friend.

Blade nodded, staring at Boone. “I want you to stay here in case they get past us.”

“They won’t get past me,” Boone vowed.

Blade stabbed the down button, impatiently waiting while the elevator descended to the lobby. He stepped inside before the doors were fully open, Hickok right behind him.

“I have a score to settle,” the gunman announced.

Blade pressed the button for the first floor. “I was worried about you,” he remarked.

The elevator doors closed and it started upward.

“They might be waitin’ for us,” Hickok said.

“Let them!” Blade stated gruffly, gripping his M-16, facing the doors.

“I missed you, big guy,” Hickok mentioned.

“Where were you?” Blade asked, his gaze riveted on the indicator panel.

“Takin’ lessons in culinary etiquette,” Hickok replied.

Before Blade could comment, the elevator coasted to a stop and the doors widened.

Hickok exited first, his Pythons held close to his hips, surveying the corridor. No one was in the hall and all of the doors in sight were closed.

“Is there a back way out of here? A stairwell?” he whispered.

“I don’t know,” Blade said, advancing along the left wall. “I don’t think so.”

Hickok took the right side. “I won’t rest until I’ve nailed Kraken and his mutant buddy, Nightshade.”

“You know who they were?” Blade queried in a hushed tone.

“The lowest scum alive,” Hickok responded. “But not for long, if I can help it.”

The Warriors lapsed into silence as they neared the first door, Room 101 on the right side of the hall. Blade trained his M-16 on the door while Hickok tried the knob. The door opened and the gunman vanished into the room, reappearing moments later shaking his head. They cautiously proceeded to the next door, Room 102 on the left. This time Hickok covered Blade as the giant Warrior, without bothering to check if the door was locked, drew his right leg up, then kicked. The wood near the doorknob splintered with a resounding crash and the door swiveled inward. Blade vaulted into the room, his finger on the trigger of his M-16, but the room was empty. He stooped to peer under the bed and verified no one was secreted in the bathroom or the closet.

“Where the blazes are they?” Hickok hissed as his towering companion emerged from the room.

Blade shook his head and kept going.

The next room was 103, on the right side of the hall. The two Warriors were a yard from the door when it unexpectedly opened and a woman stepped into the corridor, a sandy-haired blonde in a red dress and jacket.

Her brown eyes seemed to register surprise at the sight of them. “What was that noise I just heard?” she asked Blade, closing her door.

“Do you know her?” Hickok inquired.

“This is Melissa Parmalee,” Blade said, introducing her. “One of President Toland’s assistants.”

“Howdy, ma’am,” Hickok said. “We’re lookin’ for a couple of varmints. Have you seem ’em?”

“What are you talking about?” Parmalee queried.

“We’re searching for a pair of assassins,” Blade explained.

“Assassins? Here?” Paramelee said doubtfully.

“Didn’t you hear the ruckus in the lobby?” Hickok questioned.

“I haven’t heard a thing until just now,” Parmalee answered. “I’ve been taking a nap. I have a headache, and President Toland said I wasn’t needed for a while.”

“So you didn’t see anyone?” Blade asked.

Parmalee shook her head.

Hickok started to walk past her toward her door.

“Where are you going?” Parmalee demanded, grabbing his left arm.

“To check your room,” Hickok told her, staring at the hand on his forearm.

“That won’t be necessary,” Parmalee stated. “There’s no one in my room.”

“Then you won’t mind if we check, will you?” Hickok rejoined.

“Really. It isn’t necessary,” Parmalee reiterated, looking at Blade, smiling sweetly. “Tell him.”

“Check the room,” Blade ordered.

Hickok pulled his arm from Parmalee’s grasp and reached for the doorknob, keeping his eyes on her, suspicious of her behavior. He detected motion out of the corner of his right eye and spun.

The door had been yanked wide, framing Nightshade in the doorway, his Darter in his left hand, the barrel pointing upward, mere inches from the gunman.

Hickok, his Colts at waist level, knowing there wasn’t time to tilt the barrels for a head shot, planted two shots in the mutant’s chest.

Nightshade was rocked by the impact of the slugs, but he only stumbled backward a step, then furiously surged forward, his right hand closing on the Darter barrel.

Hickok fired both Pythons again, astonished when his shots failed to drop the mutant.

Nightshade clubbed the amazed Warrior on the head with his rifle butt, his prodigious power sending the gunman flying across the corridor into the far wall.

Hickok slumped to the floor, his Colts sliding from his hands, his eyes closed.

Blade, unable to shoot because Hickok had blocked his line of fire, now aimed at the mutant. But before he could squeeze the trigger, intervention from an unforeseen source turned the tide of battle.

Melissa Parmalee—shapely, slim, five feet eight and dainty—grabbed the M-16 barrel and tore the gun from his hands! The M-16 went off, but the round imbedded harmlessly in the ceiling.

Blade crouched, his hands gripping his Bowies, his astounded gaze on Parmalee.

The woman tilted her head and laughed, a brittle, malevolent titter.

“Look at him!” she said to Nightshade. “The fool can’t believe his eyes!”

Nightshade grinned and pointed his Darter at the Warrior.

“No!” Parmalee exclaimed. “He’s mine! This will only take a minute. I want the privilege of snapping his spine! Mo one else is on this floor. You watch the elevator.”

Nightshade nodded.

Parmalee disdainfully extended the M-16 toward Blade. “Here! Do you want this?”

Blade waited for her to make a move.

Parmalee snickered. “I guess you don’t!” She held the stock in her right hand and squeezed, crushing the gun with a grinding of metal and a crunching noise, then contemptously flung the useless weapon to the floor.

“Have you figured it out yet?” Parmalee baited him.

“I think so,” Blade responded.

“Oh, really?” Parmalee retorted sarcastically.

“I was wrong,” Blade said. “The Soviets didn’t hire the Gild to assassinate the Federation leaders. They don’t want to kill just the leaders. The Russians want to crush the entire Federation. Their spy, Ebert, would have relayed details of the summit, and the Soviets would plan their strategy accordingly.”

“But if the Soviets didn’t hire the Gild,” Parmalee observed mockingly, “who did?”

“I didn’t know until just now when you destroyed the gun,” Blade stated. “I didn’t realize more than one of our enemies might have a spy planted in President Toland’s administration. But the Civilized Zone is the perfect place to plant a spy. The Family, the Clan, and the Moles are too small to successfully infiltrate an outsider. And the Flatheads and the Cavalry are out of the question, unless the spy is an Indian or an expert horseman. But the Civilized Zone is so large, with President Toland’s staff numbering in the dozens, that installing a secret agent would be relatively simple.”

Parmalee took a step toward the Warrior. “But you still haven’t told me which side I’m with. And here I heard you were such a bright little boy!”

“Only someone with incredible strength could pulverize an M-16,” Blade noted. “A mutant, say… or an android.”

Melissa Parmalee cackled. “Excellent!”

Blade’s mind flashed back to his harrowing experiences in Houston, Texas, renamed Androxia by the android rulers of that city-state.

Developed by NASA prior to the war to replace human astronauts and prevent the loss of human lives, the androids had continued producing themselves after civilization crumbled to a standstill. Eventually, the androids had conquered the surviving humans in southern Texas and established themselves as the ruling class. Dubbed the Superiors, the androids were led by a computerized entity known as Primator, an entity Blade had exterminated before escaping from Androxia.

Parmalee took another step. “Now that the socializing is dispensed with, let’s conclude this, shall we?”

Blade whipped his Bowies from their sheaths and backed up. “There’s one thing I don’t understand,” he said, stalling, biding time until he could devise a scheme to dispose of the android.

“Just one thing?” Parmalee rejoined.

“I didn’t know there were female androids,” Blade mentioned. “All I saw in Androxia were male androids.”

Parmalee smiled proudly. “I am the first of a new breed of Superior.

Not only are my external features female in aspect, but I have been endowed with a wider range of human characteristics than my predecessors. I make the perfect spy. And once I have proven myself in the field, Primator intends to manufacture thousands more like me.”

“But Primator was terminated,” Blade said.

Parmalee grinned. “Did you really believe Primator was slain by a lowly human?”

Blade straightened. “Primator is alive?”

“And he sends his regards,” Parmalee declared maliciously.

“Then the hiring of the Gild wasn’t merely to try and ruin the Freedom Federation,” Blade deduced. “It was personal. Primator wants revenge!”

Parmalee nodded. “Finally you see the light! Preventing California from joining the Freedom Federation was a secondary goal. Eliminating the leaders was also incidental. Primator wants retribution. Employing the Gild was a means to an end.” She paused. “I’m under orders not to jeopardize my clandestine status. But I was given definite instructions in case a situation like this should arise. If the opportunity arose to achieve Primator’s revenge without risk of apprehension, I was directed to use my personal discretion. And guess what?”

Blade’s fingers tightened on the Bowies. He expected the android to assail him and he wasn’t disappointed.

Parmalee executed a flying tackle, her shoulders driving into the giant’s midsection as her arms wrapped around his waist.

Blade was knocked backward, staggered by the android’s super-human might, stumbling and falling onto his back with her on top bestriding his chest.

Parmalee lunged, attempting to pin the Warrior’s arms to the floor.

Blade arced his right Bowie up and in, sinking the ten-inch blade into the android’s chest between the breasts.

Parmalee looked at the Bowie, then backhanded the Warrior across the mouth, stunning him and dislodging his right hand from the Bowie hilt.

She slowly stood and stepped backward. “We won’t be needing this anymore,” she announced, her right hand effortlessly pulling the Bowie from her body.

Blade rolled onto his feet, squatting, his leg muscles tensing for a spring.

Parmalee tossed the right Bowie aside.

Blade performed a tackle of his own, bearing the android to the floor, the tip of his left Bowie tearing into her abdomen. He clasped the hilt with both hands and surged, cleaving a six-inch gash in her belly and ripping her clothes.

Parmalee laughed, then rammed her right knee into the small of the Warrior’s broad back, propelling him forward where she could fasten her fingers onto his throat.

Blade rose unsteadily, hampered by the android clinging to his neck. He wrenched on the left Bowie, cutting her open some more, a colorless liquid spurting from her ruptured abdomen and covering his hands and forearms. And still Parmalee clung to him, her nails digging into his throat, beginning to constrict his breathing. He was forced to release the Bowie and hammer at her with his pile-driver fists, pounding her face again and again and again. Her nose was crushed by one of his blows, flattening into a pulpy mass. He battered her mouth and her chin, splitting her lips, but his onslaught was unavailing. She simply dug her fingers in deeper. It felt like his neck was being pried apart.

Parmalee tried to kick the Warrior in the crotch.

Blade twisted, avoiding her foot. He grabbed her wrists and endeavored to pull her hands from his throat, his massive muscles bulging with his herculean effort, the veins on his temples protruding. But the android clung to him like a leech, slowly but surely strangling him.

He had to do something!

The gleam of a metallic object on the floor drew his attention, something lying near Hickok’s leg.

One of the Pythons!

His breaths coming in ragged gasps, feeling as if his throat was about to be crushed at any second, in desperation he deliberately plowed into Parmalee and sent both of them toppling to the carpet with the android on the bottom. He had to act before Parmalee or the mutant guessed his intent! The android was smiling.

The Python was inches from his left hand.

Blade scooped up the Colt, jammed the barrel into Parmalee’s open mouth, all the way, and squeezed the trigger twice in succession.

The android’s eyes enlarged in bewilderment. Parmalee went rigid for an instant, and then shoved the Warrior from her. She sat up, vigorously shaking her head.

Blade was to the android’s right, on his hands and knees, the Python in his left hand. He saw fluid flowing from under her hair, spreading over her shoulders, and he raised the Colt for another shot.

There was a slight sound to the rear, and the Warrior was delivered a brutal smash to the rear of his head.

Blade collapsed, sagging to the floor, almost unconscious, releasing the Python from his numb fingers. He realized the mutant must have clobbered him with the rifle butt, and he expected to receive a shot to the brain to finish him off. Instead, a hand gripped his right shoulder and he was savagely flipped over onto his back.

The mutant was glaring at the Warrior. He slowly began to aim the Darter.

Blade understood. Nightshade wanted him to see his demise, wanted to instill terror in his victim. But the plan backfired. Instead of feeling fright, Blade became enraged. He thought of all the bodies he’d seen in the lobby, all the needless deaths the assassins had caused, all the misery the murderers had perpetrated to satisfy the retributive craving of a vile dictator, and his fury mounted, lending strength to his limbs and clarity to his vision.

Nightshade was sneering in triumph when the Warrior’s right boot lashed out and caught him in the left knee. There was a pop, and the mutant’s leg buckled. He snapped off a shot, but the explosive dart missed the Warrior’s head and detonated in the carpet several inches to the right.

Blade kicked with both boots, catching the mutant’s right leg below the knee, and Nightshade tottered backward and fell onto his back. Blade was up and bounding forward before the mutant could recover. Nightshade was just scrambling to his knees when the Warrior delivered a kick to the mutant’s chin, toppling Nightshade over and sending the rifle flying. Blade closed in, assuming the mutant was down for the count. But he underestimated his foe.

Nightshade, on his right side, his left leg out of commission with a busted kneecap, rolled to the left and struck at the Warrior with his right foot. Blade easily sidestepped, but in so doing he came within reach of Nightshade’s arms, and Nightshade reached out and seized the Warrior’s ankles and yanked.

Blade felt his feet slip out from under him, and then he was on the floor next to the mutant. The two of them exchanged a flurry of hand blows, neither very effective because of their awkward positions. Blade punched Nightshade on the jaw, rocking the mutant, but Nightshade immediately countered with an excruciating blow to Blade’s abdomen.

Nightshade tried to apply pressure to Blade’s throat, to finish the job Parmalee had started, but the Warrior knocked his arms aside.

Blade was rapidly tiring. The strain of the combat with the android and the rifle butt to the head were taking their toll. His reflexes became sluggish, and he was able to ward off fewer and fewer of the mutant’s strikes.

Nightshade sensed his advantage and pressed it, grappling with the Warrior and succeeding in butting his forehead into Blade’s chin. The Warrior was momentarily stunned, and Nightshade used those precious seconds to scramble erect on his good leg and hobble toward the Darter lying a few feet away.

“No you don’t, gruesome!”

Nightshade turned at the sound of the stern command, and there was the gunfighter, Hickok, with his revolvers in his hands and a fierce expression on his face. Nightshade froze.

“How’d you do it?” Hickok asked.

Nightshade had no idea what the Warrior was talking about.

“You took four shots to the chest at close range,” Hickok said. “How come you’re still alive?”

Nightshade glanced at the Darter, measuring the distance.

“Don’t even think it!” Hickok warned. “Now answer me! How come you’re still alive?”

Nightshade tapped his shirt.

“What?” Hickok queried.

The assassin unbuttoned two of his shirt buttons and tugged the fabric aside, exposing the garment underneath.

Hickok’s reaction was mystifying to the mutant. The gunman did a double take, then laughed. “A bulletproof vest! You were all wearing bulletproof vests!”

Nightshade nodded.

“Then that’s why that joker on the terminal roof didn’t go down!”

Hickok said, sounding relieved. “I didn’t miss!”

Nightshade, puzzled, remained immobile.

“Thanks,” Hickok declared. “I needed that.” He paused. “I’m not about to plug you when you’re unarmed. Unlike you, I don’t kill unless it’s necessary. I’ll give you the chance you never would have given me.”

To Nightshade’s amazement, the gunman bolstered his Colts.

“It’s your move,” Hickok said.

And move he did, with all the speed in his mutant frame. Nightshade dove for the Darter and whirled, stupefied to find the Warrior hadn’t even moved. The gunfighter’s hands were still by his sides!

But not for long. Hickok saw the look on Nightshade’s face, saw the mutant believed he’d won. His arms a blur, Hickok punctuated the assassin’s delusions with twin blasts from his Pythons.

Nightshade’s head jerked backward and he was thrown onto his back by the force of the slugs. He convulsed for a moment, then was still.

Blade was slowly rising to his feet. “Thanks,” he said. “I owe you.”

“You don’t owe me diddly,” Hickok responded. “What are friends for?”

A female voice tittered. “Friends are friends and mares are does and mastodons eat poison ivy!”

Hickok swiveled to the left.

Melissa Parmalee was sitting on the floor with a remarkably stupid expression on her wreck of a face.

“What the heck!” Hickok exclaimed.

“She’s an android,” Blade informed him.

“An android?” Hickok stepped up to her and leaned down, studying her features.

Parmalee giggled. “Two and two is nine, and fifty and four decades make a stitch in time.” She applauded her poetry.

“What the blazes is she babbling about?” Hickok asked.

“Her circuits are damaged,” Blade explained. “I shot her in the head.”

Parmalee beamed at Hickok. “Jack and Jill went up the hill to fetch a pail of water. Nine months later, wouldn’t you know, Jill had a daughter!”

She laughed uproariously.

“Shut her up,” Blade ordered.

Hickok pressed the Python barrels to her eyes and squeezed the triggers.