Capital Run

Chapter Four

The rocket was almost on them!

Blade instinctively executed the only maneuver possible; he wrenched the steering wheel to the right, causing the transport to lurch sideways, angling the passenger side of the vehicle, Hickok’s side, away from the hurtling rocket.

With an ear-splitting roar the rocket struck the highway about seven feet in front of the SEAL. Massive chunks of asphalt, dirt, and rocks were blasted upward. A jolting concussion, an irresistible shock wave of puissant force, slammed broadside into the transport like an unstoppable tidal wave onto a beach. The synthetic body withstood the shattering explosion intact, but the SEAL was flipped onto its passenger side and propelled several feet along the highway before it came to a rest.

Inside the SEAL, the two Warriors were tossed and buffeted by the tumbling vehicle. Blade struggled to maintain his grip on the steering wheel to prevent himself from falling onto the gunman. Hickok crashed against the passenger door, the handle digging into his ribs. The provisions in the rear section spilled over the central seat. One box of ammunition flew forward and narrowly missed Blade’s head.

Blade leaped into action as soon as the SEAL stopped moving. He lunged for the driver’s door and threw it open. Using the steering wheel for support, he vaulted outside onto the upturned body.

The helicopter was still hovering to the east of the transport.

Hickok was trying to untangle his contorted form from the bottom of the SEAL. “Dangblasted varmints! I’ll fix their wagon!”

“Stay put!” Blade ordered. “I’ll try to lead them off.” He jumped to the ground and ran toward the trees on the south side of the highway.

The helicopter, as if it were a metallic bird of prey, swooped down for the coup de grace.

Blade weaved as he ran, knowing the copter would open up again with its machine guns.

A crackling spray of lead from the whirlybird confirmed his expectation.

Blade flinched as the earth around him was stitched by a pattern of lethal slugs. He was only five feet from cover and safety when he risked a hasty glance over his left shoulder.

The helicopter wasn’t more than ten feet above the SEAL, swiveling for a clearer shot at its intended victim.

Blade dodged to the left, and as he did his right foot caught in something and he went down, sprawling onto his hands and knees, vulnerable and helpless.

The helicopter pilot instantly took advantage of the situation by edging his copter nearer to the trees and his rising target.

Blade, only two feet from the trees, braced for the impact of the machine-gun bullets, realizing it would be impossible for the copter gunner to miss at such close range.

Gunshots boomed to the Warrior’s rear, but they weren’t the sound of .45-caliber machine guns; they were the welcome bang-bang-bang of a pair of pearl-handled Colt Python . 357 Magnum revolvers.

Blade spun around.

The gunman was only partially visible, with his shoulders and arms protruding from the open door on the driver’s side of the SEAL.

What did Hickok hope to accomplish? Blade wondered. The Pythons against an armed helicopter were seemingly insurmountable odds. But then he saw the gunman’s intent and grinned.

Hickok was going for the tail blade. The Colts bucked in his hands as he fired six shots in swift succession. He had to distract the copter gunner’s attention from Blade, and he succeeded.

On the gunman’s sixth shot, the helicopter suddenly lurched to one side, then began swerving back and forth. It darted upward, its flight uneven, the pilot evidently experiencing difficulty in keeping the craft level.

“Got ya’!” Hickok said, elated.

The helicopter continued to ascend until it was 100 feet above the highway. Its front end dipped as the craft proceeded to speed to the east.

Within less than a minute the helicopter was a dark dot on the eastern horizon.

Blade walked to the transport. “Thanks,” he said, smiling at Hickok.

“You saved my life.”

Hickok adopted the air of casual nonchalance. “It was a piece of cake,” he declared, then smiled. “Besides, I didn’t want your missus bawling her brains out on my buckskins.”

Blade’s brow furrowed as he studied the SEAL. “We have a major problem on our hands.”

“When don’t we?” Hickok said. He slid to the ground and immediately set about reloading his Pythons.

Blade slowly made an inspection of the transport, searching for structural damage. He conducted a complete circuit of the vehicle.

“What did you find, pard?” Hickok asked as Blade rounded the front end.

“It looks okay,” Blade replied.

Hickok’s left Colt was already in its holster. He ejected the last spent shell from his right Python, removed a bullet from his gunbelt, and dropped it into the cylinder. Satisfied, he swung the cylinder closed and twirled the Colt into his right holster.

“We won’t really know how it is until we try to start it,” Blade said, pondering their dilemma, “and we can’t try starting it until we have it upright again.”

Hickok frowned. “How the blazes are we gonna do that?”

“I wish I knew.” Blade stared at the east. This mission, like all the others, had devolved into a typical fiasco. Why was it events never went as you planned? Why did things always have to go wrong? Here they were, not more than ten miles from their destination, and now their transport was inoperational and one of them was missing. What next?

“What are we gonna do about Rikki?” Hickok inquired.

Blade stroked his square chin. “There is no way we can right the SEAL on our own,” he said, reasoning aloud. “We could do it if we had enough people or another vehicle and a lot of rope—”

“Which we don’t have,” Hickok interrupted.

“—so we’ll have to go look for what we need,” Blade stated. “And since we have to find Rikki, we’ll kill two birds with one stone. One of us will head for St. Louis.”

“One of us?” Hickok repeated.

“Just one of us,” Blade confirmed.

“Why not both of us?” Hickok wanted to know.

“We can’t leave the SEAL unprotected,” Blade explained.

“We’ve done it before,” Hickok protested. “All we have to do is lock this contraption up tight as a drum and it’ll be safe and sound until we get back.”

Blade pointed at the exposed undercarriage. “And what about that?”

“What about it?” Hickok asked, puzzled.

“The bottom of the SEAL might not be as impervious as the special body,” Blade said. “Someone could come along and damage it, render it totally useless. I can’t allow that to happen. The SEAL is invaluable to our Family. You know that.”

Hickok looped his thumbs in his gunbelt near the buckle. “And which one of us gets to waltz into St. Louis?”

“I’m going,” Blade said.

“Why can’t I go?” Hickok demanded.

“Because I said so,” Blade stated, settling the matter. Since he was the head of the Warriors, his decisions were final.

“What am I supposed to do while you’re gone?” Hickok groused.

“Twiddle my thumbs?”

“You can check our supplies,” Blade instructed the pouting gunman.

“Make sure they’re okay and clean up the mess inside.”

“What if something happens to you?” Hickok queried. “How long should I wait?”

Blade considered a moment. “Give me three days. I should find Rikki and be back by then.”

“Fine,” Hickok said. “Three days it is. But if you’re not back here by then, I’m comin’ after you, SEAL or no SEAL.”

Blade chuckled. “Keep an eye peeled while I collect the provisions I’ll need.” So saying, he hoisted himself up and climbed into the transport.

The interior of the vehicle was a mess, but he found the items he wanted without much difficulty: a canteen, a canvas backpack confiscated from soldiers in Wyoming, strips of venison jerky, extra magazines for his Commando, and the Commando itself. He stuffed the canteen, jerky, and magazines into the backpack and clambered to the open driver’s door.

“Here,” he said to the gunman, and tossed the backpack.

Hickok caught it with a deft flick of his left wrist.

Blade used his powerful arms to haul his body from the SEAL. Holding the Commando in his left hand, he leaped to the highway.

“You sure ain’t takin’ much, pard,” Hickok observed, hefting the light backpack.

“I won’t be gone that long,” Blade said. He took the backpack and handed the Commando to the gunman.

“I hope Rikki is okay,” Hickok remarked, gazing eastward.

“Rikki can take care of himself,” Blade commented. He placed his brawny arms through the backpack straps. “You make certain that you stay out of trouble while I’m gone.”

“Who? Me?” Hickok quipped. He gave the Commando to the Alpha Triad leader. “You’re the one who’d best take care.”

“May the Spirit watch over you,” Blade said. He started walking due east. About 50 yards ahead was a turn in the road, the highway evidently bearing slightly to the southeast. Blade could feel the heat from the sun on his broad back and legs as he marched along. He stopped when he reached the turn and glanced at the SEAL. Hickok was still standing exactly where he had left him, the gunman’s thumbs hooked in his gunbelt. Blade couldn’t discern Hickok’s face clearly, but he received the impression the gunman was frowning. Blade knew Hickok didn’t like the idea of staying behind one bit, but the gunman was too loyal a Warrior to lodge more than a minor protest.

Blade waved.

Hickok began jumping up and down and flapping his arms like crazy.

After a minute he ceased and made a show of blowing a farewell kiss in Blade’s direction.

Blade shook his head as the gunman started laughing. Thank the Spirit the gunman was on this mission! Rikki was naturally rather taciturn, and the lengthy ride would have been monotonous without the loquacious gunfighter. Blade resumed his journey, following the highway, sticking to the middle of the road. If anything came at him, he’d have the time to see it coming and respond accordingly. He raked his eyes across the forest to the right and left of the crumbling asphalt, alert for any sign of a mutate or other horror.

Time passed.

Blade was less than a mile from the SEAL when he spied the corpses on the road ahead. And three—what were they?—motorcycles!

What was this?

He slowed, advancing cautiously, his finger on the trigger of the Commando.

Bodies. Lots and lots of bodies.

Was Rikki’s one of them?

Blade paused 15 feet from the prone forms. He could see 3 dead women and counted 13 dogs, a few of which were alive, whining and whimpering in torment.

What had happened? Had the helicopter done this?

Blade walked up to the first corpse and examined the area. Why would anyone leave three motorcycles, apparently functional, out here in the middle of nowhere? Could he ride one? he wondered. If he could manage to figure out how it was done, he’d find Rikki that much faster. He’d never ridden one before, but that didn’t—

No!

Blade froze as his gaze rested on a bloody sword lying amidst the slain canines. It was a katana! Rikki’s katana! Blade would recognize the sword anywhere! And there was the scabbard! But Rikki would never cast aside his cherished weapon. Or would he? There was no sign of Rikki’s body, and it was doubtful anyone would bother to cart it off but leave the three women behind. So Rikki must be alive, and he must have deliberately left the katana as a warning to his fellow Warriors. The katana’s presence conclusively proved Rikki had been here, but was gone now.

To where?

St. Louis?

Blade retrieved the sword and the scabbard. He wiped the blade clean on a dead dog and slid the katana into its scabbard.

A low rumbling sounded from beyond a hill to the east.

Blade quickly eased the scabbard under his belt, aligning it in front of the Bowie knife on his left hip. He crouched and darted across the road and into the trees on the right side of the highway. He was barely out of sight before more motorcycles appeared at the top of the hill. Without hesitating, they descended toward the bodies.

Would Rikki be with them?

Blade peered around the trunk of an oak tree, watching the approaching riders.

There were three motorcycles, each hauling a trailer with a cage on top.

In one of the cages were three dogs. Two men were on each motorcycle: the driver and a passenger, each man straddling his narrow seat with accomplished ease, despite the numerous ruts and bumps the bikes struck as they sped nearer.

They reminded Blade of the Cavalry, the superb horsemen occupying the Dakota territory. These bikers displayed the same casual mastery of their cycles shown by the Cavalry toward their horses. Whether it was man and machine or man and faithful steed, both seemed as one.

What was going on?

The three cycles braked and halted near the bodies. One after the other the drivers shut off their motors.

One of the passengers, a skinny man with baggy leather pants and a bushy brown beard, sighed as he eased to the ground. “I don’t see why we had to be the ones,” he said bitterly. “She could have sent somebody else.”

“Oh, yeah?” countered one of the drivers. “Who? We were the closest.”

“Besides,” added another, “I think Terza was pissed at us over what happened to the dogs.”

The bearded biker stared at the dogs littering the highway. “It wasn’t our fault,” he said sadly.

“It was that damn guy in black!” commented another.

Guy in black? That had to be Rikki! Blade inched a bit further around the tree, not wanting to miss a word.

“Who was that joker?” asked a portly biker as he climbed from his cycle.

“Beats me,” answered the bearded one. “The messenger from Terza didn’t know. He told me she wanted us to get these bikes and take care of the dogs. That was all.”

“Damn!” fumed the third driver as he walked up to the slain dogs.

“Look at this! How the hell did the guy do it?”

The bearded biker shook his head. “I don’t know. But he must be one mean son of a bitch.”

One of the other men snorted. “Not for long, he won’t be. You can bet Terza will rack his ass for what he did to Pat and the others.”

“And we’ll probably miss out on the fun,” complained the third driver.

“I wouldn’t say that,” interjected a deep voice from the edge of the highway.

Startled, the bikers spun, shocked to behold a towering man with dark hair and simmering eyes pointing a machine gun in their general direction.

“Who the hell are you?” demanded the bearded biker.

“Would you believe the tooth fairy?” replied the big man.

The bikers exchanged confused, worried glances.

“Drop your weapons,” Blade commanded.

All of the bikers were armed, four with revolvers and two with knives. A Winchester was strapped to one of their motorcycles.

Blade waited, sensing one of them would make a play, watching their eyes for the telltale hint of an impending violent attack. Very few fighters could disguise this instinctive reaction, a slight tightening of the eyes, a shifting of the pupils, prior to galvanizing their body into action. Almost every fighter telegraphed his assault in one way or another, whether it was a movement of the eyes or a contracting of the shoulder muscles right before he threw a punch. Only an extremely skilled and accomplished fighter was capable of perfectly masking his intent. Such a fighter didn’t reveal his maneuver or foreshadow his blow beforehand; he simply executed it with lightning speed and devastating results. While all the Family’s Warriors were trained in hand-to-hand combat, only a few demonstrated this exceptional ability of concealment, and Blade knew of only one who was the acme of perfection: Rikki-Tikki-Tavi.

One of the bikers, a hefty, unkempt individual with pink hair and an earring in his left lobe, was cautiously moving his right hand toward the revolver tucked under his belt.

“I don’t want to kill you if I don’t have to,” Blade said, hoping they would wisely avoid a clash.

They weren’t that wise.

Pink Hair clutched at his revolver, and that was the signal for the rest of them to go for their respective weapons.

Blade was left with no other option. He swung the Commando in an arc as he pulled the trigger, holding the barrel at chest height.

Pink Hair was the first to drop, his torso racked by the Commando’s heavy slugs, his body spurting crimson geysers as he was flung backwards onto the highway. The three other bikers with guns were likewise decimated. One of the bikers with a knife managed to whip his weapon from its sheath and lunge at the giant with the machine gun, but a veritable hail of lead knocked him for a loop. Only one biker was left standing, untouched, with his knife partially drawn; it was the skinny man with the baggy leather pants and the bushy brown beard.

“Drop it or die!” Blade snapped.

Bushy Beard promptly discarded his knife. “Don’t k-kill me, m-mister!” he wailed, stuttering, in fear for his life.

Blade strolled up to the biker. “Whether you die or not will depend on you. I’m going to ask some questions and I want truthful answers.” He rammed the Commando barrel into the biker’s abdomen. “One answer I don’t like and you’re going to develop a split personality. Understand?”

The biker nodded vigorously.

“What’s your name?” Blade asked.

“Jeff,” the biker replied.

“What are you?”

Jeff’s eyes narrowed and his brow furrowed, as if he was puzzled. “How do you mean?”

“Are you part of a gang?” Blade queried. He nodded at the bodies around him. “All of you wear black leather. Why?”

“That’s our color, man,” Jeff said.

“Color?”

“Yeah. Where are you from? Don’t they have colors where you come from?” Jeff inquired.

Blade pressed on the Commando and Jeff blanched. “I’ll ask the questions,” Blade reminded him.

“Sure thing,” Jeff promptly responded.

“What is the name of your gang?”

“We’re called the Leather Knights,” Jeff said proudly.

“And do the Leather Knights have their…” Blade paused, trying to recall the words he wanted. Once before, during Alpha Triad’s run to the Twin Cities, he had dealt with street gangs. What was the name they used for their territory? Something to do with grass or sod or—“…turf in St. Louis?” he said as the word came to him.

“St Louis is our turf,” Jeff boasted.

“The Leather Knights control the entire city?” Blade interrogated the biker.

“Yep.” Jeff beamed. “Have for years.”

“Detail the history of the Leather Knights,” Blade instructed.

“What?” Jeff almost laughed. “Are you kidding?”

Blade leaned forward, his raging eyes burning into Jeff’s. “Do I look like I’m kidding?”

Jeff gulped. “No, sir. You sure don’t.”

“Then start talking.”

“There’s not much to tell,” Jeff said in a frightened tone. “I don’t know a lot about it, honest!”

“You must know something.”

“All I know is what I’ve heard,” Jeff explained, “what some of the old-timers have told me.”

“I’m waiting.”

Jeff reflected a moment. “The Leather Knights got started way back before the war,” he detailed.

“When the war broke out, most of the people in St. Louis took off. I think they were evacuated by the Government, or something like that.

Anyway, the Knights stayed put and got involved in some fights with two or three other gangs over who was going to claim the turf. The Knights came out on top.”

“Are there any other people in St. Louis besides the Leather Knights?” Blade asked.

“Yep. Bunches. A lot of people strayed back after the war was over. I don’t know how many there are now, but there’s got to be at least a couple of thousand,” Jeff said.

“How many Leather Knights are there?” Blade questioned him.

“Six hundred, if you count the studs,” Jeff answered.

“Studs?”

“Yeah. I’m a stud. The guys you just wasted were studs. You’d be a stud, too, if you were a Knight.”

Now it was Blade’s turn to be confused. “I don’t understand,” he admitted.

“You’ve got balls, don’t you?”

“Balls?”

“Nuts. Coconuts, man. Gonads,” Jeff said, accenting the last word.

Blade was more bewildered than before. “What do my sexual organs have to do with it?”

“Everything. If you ain’t got nuts and a pecker, you can’t hardly be a stud,” Jeff explained.

Blade’s eyes widened in comprehension. “You mean all of the men are studs?”

Jeff snickered. “The foxes ain’t got the hardware, if you get my drift.”

“And the studs control the Leather Knights?” Blade speculated.

Jeff snorted again. “Where’d you ever get a dumb idea like that?” He hesitated, appalled at his own stupidity. “I didn’t mean anything by that crack,” he quickly blurted out. “Honest!”

“If the men… the studs… don’t control the Leather Knights, then who does?” Blade demanded.

“Who else? The foxes.”

“The women?”

“Why do you look so surprised? Ain’t it the same where you come from?” Jeff inquired.

Blade shook his head. “Our men and women share responsibility. You can’t really say one dominates the other.”

“You’re putting me on!”

“I’m serious,” Blade stated. “How did the women assume control of the Leather Knights?”

“It’s always been that way,” Jeff replied.

“Always?”

Jeff frowned. “I did hear a story once, but I thought the old guy who told me was wacko. He said that long ago, way back about the time of the war, the men ran the show. But all the fighting over our turf killed off most of the men. The Leather Knights became top dog in St. Louis, but few of the men survived. So the foxes, the mamas, sort of took over.”

“And the women have been running the show ever since,” Blade concluded.

“They do now,” Jeff affirmed.

“How many of the Knights are studs?”

“Oh, about two hundred,” Jeff answered.

“But you said there are six hundred Knights?”

“That’s right,” Jeff said.

“And the other four hundred are all women?” Blade asked.

“Yep.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” Blade said. “How can you have so many women and so few men?”

“We’ve got more men,” Jeff responded. “Lots more. But the women don’t let every man into the Leather Knights. Only enough to handle their dirty work.”

“Dirty work?”

“Yeah. Things like the cleaning and the laundry and stuff like that. It’s a real drag! I wouldn’t of joined up, but it was the only way I could get me a bike,” Jeff elaborated.

“Only the Knights are entitled to motorcycles?”

“Of course.”

Blade stepped back, studying the biker, debating. He believed the man.

But where did it leave him? What good did the knowledge do? In the final analysis, what did it matter whether the women or the men ran the Leather Knights and controlled St. Louis? Either way, getting Rikki out of there promised to be no easy task. “You mentioned a guy in black earlier.”

“The one who wasted our dogs,” Jeff said. “We were after Lex and Mira, when Cardew came hauling ass and told Terza about this guy in black who racked three sisters. That’s what the women all call themselves. The sisters. Anyhow, Terza got real ticked off and ordered us to send the dogs out.” Jeff paused. “I’ve been on the dog detail for six months. I’m so damn sick of dog shit I could scream.”

“Back up a bit,” Blade directed him. “Who are Lex and Mira? And Cardew and Terza?”

“Lex is one of the sisters,” Jeff said. “She got tired of the Knights and was trying to split. But the sisters ain’t allowed to split once they take the oath. As for Mira,” he said, shifting to his right and pointing at a woman lying among the dogs, “she got racked.”

“And Cardew and Terza?”

“Cardew is one of the studs. He was riding point when they caught up with Lex and Mira. He’s the one who told us about the man in black.”

“That leaves Terza,” Blade reminded him.

“Terza is our head, man,” Jeff revealed. “She runs the whole show.”

“Terza rules the Leather Knights?”

“You got it.”

“What kind of a woman is she?” Blade asked.

“She’s one mean mother!” Jeff said. “She don’t take any crap from anybody. Sort of like you.”

Blade grinned. “Where are they holding the man in black?”

“Is he a friend of yours?”

“Yes. Where is he?”

“I don’t know,” Jeff answered.

Blade took a step forward.

“Hey!” Jeff held up his hands. “Really, man! I don’t know where they’ve got him! He’s in St. Louis, but that’s all I know.”

“What will they do? Hold him prisoner?” Blade inquired.

“The Leather Knights don’t take no prisoners,” Jeff said. “He may be dead by now. Terza don’t like it when one of the sisters gets wasted, and your friend racked three. One of them, that one there,” and he pointed at another corpse, “was called Pat, a real good buddy of Terza’s. I imagine Terza will rack your friend first thing. Maybe take him out herself, or stake him out for Grotto, or even feed him to Slither.”

Blade wanted to pose additional questions, but he realized time was of the essence. He had to reach Rikki as swiftly as feasible. “You’re taking me to St. Louis,” he announced.

“You’re crazy!” Jeff responded.

Blade hefted the Commando. “Pick a cycle. I’ll ride behind you. Don’t try anything funny,” he warned.

Jeff glanced at the Bowies and the sword. “I’ll take you, but there’s no way you’re gonna get your friend out in one piece.”

“You let me worry about that. Start a bike.” Blade waited while Jeff climbed on one of the cycles and kicked it over. He straddled the seat behind the Leather Knight and tapped Jeff’s head with the Commando barrel. “Let’s go.”

Jeff gunned the bike, executed a U-turn, and headed toward the east.

“This just isn’t my day,” he muttered to himself.