Cincinnati Run

Chapter Eleven

“What am I going to do?” Fedorov whimpered, gaping at the approaching officer, a lieutenant.

“Don’t overreact,” Blade cautioned. “We can bluff our way out of this mess.”

“They’ll kill me if they find out I was helping you,” Fedorov said.

“They won’t find out,” Blade assured the Russian.

“Yes, they will,” Fedorov disagreed. “You don’t know them like I do.”

The lieutenant and the six soldiers were 12 feet distant.

“I’m getting out of here!” Fedorov unexpectedly cried, and shifted into reverse. He tramped on the accelerator, sending the jeep flying backwards to crash into a brown automobile, then wrenched on the wheel and tried to maneuver into the opposite lane, an impossible feat because the other lane was crammed with vehicles.

“What the hell are you doing?” the driver of the panel truck shouted.

“Don’t!” Blade snapped. “We’re already boxed in. You’re only making it worse.”

Fedorov wasn’t about to let up. He pounded on the horn, frantically striving to clear the obstructing traffic.

The detail from the gate halted, and the officer cupped his hand around his mouth. “You there! What do you think you’re doing! Do not move your vehicle!”

“We’re in for trouble now,” Geronimo predicted.

Blade was furious. Fedorov’s stupidity was attracting precisely the attention he wanted to avoid at all costs. “Quit using the horn!” he growled.

“I don’t want to die!” Fedorov blubbered, his fleshy features trembling.

The driver of the panel truck stepped over to their jeep and kicked the grill. “Turn it off and step out here!”

“I figure we should make a break for it,” Hickok advised, holding the AR-15 in his lap. His prized Pythons were concealed under his uniform shirt, the barrels held fast by his belt, with the pearl grips reversed. To draw he first had to unbutton the shirt and reach in, and he disliked the delay the unbuttoning would cause. In an emergency he wanted to be able to reach his Pythons as quickly as possible, and by his reckoning the current situation qualified as the genuine article.

“For once I agree with Hickok,” Geronimo concurred.

The lieutenant and the six soldiers were on the far side of the opposing lane of traffic, blocked by a truck and a car that were touching bumper to bumper. Gesticulating and barking orders, the officer was attempting to get them to separate.

“This sucks!” Fedorov declared, and yanked on the door handle.

Blade lunged, trying to restrain the trooper, his left hand catching hold of Fedorov’s right wrist.

“Let go of me!” Fedorov yelled, tugging and thrashing, his left leg and arm outside the jeep.

“What is happening?” the officer demanded. “Private! Answer me!”

Fedorov glanced at the officer. “Comrade Lieutenant, help me! These men are enemies of the State! They’ve been holding me prisoner!”

“This is gettin’ ridiculous,” Hickok said, and jabbed the AR-15 into Fedorov’s ribs and squeezed the trigger.

The burst tore Fedorov from Blade’s grasp and flung him against the car in the opposite lane, his chest riddled, oozing blood, his face a mask of astonishment. His lips twitched feebly and he slumped to the asphalt.

Hickok was already in motion, firing as he climbed from the jeep, sending a round into the stunned lieutenant’s forehead and catapulting the officer backwards into two troopers. He shot a soldier who was endeavoring to unlimber an AK-47, then a private who looked like he was trying to catch flies with his mouth.

“What the hell!” the driver of the panel truck blurted out, then dove for the ground when a giant and another guy popped from the jeep that had hit his truck.

Blade saw the Russians near the gate start toward Delhi Road. He raised the Commando and cut loose, swinging the weapon in a tight arc, and he was gratified to see five of the soldiers go down. The Commando Arms Carbine was a devasting piece of firepower; three feet in length, only eight pounds in weight, with a fully automatic capability thanks to the Family Gunsmiths. Using its 90-round magazine of 45-caliber ammunition, the commando was lightweight, versatile, and supremely deadly.

The driver’s door on a truck 30 feet to the east opened, and a soldier materialized with a pistol in his right hand.

Geronimo shot him through the chest.

The guards at the gate were hitting the dirt. Screams arose from women in several of the vehicles. The four remaining soldiers who had accompanied the lieutenant ducked behind the car in the other lane.

For several seconds the pressure was off the Warriors.

“Which way, pard?” Hickok asked, swiveling from right to left, trying to cover every direction at once.

Blade backed toward the sidewalk. The decision was already made for him. They were entirely hemmed in by vehicles on three sides. Attempting to assault the installation would be virtual suicide. Their sole avenue of escape lay to the north. A row of dilapidated buildings bordered Delhi Road on the north side, most with peeling paint and dirty windows, all of them apparently vacant. Which figured. The Soviets wouldn’t want anyone living or working in close proximity to their top-secret facility where their activities could be monitored. “This way!” he shouted.

Geronimo dashed to Blade’s side.

A trooper appeared above the hood of the car, an AK-47 pressed to his shoulder.

Hickok was faster, the AR-15 chattering instantly, and the trooper screeched and fell from view. The gunman whirled and clambered swiftly over the jeep’s hood, then back pedaled to his friends. “Let’s skedaddle,” he declared.

“On me,” Blade directed, sprinting to the west, surprised to discover scattered pedestrians on the sidewalk, all of whom frantically endeavored to flee out of his path. He could hear Geronimo and Hickok pounding on his heels, and then a new sound, the harsh thundering of AK-47s.

A large window in a deserted store to their rear shattered.

“They’re gettin’ our range!” Hickok exclaimed, halting and pivoting and firing from the hip.

Two Russian soldiers near the car died on their feet.

Hickok resumed his flight, looking at the L.R.F. and observing a score of soldiers rushing through the gate. “Reinforcements are comin’!” he yelled.

Blade and Geronimo slowed, covering the gunman while he caught up.

“This is gettin’ serious,” Hickok cracked.

“What was your first clue?” Geronimo asked.

Blade glanced to the west and spied an alley 15 feet distant. “Move!” he ordered, sprinting forward, scarcely noticing the rusted, decrepit trash cans littering the sidewalk as he darted into the mouth of the alley. His boots crunched on refuse and a stench assailed his nostrils. Mounds of moldy garbage lined the walls.

“P.U.!” Hickok said. “Why do you always pick places that smell like the butt end of a cow with the runs?”

“Damn!” Blade snapped.

“I knew this would happen,” Geronimo stated.

A ten-foot-high brick wall blocked their passage.

Blade slung the Commando over his right arm and cupped his hands.

“Let’s go. Hickok first.”

The gunman placed his right boot on Blade’s hands. “Don’t get carried away,” he said, slinging the AR-15 over his left shoulder.

Blade’s arms surged upward, and Hickok sailed overhead. The gunfighter cleared the top of the wall with a yard to spare and descended on the far side. A veritable din ensued, a metallic clanging and clashing intermixed with muffled exclamations. “Hickok are you all right?” Blade queried anxiously.

“Fine,” came the angry reply.

“What happened?”

“I landed in a blamed trash can.”

Geronimo smirked. “All the grace of a rhino,” he commented, and looked over his shoulder. Loud voices emanated from the mouth of the alley, but no one was in sight. The Soviets were being cautious.

“Your turn,” Blade said.

“How many points do I make if I clobber Hickok?” Geronimo asked as he slipped his left foot into Blade’s hands.

Blade hurled Geronimo toward the lip of the wall.

“Down here!” someone near the street bellowed. Time for a deterrent.

Blade faced Delhi, unslung the Commando, and let off a short burst to discourage their pursuers. He spun and vaulted upward, the Commando in his left hand, easily taking hold of the rim of the wall with his right hand and employing his left elbow as a brace. The next moment he was up and over and dropping to the sidewalk beyond, landing between his fellow Warriors.

Geronimo stood to the right, scrutinizing the deserted street before them. The gathering nightfall blanketed the structures.

Hickok was busily removing bits and pieces of revolting gunk from his clothing. At his feet was an overturned trash can dotted with rust holes.

“What’s with all the blasted garbage?” he wanted to know.

“Maybe this whole area was abandoned before the L.R.F. was built,” Blade speculated, surveying the street. “Maybe there are homeless people in Cincinnati who are using these vacant buildings for shelter.”

“I doubt the Commies would let folks wander around the city,” Hickok said, scrunching up his nose as he picked a gooey green glob from his uniform shirt.

“The Russians can’t be everywhere at once. And I doubt they rate apprehending homeless people as a very high priority.”

“Where to now?” Geronimo inquired. “Every Soviet soldier in the city will be after us.”

Blade jogged to the left, bearing to the east, reversing direction to confound the enemy.

“Do you have a plan?” Geronimo asked, staying on the giant’s right.

“Yeah. It’s called staying alive.”

“You’d best do better than that,” Hickok said, a yard to their rear. “This is terrible.”

“Since when have you ever been worried about handling several thousand Russian soldiers?” Geronimo responded.

“It’s not the Commies who worry me,” Hickok declared. “It’s our wives.”

“Our wives?”

“Yep. They’ll tan our hides for losin’ our duds.”

They covered 50 yards and reached the front of an enormous dingy building.

Blade abruptly swerved to the right and bounded up a flight of cracked and pitted cement stairs to the wooden door.

“What gives, pard?” Hickok questioned. “I don’t much like the notion of being cornered indoors.”

“We’ll cut through here. This building should front Delhi Road. If the Spirit smiles on us, we should come out behind the Russians.”

Geronimo looked at the alley. “Speaking of the Russians, where are they?”

“They probably had to regroup,” Blade said. “They’ll be coming over the wall any second.” He gripped the doorknob and pulled, and to his delight the door swung out. “Stay close to me,” he advised, and plunged into the gloomy recesses of the brownstone.

Geronimo went in next.

Hickok hesitated for a last glimpse of the alley, and he saw several soldiers jumping to the sidewalk as he eased the door shut. The inside of the building was damp and musty.

“Let’s go,” Blade stated, standing eight feet off, his immense form an indistinct inky shadow.

“I need someone to hold my hand,” Hickok joked.

“Why do you think Sherry married you?” Geromino replied sarcastically.

“The woman has excellent taste.”

“In food.”

The Warriors advanced tentatively, feeling their way in the darkness, occasionally encountering rickety furniture and dangling spider webs.

“I just had a thought,” Hickok whispered.

“There’s a first,” Geronimo said.

“I’m serious, pard. What if there are mutants in here?”

“They’ll pick up your scent and head for the hills.”

“I don’t smell that bad.”

“A horny skunk would be in seventh heaven.”

They came to a junction and Blade led them to the left, along a narrow corridor. Rustling and squeaking noises fluttered in the air.

“This dump is spooky,” Hickok commented.

In 20 yards they came to another intersection, and as they took a right they walked into a wall of sticky cobwebs.

“Yuck,” Hickok said, swiping at the invisible strands.

“I can see a faint light at the end of the hall,” Blade mentioned.

“Lead on,” Geronimo stated.

Blade moved toward the vague illumination, batting cobwebs aside with every stride. “This might be our way out.”

“None too soon,” Hickok said. He took three steps on the heels of the others, then froze when something the size of his hand, something wiggling and heavy, plummeted out of the blackness overhead and landed in his hair.