Dallas Run

Chapter Nine

Blade burst from the alley to find a battle being waged.

Geronimo, Lieutenant Garber, Private Griffonetti, and Private McGonical were under assault from dozens of assailants. Grungy figures lined the roofs, were framed in windows, or had taken cover behind every available shelter.

Blade saw a tall black man on the roof across the street let fly with an arrow from a compound bow. The shaft sped true, slicing into Griffonetti’s throat and protruding out the back of his neck. Griffonetti clutched at the arrow, his M-16 clattering on the asphalt, and he dropped to his knees.

Without a moment’s hesitation, Blade angled the M60 upward and squeezed the trigger. The heavy slugs tore into the assailant and catapulted him from sight.

A man and a woman were charging from the right, each with a chain looped around their waist, each armed with a sword.

Blade pivoted, lowering the machine gun’s barrel, and sent several rounds into each foe. They were flung to the road on their backs, kicking and shaking in their death throes.

A chunk of brick struck Blade on the right temple, filling his head with excruciating pain, and he twisted and glanced up to discover a man with a beard in a second-floor window, about to hurl a bigger piece of brick.

Blade gritted his teeth and fired, and the man screeched as he staggered backwards and vanished.

Griffonetti had pitched onto his stomach.

A burly man in a leather jacket appeared at a ground-floor window in a building on the other side of the street, a rifle in his hands. He got off a shot.

Private McGonical took the bullet squarely in the chest. He looked down at the wound in astonishment, then sprawled forward.

Geronimo worked the Browning, three booming retorts one after the other, and the rifleman’s waist exploded outward and he crumpled.

The figures were aiming a torrent of bullets, spears, arrows, bricks, and other items at the exposed Warriors and Lieutenant Garber.

“Into the alley!” Blade yelled, sweeping the M60 in an arc, forcing their adversaries to duck or die.

Geronimo and Lieutenant Garber darted into the mouth of the alley, then fired to keep the enemy pinned down while Blade joined them.

The downpour of missiles and lead ceased.

“What happened?” Blade asked, scanning the buildings and roofs.

“Who were they?”

“Your guess is as good as mine,” Geronimo answered. “One second we were waiting for you, and the next they popped out of nowhere, trying to kill us.”

“All my men are dead,” Garber said sadly. “I never expected this!”

“Concentrate on staying alive yourself,” Blade advised, and risked a peek past the edge of the right-hand wall. There was no hint of movement.

“They seem to be gone.”

As if on cue, a gruff voice hailed them from atop the three-story structure directly across from the alley. “Hey, you! The big son of a bitch! Do you hear me?”

“I hear you!” Blade replied, vigilantly scrutinizing the rim of the roof.

“You ain’t getting out of there alive, you scumbag!”

Blade did not bother to respond.

“Who are you?” the man asked. “Are you hooked up with the Stompers?”

Still Blade said nothing. He leaned his back against the wall and waited.

“Look, man! I want to talk to you face to face. What do you say?”

“Come out into the middle of the street, unarmed,” Blade shouted.

“Unarmed? No frigging way!”

Blade glanced at Geronimo, who was reloading the Browning, and at Lieutenant Garber, who seemed to be extremely depressed.

“How about this idea?” the man on the roof yelled. “How about if my hands are empty but I pack my revolvers? You can bring that cannon of yours. What do you say?”

“Keep your hands where I can see them!” Blade instructed.

Silence descended for a full minute, until the peeling, chipped wooden door in the building on the other side of the street opened and out walked a lean man attired in a brown leather vest and baggy black pants. His left boot had a wide hole at the tip, exposing three toes. Around his waist were belted a pair of Taurus Model 66’s. Also looped about his body, inches above the revolvers, was a length of chain. He came forward slowly, his brown eyes fixed on the alley, his arms held out from his sides.

“Watch my back,” Blade ordered, and stepped out to meet the spokesman for their adversaries. He surveyed the street and the buildings, and although no one was in sight he knew weapons were being trained on him.

The man glanced at the M60. “That’s the biggest damn gun I’ve ever seen, mister.”

Blade judged the spokesman to be in his early twenties. Under the dirt and the grime was a frank, earnest face. “What do you want?” he demanded harshly.

“Hey, chill out,” the man said. “I’m here under a truce. I’m doing you a favor.”

“How do you figure?”

“I’m giving you a chance to get out of this alive,” the man stated.

Blade’s mouth curled upwards. “I’d get out of this alive, with or without your generosity.”

“Tough sucker, huh?”

“Get to the point.”

The man wagged his hands. “Can I lower my arms?”

“No.”

A grin creased the man’s countenance. “Yep. Definitely a tough mother.

Listen, there’s no sense in us getting mad at each other. I’m not here to razz you. My name is Marlon,” he said, and paused, staring at Blade expectantly. When he didn’t receive a reply, he shrugged. “I’m the head of the Chains.”

“Who cares?”

“Geez. Why are you being such a hard-ass?”

“You attacked us without warning and killed two of my team. What do you expect?” Blade retorted.

“Hey, you’re the ones who invaded our turf and jumped my squeeze,” Marlon said angrily.

“Your turf?”

“This part of the city belongs to the Chains, and no one enters our territory without permission,” Marlon declared.

“That’s strange. I was told that the Chains don’t control any turf, that the Chosen rule Dallas.”

“Who was the rotten, lying prick who told you that?”

Blade motioned at the alley. “A woman named Melanie.”

“Is she all right?” Marlon inquired, trying to speak in a level, calm tone, but with a trace of anxiousness tinging his voice.

“She could use a bath,” Blade mentioned.

“Who couldn’t? Don’t be insulting my squeeze, man,” Marlon snapped.

“Is she your wife?”

“Wife, hell. She’s my fox, my woman. She was out with Annie, scrounging for food, when they saw you and your buddies coming. Melanie ducked into the alley and Annie in an old store a few doors down. She saw you go after Melanie and snuck off to tell us,” Marlon detailed. “Why’d you chase her? What did you do to her?”

“She’s fine,” Blade said. “We needed information. That was all.”

Marlon cocked his head, his eyes narrowing. “You didn’t have another reason, like maybe you wanted to get your paws on her body?”

Blade’s features hardened. “How would you like to eat your teeth?”

Surprise registered on Marlon’s face, and he regarded the giant carefully. “No, I guess you don’t seem like the raping type. But how was I to know?”

“You ambushed us because you wanted to rescue Melanie?” Blade asked.

Marlon nodded. “Release her and we’ll let you leave.”

“No.”

“Why the hell not?”

“I don’t trust you,” Blade said bluntly.

“But I give you my word,” Marlon stated.

“It’s not enough.”

Forgetting himself for a moment, incensed by the Warrior’s attitude, Marlon placed his hands on his hips. “Listen, jerk-face! When I give my word, I mean it. All I want is Melanie. Let her go and you’re free.”

“I want more than your word,” Blade said.

“Like what?”

“I want you to agree to lead us to the Chosen.”

The request shocked the head of the Chains. He gawked for a full five seconds before composing himself enough to blurt a response. “Say what?”

“You must know where the Chosen are based.”

“Yeah. Sure. But I’m not about to lead you there.”

“You will if you want us to release Melanie,” Blade said.

“Do you have a death wish or something? Do you know who the Chosen are?” Marlon asked testily.

“Enlighten me.”

“They’re crazies, man. They all have these green spots on their skin, and they run around trying to convert everybody. Their head honcho is a mental case called the Lawgiver,” Marlon said.

“Do they have a headquarters, somewhere they operate from?” Blade probed.

“Yeah.”

“Then take us there.”

Marlon pondered for half a minute, glancing repeatedly at the alley.

“Let me get this straight. I agree to take you to the base of those damn wackos, and you’ll let Melanie go?”

Blade nodded.

“How do I know she’s okay? How do I know you ain’t already offed her?”

“You can see for yourself,” Blade suggested, and stepped aside. “After you.”

The leader of the Chains frowned, torn between his desire to ascertain if the woman he loved was safe and his distrust of the giant. He tilted his head back and raised his voice. “I’m going to check on Melanie! Everything is cool! No one does anything until you hear from me!”

“Are you sure they heard you?” Blade asked.

“They heard me,” Marlon said, and stalked toward the alley.

Blade followed, walking backwards, his eyes roving over the buildings.

He spied a shadowy form in a second-floor window off to the left, but the Chains heeded their top man and not one bullet or arrow was fired.

“So where is she?” Marlon demanded, halting in the entrance and staring suspiciously at Geronimo and Lieutenant Garber.

“Where’s Hickok?” Blade inquired, stopping next to his fellow Warrior.

“We haven’t seen him since he entered the alley with you,” Geronimo said.

“What?” Blade declared, and only then did he realize he hadn’t seen the gunman either, not since they had heard the gunshots.

“I just assumed you told him to stay with her at the back of the alley,” Geronimo remarked.

“He was supposed to bring her out here,” Blade said.

“Knowing that dummy, he probably got lost,” Geronimo joked.

“Even Nathan can’t get lost in an alley,” Blade responded, starting into its depths.

“I wouldn’t put anything past that idiot,” Geronimo said.

“Hold it!” Marlon barked.

The Warriors drew up short.

“What the hell kind of game are you playing with me?” Marlon snapped.

“This isn’t a game,” Blade said.

“I think you’re trying to sucker me back there so you can bump me off,” Marlon said.

“Then stay here,” Blade said, and looked at the officer. “Come with us.”

The three of them hastened toward the rear of the alley.

Marlon watched them cover a dozen yards, then scowled and smacked his right fist into his left palm in frustration. He walked after them.

“Hickok!” Blade called.

“Yo, stupid!” Geronimo added.

Blade couldn’t understand the gunfighter’s absence. Melanie could never have overpowered Hickok, and if the gunman had been attacked by others there would have been the sound of shots. He jogged forward, avoiding the piles of trash, searching the recesses for his friend. “Where can he be?” he asked, an indefinite misgiving gnawing at his consciousness.

“I don’t see him,” Geronimo said apprehensively.

They came to the spot where the woman had slipped and fallen. There, prominently defined in the muck, were her footprints and those of the gunman and Blade.

Geronimo crouched and examined the prints.

“Is this where you left her?” Marlon inquired, catching up to them.

“This is the spot,” Blade said, watching Geronimo examine the ground diligently.

“Then where is she?” Marlon asked.

“You tell us.”

Marlon gazed at the mounds of refuse. “You could have killed her and dumped her body in the garbage.”

Pivoting on his right heel, Blade swung the M60 around and pointed the barrel at Marlon’s chest. “Drop your guns,” he commanded softly.

“What?” Marlon blurted out, flabbergasted.

“You heard me.”

Breath hissed out of Marlon and he clenched his hands until the knuckles paled. “You lying, double-crossing scum!”

“Use your thumb and little finger on each hand, and only your thumb and little finger, and lift out each revolver,” Blade directed, ignoring the insult. “Set the guns down on the ground very, very slowly.”

“If you shoot me, turkey, the Chains will be on you like dogs on a bone,” Marlon predicted.

“Let them come.”

“You’re bluffing,” Marlon asserted.

“It’s obvious Melanie and you were made for each other,” Blade remarked.

“Huh?”

Blade tensed his arms. “Never mind. Drop your guns! Now!”

Fury contorted Marlon’s face, and for the space of five seconds he gave the impression he was about to go for his guns. Scarlet infused his cheeks and his mouth worked noiselessly. Finally he obeyed, his hands shaking so badly from suppressed rage he could barely hold the revolvers as he lowered them. “If it’s the last thing I ever do,” he vowed when both handguns were on the ground, “I’m taking you out.”

“No thanks. I’m married.”

Marlon’s brow knit in utter confusion.

“Pick up his guns,” Blade told Lieutenant Garter. “Stick them under your belt, then cover him. He’s not to get them back until I give the word.”

“Get them back?” both Garber and Marlon said simultaneously.

“There must be an echo in here,” Blade said.

“Do you really intend to give this bastard his guns back?” Lieutenant Garber asked as he squatted and retrieved the revolvers.

“In due course.”

Garber straightened and stepped a yard away from the head of the Chains. He tucked the Taurus Model 66’s under his belt and aimed his M-16 at Marlon’s chest. “He’s responsible for the deaths of McGonical and Griffonetti. He deserves to be shot.”

“He wasn’t the one who killed them,” Blade noted.

“But I heard him say he’s their leader. He might as well have fired the shot,” Lieutenant Garber complained.

“You’re not to shoot him unless he tries to grab his guns. Is that understood?” Blade queried.

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, sir.”

Marlon looked at the Warrior quizzically and shook his head. “I don’t get you, man. One minute you say one thing, and the next something else.”

“Do I?”

“You’re a space cadet,” Marlon stated.

“Am I?” Blade responded, and turned toward Geronimo.

Bent over at the waist, his keen eyes riveted on the tracks, the stocky Warrior was reading the spoor as unerringly as he would the freshly imprinted trail of a bear or a doe. He had moved close to a shoulder-high stack of moldy, sagging cardboard boxes piled in the northwest corner.

“Hey! Wait a minute!” Marlon declared, snapping his fingers. “Maybe I do get you. You’ve been playing mind games with me.”

“Have I?”

Geronimo stepped almost to the rear wall and gazed to his right.

“Blade.”

“What did you find?” Blade inquired, walking over.

“See for yourself,” Geronimo said.

Blade did, and he resisted an urge to kick the cardboard boxes to vent his supreme vexation. For there, in the corner, concealed by the stack of boxes, was an open metal door leading into a gloomy corridor.