New Orleans Run

Chapter Two

He stood on the western rampart, his hands clasped loosely behind his broad back, a veritable giant of a man attired in a black leather vest, green fatigue pants, and combat boots. Dark hair crowned his handsome head.

His brooding gray eyes stared absently at the cleared field to the west of the 20-foot-high brick wall on which he was perched. Around his slim waist were strapped a pair of matching Bowies snug in their brown sheathes. His bulging muscles radiated an aura of sheer power even when at rest. To a casual observer he might have appeared to be a statue, a bronzed superman sculpted by an artist who intended to invest the piece with the strength of a Hercules. Not one of those mighty sinews so much as quivered as the giant contemplated the personal problem he faced, a dilemma that could be summed up succinctly in two words.

Not again!

His impending departure for New Orleans in the morning had aggravated a raw emotional wound, had angered his wife, Jenny, and caused yet another spat related to his prolonged absences from the Home.

Not that he could blame her. Or his son, Gabe, who had been upset to learn they wouldn’t be going fishing tomorrow as he had promised. If only they could appreciate his position!

What other choice did he have?

He was, after all, the head Warrior. The safety of over a hundred lives and the guardianship of the 30-acre compound in which they all lived were ultimately his responsibility. And he would protect both with his dying breath, if need be.

The Home and the Family. Both had come into existence shortly before the outbreak of World War Three, which had occurred 106 years ago. The Founder of the Home and the family, a wealthy, idealistic filmmaker named Kurt Carpenter, had wisely foreseen the impending Armageddon and taken steps to ensure his ideals survived his lifetime. Carpenter had expended a fortune to have the Home constructed, then instituted a social system designed to ensure individual liberty while maximizing human potential.

The Founder had realized the necessity for a security unit and created the Warrior class, just as other group needs were met by the formation of other appropriate classes: the Tillers, the Weavers, the Healers, the Elders, and others. Each performed an important function, and none were considered superior to any others. Carpenter had despised inequality and hypocrisy in any form, and he had taken concrete steps to promote freedom for all while hopefully eliminating the rise of the vulture class, those who enjoyed lording it over their peers, those the Family dubbed vile power-mongers.

Only one power-monger had arisen within the Family in its entire history, but the same could not be said of the outside world, where demented dictators and repressive city-states had arisen to fill the vacuum left by the collapse of the United States government.

The giant frowned, thinking of all the enemies the Family had faced, all the foes who would gladly destroy the Home without so much as a second thought. There were the Technics, the Superiors, the Soviets, the Dragons, the Gild, the Peers, and many more. If not for the Warriors, the Family would have long since been eliminated. And one of the keys to the Warriors’ success lay in their resolve to meet any and all threats head-on, to venture wherever, necessary to terminate menaces as the danger arose.

“Why let the enemy come to them when they could take the fight to the enemy?”

His question prompted a sigh from the top Warrior. As if his post at the Home wasn’t enough of a reason for his constant absences, he also served as the leader of the Freedom Force, the elite strike team consisting of a volunteer from each of the seven factions comprising the Freedom Federation. The Family had found allies as well as enemies far beyond the brick walls, and six of those friendly factions had joined with the descendants of Carpenter’s followers to form the Federation.

So was it any wonder he spent so much time away from his loved ones?

If the safety of the Home and Family was imperiled, he had to deal with the threat. If any Federation faction was attacked or came up against a danger they couldn’t handle, he had to handle it. His responsibilities, sometimes, intimidated even him. But he wouldn’t shirk them as long as breath remained in his body. He had pledged to perform his duties faithfully, and a man could be measured by the value of his word.

Just two days ago he had arrived at the Home after spending a week in Los Angeles, where the Force was based, planning to spend the next 14 days with Jenny and Gabe and attending to routine business at the Home.

How was he to know that only last night the man assigned to monitor the shortwave radio they had confiscated from the Russians would receive a distress call from, of all places, New Orleans? Ever since one of the other Warriors, his close friend Hickok, had picked up an SOS from Seattle almost two years ago, the Family had regularly monitored the shortwave band for emergency signals.

Last night they’d hit pay dirt.

Which figured!

If perfect timing were gold, he’d be a pauper. Everything seemed to happen to him at the worst possible moment. He often suspected that the infamous Murphy hovered over his head simply waiting for the ideal opportunity to zap him.

Such as now.

Jenny and Gabe might not have objected so strenuously if the distress call had been received in another week or two—after they had had time to be together and savor the experience of being a family again. But coming so soon after his return to the compound from the Free State of California, the emergency request had thrown a monumental monkey wrench into his home life.

So what else was new?

Finally he moved, raising his arms to stretch as he inhaled the cool October air. His eyes strayed to the aircraft parked in the middle of the field beyond. The Hurricane, a jet endowed with vertical-takeoff-or-landing capability, was one of two such craft possessed by the California military. The VTOLs were the lifeblood of the Federation.

They were utilized as a monthly courier service, carrying messages from one Federation faction to another. They transported Federation heads to summit meetings. They carried the Force on assignments. And, as with the one in the field, they conveyed the giant to and from the Home on a regular basis. Two days ago the Hurricane before him had brought him from L. A. The pilot had decided to stay over an extra day to conduct minor maintenance, and it was well he did. Because now the giant intended to have the VTOL fly him to New Orleans so he could investigate the call they had received.

Along with the three hybrids.

He saw someone step into view from behind the Hurricane, the Warrior guarding the aircraft, and he smiled and waved.

The sentry, a wiry man wearing forest-green clothing that contrasted with his blond hair and jutting blond beard, carried a compound bow.

Strapped to his back was a large quiver of arrows. “Yo, Blade!” he called out, and waved back.

“Teucer!” Blade replied, lowering his arm.

The bowman continued in a slow circuit of the jet, alertly scanning the treeline farther to the west.

A good man, Blade thought to himself, and placed his hands on the hilts of his Bowies. All of the Warriors were good men or women or—

“What the dickens are you doing up here all by your lonesome, pard?”

The familiar voice brought a grin to the giant’s face, and he pivoted to see his two fellow members of Alpha Triad ascending the wooden stairs to the rampart.

In the lead, wearing buckskins, came another blond man, only this one was leaner than Teucer and sported a mustache but no beard. In a holster on either hip rode a Colt Python revolver. He had his thumbs hooked in his gunbelt and a typical nonchalant smile creasing his countenance.

When he spoke again, he did so in his customary Old West fashion. “Are you expectin’ a passel of mangy owlhoots to attack the Home?”

“Not hardly, Hickok,” Blade replied.

The gunfighter stepped onto the rampart and strolled casually over to the giant. “We stopped by your homestead and your missus told us you’d moseyed this way.”

“One of these days this dummy will speak normal English and put the rest of us in total shock,” commented the second man, a stocky Indian who favored green clothing and who had tucked a genuine tomahawk under his brown leather belt. Both his eyes and his hair were dark. His heritage was Blackfoot.

“Don’t you know it,” Blade agreed, chuckling.

Hickok glanced at their Indian companion. “Hardy-har-har. Who died and made you a language expert, Geronimo?”

“It doesn’t take an expert to know you’re ninety-nine bricks shy of a hundred-brick load.”

“I didn’t know you could count that high without takin’ off your socks and shoes,” Hickok quipped.

Geronimo stopped and stared idly at the Hurricane. “At least it doesn’t take me ten minutes to tie my moccasin laces in the morning.”

Blade, who knew their banter could continue for hours if not checked, decided to interrupt the two best friends he’d had since childhood. “To what do I owe this dubious honor?”

“Dubious?” Hickok repeated. “Our comin’ up here to palaver had nothin’ to do with makin’ knights.”

Blade had to think about that one for a few seconds before he understood. He grimaced and scrutinized both men. “Then why are you up here?”

“Do you want to tell him or should I?” Hickok asked Geronimo.

“Be my guest.”

“Fine,” the gunman said. He faced the giant squarely and adopted a slightly miffed expression. “What’s this we hear about you not takin’ us to New Orleans?”

“You heard correctly,” Blade answered.

“But we’re a Triad, dag nab it! We’re supposed to work as a team.

We’ve been on more runs together than any of the other Warriors.”

“Which is precisely the reason I want to take others with me,” Blade mentioned. “You know we have to give the rest of the Warriors a chance to see the outside world while honing their combat skills.”

“Maybe so,” Hickok acknowledged, “but you seem to be going a mite overboard with this business. You didn’t take us to Boston, you didn’t take us to Green Bay, and now you’re waltzin’ off to New Orleans without us.”

“Boston?” Blade said. “You can’t be serious, I was kidnapped and taken there against my will. How can you blame me for that?”

The gunfighter pursed his lips. “Okay. Maybe you had a legitimate excuse. But what about Green Bay?”

“The Technics were involved. I hoped to give Yama a chance to come to grips with his hatred for them.”

“If you ask me, pard, Yama hates those coyotes even more,” Hickok noted.

“I agree, “Geronimo chimed in. “The other day he asked me if I believed a single man could assault Technic City and survive.”

Blade tensed. “He what?”

“That’s right,” Geronimo confirmed. “I told him the idea was crazy.”

“How did he react?”

“Yama gave me this funny sort of smile,” Geronimo disclosed.

“Uh-oh,” Hickok said.

Blade shifted and surveyed the compound, searching for a sign of the Warrior in blue, the man universally regarded as the living equal of the Hindu King of Death from whom Yama had taken his name. As with every other Family member, Yama had gone through a special Naming ceremony on the occasion of his sixteenth birthday and selected the unusual appellation for his very own. There was no sign of the gray haired Warrior anywhere near the west wall. “I’ll have to have a long talk with him after I get back.”

“Do you want us to keep our peepers on him while you’re gone?” Hickok offered.

“Yes, “Blade said. “Make certain he doesn’t do anything foolish.”

“We’ll try our best,” Geronimo stated. “But if that guy decides to leave without authorization, it’ll take more than the two of us to stop him.”

“Bull,” Hickok declared. “It’ll be a piece of cake.”

“How do you figure?” Geronimo rejoined. “Yama is almost as big and strong as Blade. He’s as competent a martial artist as Rikki-Tikki-Tavi. He can shoot a revolver nearly as expertly as you. In fact, he’s an expert with every weapon in our armory, unlike the rest of us, who have specialized in only one or two. How will you stop him?”

“Easy.” Hickok snickered. “We’ll use my secret weapon.”

“Your breath?”

“No, rocks-for-brains. I happen to have heard from a reliable source that Yama has a weakness no one knows about.”

“Who’s your source?”

“Yama’s niece,” Hickok revealed.

Geronimo glanced at Blade, who shrugged to indicate he had no idea what the gunman was talking about, then back at Hickok. “What could Marian possibly know that the rest of us don’t?”

The gunfighter made a show of scanning their immediate vicinity, verifying no one was eavesdropping. Then he leaned forward and whispered conspiratorially. “Yama is ticklish.”

A look of utter astonishment froze Geronimo’s features.

“See? I knew you’d be impressed.” Hickok gloated.

“Only by your stupidity.”

“Did you know he’s ticklish?”

“That’s not the point, mush-mind.”

“Then what is?” Hickok asked.

Geronimo rolled his eyes skyward, then became serious. “Let me put it to you this way. Do you really expect to best Yama by tickling him?”

“Yep. I’ve got it all figured out. Rikki, Samson, Spartacus, Ares, Sundance, and you will hold him down while I tickle him until he surrenders.”

“Wait a minute. Why do you get to do the tickling while the rest of us are in danger of having every bone in our body broken?”

“Because it’s my plan.”

“Has it ever occurred to you that the only reason Yama is ticklish when he’s with his niece is because he relaxes enough in her presence to let down his guard? Has it occurred to you that Yama is well known for his self-control, and if we try to tickle him there’s the distinct likelihood he won’t want to be tickled?”

“That’s where Plan B comes in handy.”

“Plan B?”

“Yep. If the tickling doesn’t work, then Teucer, Shane, and Achilles will tie Yama up while the rest of you pin him down.”

“And what will you be doing while all this is going on?”

“Supervising.”

“I see. The rest of us put our lives on the line, and you goof off as usual.”

“I don’t goof off. Plannin’ is hard work. And remember, when Blade is gone I’m in charge. I’m the brains of the outfit,” Hickok said, and surreptitiously winked at the giant.

“How can you be the brains when everyone knows you’ve had a lobotomy?” Geronimo asked.

“Oh, yeah? And just why do you reckon the Big Guy picked me to be the head honcho while he’s away?”

“Obviously not for your good looks.”

“Exactly. Hey, wait a minute!”

“So it must have been because Blade has a terrific sense of humor, “Geronimo said. He looked at the man in question. “Am I right?”

Blade smiled and shook his head slowly. “Already I’m looking forward to the peace and quiet of this mission.”

“Who are you takin’ anyway?” Hickok inquired.

“Bravo Triad.”

“Bravo,” Hickok said, his eyes widening slightly. “You’re takin’ the furballs and Gremlin instead of us?”

“Yep.”

“I’m surprised. I thought you were aimin’ to hold off takin’ them along for a spell?”

“I was going to hold off, but a number of other Warriors have approached me to request that I take Lynx on a run just so he’ll stop pestering them,” Blade related, then chuckled. “Actually, they’ve begged me to take him along.”

“Do you figure Tabby will behave himself for once?” Hickok remarked.

“I hope so,” Blade said. “If he doesn’t, only Gremlin, Ferret, and I will be coming back.”

The gunman laughed. “Don’t get our hopes up!”

Geronimo folded his arms and stared intently at the head Warrior. “So what was this message Seth Mason received?”

“Seth picked up a distress call originating from New Orleans—or near the city, evidently. We have the map coordinates and the Hurricane should be able to drop us right at the spot,” Blade said. “The signal wasn’t very strong and Seth had trouble tuning it in. When he tried to contact the sender to get a clarification, he was unable to reach the other party. Either their set is malfunctioning or they were operating on weak batteries. In any event, Seth received enough to indicate the people in New Orleans are in dire straits.”

“How so?” Geronimo queried.

“The radio operator in New Orleans claimed the people are struggling to overthrow the Black Snake Society.”

“The what?” Hickok interjected.

“That’s all Seth knows. The message kept breaking up and several of the words were garbled or unintelligible. An organization called the Black Snake Society has control of New Orleans and the people there want help in achieving their freedom.”

“Doesn’t sound like a lot to go on,” Geronimo mentioned with a touch of concern.

“It’s not,” Blade admitted. “The transmission was cut off in mid-sentence. Seth stayed on the frequency for an hour but the caller never came back on. We were lucky Seth stumbled on the call in the first place. He told me that he had received part of the same or a similar transmission five days before. There were only a few sentences, and not enough information for him to ascertain the point of origination.”

“What if it’s a trap, pard?” Hickok asked.

“I doubt it.”

“I seem to recollect a certain mutation by the name of Manta usin’ a phony distress call to lure in slaves for his kelp factory in Seattle,” Hickok mentioned. “How do you know this isn’t another phony?”

Blade gazed to the west. “I don’t, but there’s only one way to discover the truth.”

“How much time are you allotting yourself for the mission?” Geronimo questioned.

“One week. Captain Lasle will drop us off tomorrow afternoon. He’s under orders to return to the site in seven days and retrieve us. If we’re not there, he’ll fly directly to the Home and inform you.”

“In which case we’ll fly back down there and tear the city apart,” Hickok proposed.

“You’ll do no such thing.”

“Bet me.”

“I’m serious, Nathan. Sending Warriors down there to try and find us would needlessly endanger their lives.”

“Needlessly? A Warrior never abandons another Warrior. Never. If you’re not at the rendezvous site, I’ll personally fly down there and perforate noggins until I find you.”

“For once he’s right,” Geronimo added. “You can’t honestly expect us to do nothing.”

“I order you not to attempt a rescue.”

Hickok suddenly started swatting the side of his head, slapping his palm on his right ear. “If this ain’t the darnedest thing. My blamed ears just went on the fritz. I can’t hear a word you say.”

“You can’t, huh?”

“Nope.”

“Then how come you just answered me?”

“Would you believe I read your lips?”

Blade glanced at both of them. “I mean it. If you guys disobey me, there’ll be hell to pay.” He walked to the stairs and headed down.

The gunfighter waited until the giant was halfway to the bottom before he leaned toward Geronimo. “Now what do you reckon that was all about?”

“I wish I knew.”

“He can’t be serious.”

“He sounds serious.”

Hickok straightened and moved to the first step. “Well, if you ask me he’s been standin’ in the sun too long.”

“We will go after him if he doesn’t return?”

“Do bears crap in the woods?”

“I’ve heard a rumor to that effect.”

The gunman snapped his fingers and smiled. “Hey, I’ve got me a great idea.”

“Uh-oh.”

“If the Big Guy doesn’t come back on schedule, we’ll take Yama with us to New Orleans. He’s in the mood to kick tail, and those goons down there won’t last two seconds.”

“How do you know?” Geronimo inquired.

“Give me a break, pard. How tough can they be with a corny name like the Black Snake Society? I’ll bet they’re a bunch of wimps.”

“I hope you’re right.”