Just then Boone sprang through the doorway, bearing to the left, making for a hedgerow 50 feet away.
The assassin suddenly appeared, preparing to fire, standing near a Bigleaf Maple twenty yards off, exposing only his eyes, nose, chin, and arms as he sighted on Boone.
Hickok’s right Python blasted as he snapped off a shot, aiming for the sniper’s left arm because only a narrow strip of the man’s face was visible.
The Warrior didn’t want to take a chance on missing with Boone’s life hanging in the balance, so he went for the largest observable part of the assassin’s anatomy. Hickok always preferred a head shot, where feasible, but adapted as circumstances dictated. Whenever the Warriors discussed their techniques, Hickok inevitably advocated the head shot as the ideal target in a life-or-death situation. As he’d stressed time and again, a slug in an enemy’s torso did not guarantee instant death; the foe might live long enough to get off a final, and potentially fatal, round. But a bullet to the brain, particularly if from a high-caliber firearm, usually snuffed an opponent on the spot. “No brain, no pain,” was Hickok’s motto. At the airport earlier he’d been forced to go for the chest because the sniper’s face had been partially hidden by his weapon, and predictably the sniper had survived. Now, as he went for this new assassin’s left arm, the Warrior was gratified to see the arm jerk to the right as the sniper grimaced and ducked from sight.
Boone reached the hedgerow in safety.
Hickok charged from cover, sprinting toward the Bigleaf Maple, weaving back and forth.
Boone raced after the Warrior, trying to catch up.
Hickok reached the tree and rushed around the trunk. Blotches of blood speckled the ground. He knew it! He’d hit the varmint! Hickok saw a trail of red spots leading from the Bigleaf Maple to a gravel-covered trail eight feet away. He was off in a flash, using the intermittent drops of blood as a guide, turning to the right on the gravel trail and almost tripping over a body sprawled in his path. The gunfighter glanced down, discovering a dead Free State soldier with his forehead blown out. He hurried on, sticking to the winding, circuitous trail, scarcely noticing the botanic wonders surrounding him. The footpath curved sharply to the left, and on the straight stretch beyond were four more deceased troopers.
The assassin sure was a deadly S.O.B.
The minutes dragged by, the frequency of the dots diminishing. Twice Hickok was compelled to backtrack after taking a fork in the trail and traveling 15 to 20 yards without finding a blot of blood. He chafed at the delays, knowing the sniper was getting away. His impatience overrode any inclination to wait for Boone.
A turn to the right revealed three additional victims, soldiers contorted in the throes of death, all three shot in the head with the mystery weapon.
Hickok was stepping over one of the troopers when he paused, his blue eyes narrowing. The left side of the trooper’s face was gone, and there was a small hole in the back of the man’s helmet. Whatever had killed the soldier had penetrated his metal helmet and burst out the side of his face.
Or had it?
Hickok had seen the effects of dum-dum bullets on countless occasions; he used hollow-point bullets in his Pythons. But the damage caused by the assassin’s weapon was far worse. The exit holes, if such they were, were larger, much larger. And it seemed as if the projectiles had exploded the faces of the assassin’s victims outward from within.
What in the world could do such a thing?
Hickok continued his pursuit, the path bearing in a northeasternly direction. The gardens abruptly ended at a brick wall. Yet another dead trooper was lying at the base of the wall. The gunfighter looked in both directions, spying a red streak on the wall six feet to his right. The assassin had escaped!
What now?
Hickok’s hesitation was fleeting. He could either return to the hotel and permit the scum to make a clean getaway, or he could stay after the skunk and hopefully nail him. Since Blade and Plato were all right, he wasn’t needed at the summit. The way he saw it, some sightseeing was in order.
He twirled the Colts in their holsters, crouched, and leaped, extending his arms and grasping the lip of the eight-foot wall. His shoulders straining, he pulled himself up until he was on his stomach on top of the wall, studying the terrain ahead.
A jumble of weeds, brush, and forest covered the countryside. A few tall, decayed structures were in sight to the northeast.
Hickok recalled seeing the same structures when their jeep had exited the Santa Ana Freeway to travel to the hotel. What had Captain Di Nofrio mentioned about the place? It was an old amusement park, and hadn’t been in service since the war.
Maybe someone was using it now.
As he dropped to the ground, Hickok remembered Governor Melnick’s letter to Plato. Blade had let him see the correspondence, and the invitation to the summit had briefly referred to the amusement park. Each of the leaders in the Freedom Federation had received a similar letter.
Whoa there! What were those!
Hickok knelt and examined a set of bootprints in the soft earth near the wall. Crimson spots circled the prints. He stood and jogged to the northeast. The assassin’s bootprints were spaced close together, indicating he was walking, not running. The cow chip must think he’s safe, and no one is after him. Hickok grinned. He couldn’t wait to show the varmint how wrong the skunk was!
The tracks led in the direction of the abandoned park. They traversed a field, then entered a dense forest. Fortunately, once in the woods, the assassin stuck to a well-used animal run.
Hickok wanted to capture the assassin alive, if possible. There were too many unanswered questions for his liking. Why were the hit men trying to disrupt the summit? Where did they come from? And the biggie: Who had hired them?
He knew the Russians had planted a spy in the Civilized Zone, in President Toland’s administration. Had the spy discovered the location of the summit? Were the Russians responsible for sending the hit squad?
After his experiences with the Soviets in Washington, D.C., he wasn’t about to put anything past the rascals. So immersed did he become in his speculation, that Hickok failed to perceive the weed-and vine-choked fence until he made an abrupt turn in the trail and nearly collided with it.
The fence was a chain-link affair, betraying evidence of rust where the links were exposed to the elements. A coat of vegetation cloaked the fence from the top to bottom.
What was that?
Hickok crouched, examining an opening in the vegetation at ground level. Someone had cut a large hole in the fence, then aligned the vines and weeds over the hole to hide it. But they’d neglected to cover the middle of the hole, and a shaft of sunlight was shining through the gap. Hickok dropped onto his stomach and slowly crawled to the other side. He carefully surveyed the dense undergrowth, on guard for an ambush, and only after he was satisfied the assassin was not lying in wait for him did he rise and resume his trek.
The vegetation on the inner side of the fence was of a different variety than the plant life outside. Ferns and moss covered the dank earth. There were fewer big trees, but a profuse mushrooming of slim trees packed closely together. One type was quite unusual.
Hickok paused to inspect a stand of the strange trees growing alongside the faint trail he was following. None of the trunks were any wider than his arms; the bark was exceptionally smooth and glossy; and the tree was segmentalized into distinct sections of equal length separated by thin ridges. He ran his fingers over the velvety bark, genuinely amazed. Never in all his travels had he seen such a peculiar tree. Reminding himself to ask Plato about it, he cautiously continued to the northeast.