“Tell that to Wolfe,” the Mole boldly ventured.
“Where’s that machine gun of yours?” Bear questioned Blade.
“Back in Minnesota,” Blade replied, thinking of his favorite firearm, a Commando Arms Carbine. He’d also used a similar weapon, an Auto-Ordnance Model 27 A-1, for a while. Both resembled the antique Thompson submachine gun. After experimenting with both, he’d eventually decided to incorporate the Commando into his personal arsenal, merely because he liked the feel of the gun a bit better.
“You didn’t bring it along?” Bear queried in surprise.
Blade shrugged. He didn’t mention Plato had argued against journeying to California armed to the teeth, as it were, as a show of trust in Governor Melnick and the good people of the Free State of California.
Hickok had hotly debated the issue, but Blade had readily assented.
Arriving in California packing enough hardware to waste half the state would have been counterproductive to their mission. Besides, in all his years as a Warrior, he had yet to encounter a foe his Bowies couldn’t dispatch.
“Who’s this?” Bear asked.
Blade looked to the right.
Captain Vinnie Di Nofrio was approaching the conference room, whistling happily.
“It’s okay,” Blade said. “I know him.”
“Blade!” Di Nofrio greeted him. “It’s official!”
“It is?” Blade questioned.
“Yep. I’ve been appointed your liaison for the summit,” Di Nofrio disclosed.
“Perfect,” Blade said. “As your first official act, you can get M-16’s for each of us. And while you’re at it, pick up four spare magazines apiece.”
Di Nofrio promptly lost his cheery disposition. “I don’t know,” he balked.
Blade stepped up to the captain and placed his right hand on the officer’s slim shoulder. “Now don’t disappoint me, Vinnie. I was under the impression you’re a real go-getter. You can get the M-16’s for us. Clear it with Governor Melnick if you have to.”
Di Nofrio’s jaw muscles hardened with resolve. “I can get them,” he vowed.
“Did you see the attack in the lobby?” Blade asked.
“No. I was in the elevator,” Di Nofrio divulged. “But I heard Plato and you were okay. Where’s Hickok?”
“I don’t know,” Blade said, frowning. “He should be back soon.”
Di Nofrio started to turn. “Oh! Before I forget. President Toland has arrived in L.A. earlier than expected. Governor Melnick is escorting him here. They should arrive within an hour or so.”
“Thanks for relaying the news,” Blade said. “And hurry with those M-16’s.”
“On my way.” Di Nofrio hastened off.
“You sure got him eatin’ out of your hand,” Bear remarked.
“We have this adage at the Home,” Blade mentioned. “It goes something like this: If we want to make friends, we have to be friendly.”
“Where’s the rest of it?” Bear inquired. He’d been through many a battle with the Warriors, both in the Twin Cities and at the Home, and he knew them well.
“The rest of it?” Blade repeated, puzzled.
“Yeah,” Bear said. “Your motto should go like this: If we want to make friends, we have to be friendly, but if you mess with us we’ll stomp your face.”
Some of the others chuckled.
A lean man with black hair and brown eyes, wearing a white shirt and white pants, was walking toward the conference room. He held a tray of water glasses in his right hand.
Blade moved to the conference door, blocking the newcomer’s path.
“I beg your pardon,” the man said stiffly.
“Who are you?” Blade demanded.
The man in white glanced at the two troopers, then at the giant.
“Emery, sir. I’m with the kitchen staff. I was instructed to bring water to the heads of the Freedom Federation and inquire about your culinary needs.”
“It’s all right, sir,” the soldier to the left of the door commented. “He works here. I’ve seen him before. Yesterday, in fact.”
Blade relaxed. “Very well. Go ahead.” He stepped aside, to the left, toward the other delegates, and as he did his eyes detected a slight bulge under the kitchen worker’s white shirt above the right hip.
Emery was reaching for the doorknob.
“Hold it,” Blade said.
Emery paused, looking up at the giant.
“What’s that under your shirt?” Blade asked, not really expecting trouble.
Emery’s reaction, coming after the confirmation by the soldier, was totally unforeseen. He swept the tray of glasses straight up into the Warrior’s eyes, and as the giant instinctively took a stride backwards and raised his right arm to shield his face, Emery went into action. His right hand, the fingers rigid, the callused edge slanted upward, whipped up and around, catching the soldier to the right of the conference door in the throat, crushing the trooper’s windpipe, and even as the blow landed Emery was sweeping his right knee in a tight turn to the left, ramming it into the groin of the guard on the left. Before the guard could double over in abject misery, gurgling and sputtering, Emery was in motion, leaping into the air with his right leg snapping out and connecting with Bear’s chin, sending the huge black stumbling into his companions.
Hamlin, the small Cavalryman with the Winchester slung over his back, attempted to bring the rifle into play.
Emery landed in a crouch, never hesitating for a moment as he drove his left leg up and around, delivering a high round kick to the Cavalryman’s right cheek and knocking him to the floor.
Blade closed in as the man called Emery was trying to grab at something under his shirt. The Warrior adopted the Kokutsu-tachi, the back stance.
Emery’s right hand emerged from under the shirt gripping a pistol, a Taurus Model PT 92.
Blade automatically performed the Migi-mawashi-geri, a right roundhouse kick, slamming his right foot against Emery’s right hand.
Emery lost his grip on the pistol and the Taurus went skidding across the floor. Undaunted, he aimed a Yoko-geri, a side kick, at the Warrior’s crotch.
Blade whirled, narrowly evading the foot blow, driving his left elbow down and around in a vicious circle. His elbow caught his opponent above the left eye, staggering him, and before Emery could recover Blade pounded his elbow into the man’s face two more times.
Emery staggered backwards, his arms flailing.
Blade didn’t let up for an instant. He lashed his right boot in a jamming heel kick, smashing Emery’s left kneecap with a loud popping sound.
Emery’s left leg buckled and he started to fall.
Blade delivered a haymaker with his right fist to the tip of Emery’s chin. The alleged kitchen worker’s teeth crunched together, his head jerked back, and he was lifted from his feet and sailed for a yard before crashing onto the floor.
Blade straightened, his hands dropping to his Bowies, scanning the lobby for any more threats. Dozens of soldiers and stunned bureaucrats were staring at him. Otherwise, all appeared normal.
Bear and Hamlin were recovered and glaring at the fallen assassin.
The conference door opened and Plato was framed in the doorway.
“What is all the commotion out…” he began, then stopped, shocked. “Not again!”
“Again,” Blade confirmed.
Bear, rubbing his chin, stood over the unconscious Emery. “What do you want done with this sucker?” he asked.
“We’ll interrogate him,” Blade said. He knelt next to the soldier slashed in the throat and felt for a pulse. “This one is dead,” he announced.
The second guard was doubled over on the floor, clutching his groin. He looked at Blade through pain-filled green eyes. “I don’t understand! I know I saw him yesterday in the kitchen!”
“Hang in there,” Blade advised. “Help is on the way.”