“But General Owens is dead,” Blade observed. “Who else can keep a rein on Gallagher?”
Di Nofrio pondered for a moment. “No one.”
Blade looked at the assassin, reflecting. How far was the general willing to go to insure the treaty wasn’t signed? Would Gallagher hire a hit squad to eliminate the Federation delegates? Was the man genuinely concerned about his state, or was the general over the edge, a fanatic?
Someone was nudging his left elbow.
Blade turned, finding Plato at his side.
“Boone,” Plato said, pointing toward the rear of the hotel.
The Cavalryman was hurrying toward the conference room, winding through the crowd in the lobby.
Blade moved out to meet him. “Where’s Hickok?” he demanded.
“Sorry,” Boone said, his mouth curling downward. “I lost him.”
“You what?”
“He took off after the man we were chasing,” Boone detailed, “and I lost them both. Those gardens back there are a real maze.”
“Damn!” Blade muttered. “And I can’t leave the summit!”
“I’ll keep looking,” Boone offered. “Just be sure to let Kilrane know where I am.”
“Will do,” Blade said. “And thanks.”
Boone jogged away.
Blade turned, frowning, telling himself there was nothing to worry about. No one was faster than Hickok. No one was more deadly. So why was he apprehensive? Because Hickok was one of his very best friends? Or because the gunman had this uncanny knack for blundering into dangerous situations? Trouble seemed to be attracted to the Family’s preeminent gunfighter like metal to a magnet, and the more bizarre the peril, the more outlandish the jeopardy, the more likely the gunman was to be involved.
Blade sighed. The best he could do was pray Hickok wasn’t performing up to par.
Now he was really worried!
Chapter Seven
Hickok froze, his right leg suspended above the alligator, his hands inches from his Pythons.
The blamed critter was real!
Hickok was in a quandary. If he planted a couple of slugs in the gator, he’d alert the assassin to his proximity. But he had to make some move, and soon! The confounded reptile wasn’t going to lie still forever. He realized the alligator had been sunning itself on the bank. Where the dickens could the beast have come from? he wondered. Had its ancestors escaped from a zoo?
The alligator abruptly opened its gaping maw.
Hickok tensed, prepared to draw, but the gator didn’t budge. Why in the world was the thing just lying there with its mouth open? Was it trying to catch flies? No. There weren’t any flies in January. Was the reptile sunning its teeth?
The alligator grunted.
Hickok couldn’t afford to wait any longer. If the alligator wasn’t aware of his presence, the thing would be soon. And if the gator knew he was standing here, then either it wasn’t hungry or didn’t care two hoots.
The gator emitted a loud burp.
Hickok made his move, dropping onto his knees on top of the alligator and sweeping his fists downward, boxing the reptile’s eyes, hoping the blows would temporarily obscure its vision. He dived to the right, hitting the turf and rolling, coming erect with the Colts clearing leather and cocked.
The alligator was sliding backwards into the lake, its head disappearing below the water.
Hickok grinned and holstered the Pythons. “Piece of cake,” he mumbled.
The water suddenly stirred and rippled, and the alligator’s protruding eyes appeared above the surface.
Hickok braced for an attack, wondering how fast gators could run.
The alligator studied the human for a minute, then sank from sight with a flip of its tail.
“Adios,” Hickok said, and resumed his hunt. The lake angled to the northeast, and he began to speculate on whether the lake wasn’t really a river.
Buildings loomed ahead.
The structures were in disrepair, consistent with the century of neglect they’d suffered. Windows were cracked or missing, the paint was peeling, and on one of them the roof was crumbling. The verdant forest had reclaimed the land surrounding the buildings, and trees were growing right next to the walls.
Hickok darted from tree to tree, probing for evidence of habitation. The edifices were dark and gloomy. The Warrior circled to the north, 30 feet from the structures. If someone was in there, then they had…
Bingo!
Hickok ducked down as he spied a faint light glimmering in the bowels of one of the buildings.
Was it the assassin?
The gunman dashed toward the side of the structure, using the trees and bushes for cover as he zigzagged ever nearer. He reached the wall and pressed his back flush with the wood, listening. All was quiet inside.
So far, so good.
Hickok spotted a door at the top of a ramshackle porch, and he tiptoed up the sagging steps, halting when one of them creaked, then continuing to the door when the creak went unchallenged. Whoever these cow chips were, their security wasn’t worth beans!
Someone was talking.
Hickok stopped, cocking his head. The words were muffled, incomprehensible. The door was ajar, revealing a glimpse of a dusty, murky interior. Hickok edged through the doorway, easing the door aside only as much as necessary to permit his passage.
The voice increased in volume, but the individual words were still indistinguishable.
Hickok found himself in a room filled with grime-overed prewar furniture and artifacts. He sidled toward an open door on the opposite side. Bright light was emanating from whatever lay beyond. The gunman warily crossed the room until he was standing behind the open door. He pressed his right eye to the crack between the door and the jamb.
The light was coming from four lanterns hanging from nails which had been hammered into the walls, illuminating a spacious chamber, its windows boarded over, containing tables and chairs.
Hickok’s eyes narrowed. He counted nine occupants as well.
There were six men and three women in the room, each one attired in a black robe secured by a thin red sash. Four of the men and the trio of women were seated in metal folding chairs, facing a tall figure. Interposed between them was a man in a soldier’s uniform, holding his bloody left arm against his side.
Hickok couldn’t see the faces of the men and women in the chairs because their backs were to him. Likewise with the assassin in the trooper’s uniform. But the tall figure’s features were cast in stark relief by the glow of the lanterns.
The tall one was standing on a crate or wooden box, as if he felt the need to accentuate his already lofty six-and-a-half-foot frame. His hair was auburn, neatly combed and hanging to his broad shoulders. Pale blue eyes were gazing coldly at the one in the uniform. His facial lines exhibited a decidedly sinister aspect. “Explain your failure to us again, Neborak,” he demanded in a low, commanding tone.
Hickok saw the assassin in the uniform fidget and glance nervously at those seated to his rear.
“I asked you a question,” the tall man reiterated.
“I didn’t fail, Kraken!” Neborak blurted. “I know I got one or two of them!”
Kraken raised his right hand and thoughtfully stroked his tapered chin.
“Which ones?”
“I’m not sure,” Neborak replied.
Kraken’s blue orbs bored into Neborak. “You’re not sure? How can this be, brother? You just told us you know you got one or two of them. Yet you’re uncertain of which ones.”
“I mean I saw a couple of them fall,” Neborak stated hastily. “But I’m not sure which two they were.”