Kraken placed his right hand on Nightshade’s left shoulder. “Release him, brother. He was not referring to you. Leftwich hates the Dragons, not mutants in general.”
Nightshade unceremoniously dumped Leftwich on the dock.
Leftwich sprawled onto his buttocks, glaring up at the mutant. “You had no call to do that, dammit!”
“Nightshade is understandably touchy on the subject of mutants,” Kraken commented.
“I don’t give a shit!” Leftwich snapped bitterly, rising. “We’re brothers in the Gild, aren’t we? He shouldn’t have done it!”
Nightshade’s hands performed more sign language.
“He apologizes for his temper,” Kraken told Leftwich.
“That’s better!” Leftwich said indignantly.
“Now don’t you have an errand to run?” Kraken queried.
“An errand?” Leftwich repeated, puzzled.
“Emery,” Kraken reminded him.
“Oh!” Leftwich retrieved his Darter. “On my way. I’ll tell him to lay low until he hears from you.” He ran off.
“So what’s our next move?” Charley asked Kraken.
“Governor Melnick is hosting a formal affair tomorrow evening for the Freedom Federation delegates,” Kraken said. “He’s expected to announce the Free State of California has decided to join the Federation. All of the leaders will be in one place at one time. We’ll hit them then.”
“It won’t be easy,” Charley observed. “Security will be exceptionally tight. Why not hit them before tomorrow night? Don’t they have some meetings scheduled before then?”
“They do,” Kraken disclosed. “But the conference meetings are being held in a smaller room where they’re easier to protect. By waiting until tomorrow night, we kill two birds with one stone. First, the formal dinner is being held in a large chamber, increasing our odds of success.”
“And secondly?” Charley questioned.
Kraken smiled. “If we don’t make any hits until tomorrow night, they might relax their guard a bit. They’ll become complacent, wondering why there haven’t been any more attempts. Our job will be that much easier.”
“How is it, guv, you know so much about their itinerary?” Charley idly inquired.
“I have my source,” Kraken said.
“Our employer?” Charley asked.
Kraken nodded. “Our employer has an undercover agent at the summit.”
“It sounds to me like you have every angle covered,” Charley said, complimenting the chief assassin.
“I always do,” Kraken said. He looked at the island. “Let’s head on back.
We won’t need to concern ourselves over the Warrior after tonight.”
“Why not?” Charley queried.
Kraken smiled. “Because by tomorrow morning the famous Hickok will be dead.”
Chapter Eleven
Hickok turned, his hands dropping to his Colts, scanning the wall of vegetation shrouding the bank.
Nothing.
The gunfighter faced the lake, watching the Gild members. He saw Leftwich leave, and shortly thereafter the others departed. His scheme had worked! Now all he had to do was wait a spell, then swim to the other side and make his way to the hotel to warn Blade. It would be a piece of cake!
He decided to find a warmer spot to wait and clambered onto the bank.
The brush was dense, and he had to force a path through a thicket and cross a grassy knoll before he discovered an ideal place to rest, a small clearing in a stand of trees. He sat with his soaked back against one of the tree trunks and surveyed his surroundings.
The dilapidated building was in partial view through the trees, about 30 yards to the north.
Hickok sighed, thinking of his beloved wife Sherry and their son Ringo, both expectantly awaiting his return to the Home. He missed them intensely, and he was beginning to understand the reason Blade disliked extended trips away from the compound and the Family. Gallivanting all over the countryside was all right for a single guy, but a married gent needed to consider the impact on those dearest to him.
A bird suddenly whistled to the east.
Only it wasn’t a bird.
Hickok leaped to his feet, his blue eyes scrutinizing the landscape. He knew a fake bird whistle when he heard one, and that imitation had been downright pitiful! The gunman listened for the whistle to be repeated or answered from elsewhere in the woods, but all was quiet. He frowned, annoyed by a nagging feeling of being watched. Was it possible the island was inhabited? Had he really seen someone near the building as he was swimming the lake?
There was one way to find out.
The Warrior moved toward the structure, alert for an ambush, his hands near his Pythons.
There was the soft padding of feet from the forest to the northwest.
Hickok halted, debating his next move. He could return to the lake and swim for the dock, but the Gild assassins might still be in the area. He could stay put, but the notion of being a sitting duck was distinctly unappealing. Or he could mosey on over to the building and have a look-see.
Another “bird” whistled to the northwest.
Hickok thoughtfully stroked his moustache. Whoever these hombres were, they knew he was there. They must have observed him crossing the water. He didn’t want trouble, but if push came to shove he was prepared to show them the business end of a .357 Magnum.
A bush rustled off to the right.
Hickok hooked his thumbs in his belt and ambled in the direction of the building, his saturated moccasins squishing with every step. No one appeared and he reached the end of the trees unmolested. The structure was ten yards away, a veritable mess; the front door was gone, all of the windows were busted out, and the walls were on the verge of collapsing.
He glanced to the right, discovering the large boat he’d seen before, and the sight of the vessel brought a photograph to mind, a picture he’d found in one of the books in the Family library. The photo had been of a steamboat.
More bird whistles broke out in the woods.
Hickok walked toward the steamboat along a well-defined path. The boat was 20 yards or so from the building, adjacent to a tumbledown wooden dock. From the sound of the birdbrains in the forest, he gathered there was a whole flock of the featherless varmints. And if they were out to get him, the boat would be the best spot to make a stand. They would have to cross the dock to reach him, giving him a clear shot.
The steamboat was listing, leaning to one side, inclining toward the dock, as if there might be a hole under the waterline on the island side of the vessel. A gap of four feet separated the boat from the dock.
Hickok reached the dock and stopped. Many of the planks were missing or cracked. He risked falling through the rotted wood if he tried to reach the steamboat, but there was no other choice.
A stooped-over figure dashed between two trees off to the right.
They were getting set to make their move! Hickok moved onto the disintegrating dock, his nerves tingling, advancing slowly. He wondered if he’d made the right decision, if he should chuck the notion and make his stand on the bank. But he was denied the opportunity.
“Get him!” a deep male voice bellowed, and eight forms charged from cover, five men and three women brandishing various weapons.
Hickok spun, his Colts sweeping up and out, cocking the hammers as he cleared leather, and just as he was about to squeeze the triggers, before he could drop a single foe, he was defeated by a weather-beaten, crumbling board. The plank underfoot gave way with a rending crash, and the Warrior plummeted toward the lapping waters below. He thrust his arms horizontal to his falling body, catching himself by his elbows, painfully jarring his arms and shoulders, his Pythons held fast in his straining hands. His lower torso and legs dangled below the dock.
“Don’t move, you son of a bitch!” someone commanded.