A jeep suddenly gunned its engine, coming around a row of vehicles to the left.
Hickok peered into the jeep, the glare of the sunlight on the windshield momentarily obscuring his vision. The jeep was about 20 yards away and would pass within 15 feet of his position. He took another step, squinting, and there the bastard was, hunched over the jeep’s steering wheel.
Not this time!
The sniper must have realized he’d been spotted, because the jeep surged forward, accelerating rapidly.
Hickok covered the 15 feet to the aisle in a mad rush, halting directly in the path of the oncoming jeep. He saw the sniper glare at him, and the jeep swerved slightly as the driver bore down at 50 miles an hour.
The sniper’s intent was obvious; he was trying to run over the Warrior.
“Hey! What’s going on?” a nearby pedestrian shouted.
Hickok fired from the hip, the Pythons held close to his waist. The Colts boomed and bucked, twice apiece, and the jeep’s windshield shattered and caved in. The gunman had deliberately refrained from planting a slug in the sniper. Hickok had decided he wanted the assassin alive if possible.
But fate intervened.
Ducking his head to avert the flying glass, the sniper inadvertently tugged on the steering wheel, sending the jeep hurtling to the left at a row of parked vehicles.
Hickok, transfixed, watched as the sniper got his due.
The assassin looked up, perceiving his danger. He yanked on the steering wheel, striving to avoid the parked vehicles, but he was too late.
The front of the jeep smashed into the rear of a parked troop transport, the fender and the grill buckling. Unable to keep his grip on the steering wheel, the sniper was propelled up and over. He sailed out the gaping windshield, a sharp spike of glass attached to the upper frame tearing his back open in the process. His head slammed into the truck’s tailgate with a sickening crunch, and he collapsed onto the hood of the jeep.
Hickok could hear the jeep motor sputtering and rumbling as he hurried toward it. He had scant hope of finding the sniper alive.
The assassin unexpectedly rose to his knees, reeling, a torrent of blood pouring from a hole in his cranium. He was fumbling with his right pants pocket.
Hickok held his fire, knowing the sniper would be easy to take. He was ten feet from the jeep when the assassin’s hand came into view holding a hand grenade.
The sniper was on the verge of unconsciousness, but he mustered the strength to pull the pin on the grenade.
Hickok threw himself backward, twisting in midair, but he was a foot from the asphalt when the grenade went off, the thundering blast sending fragments of metal, glass, and pulpy tissue in every direction. The concussion smacked into the gunman with tremendous force, flipping him, sending him tumbling across the parking lot to collide with a parked car, his body lanced by bone-jarring pain.
A spiraling column of smoke wafted skyward from the demolished jeep.
Hickok slowly stood, leaning on the car, staring at the flaming wreckage. The sniper had committed suicide! And only demented fanatics or seasoned professionals snuffed their own lives when a mission had failed. Hickok doubted the assassin had been a fanatic. He straightened, a twinge of discomfort in his lower back, realizing his Pythons were still in his hands. With a practiced flourish, he twirled the revolvers into their holsters. One thing was for certain, he told himself. The summit meeting promised to be more eventful than he’d anticipated.
Chapter Two
“I can’t believe I missed,” Hickok said gloomily, absently starring out the limousine window.
“No one hits the bull’s-eye every time,” Blade commented by way of consolation.
“I do,” Hickok stated morosely.
The two Warriors and Plato were in a black limousine, speeding to the southeast on the Santa Ana Freeway. Traffic was light. Plato, seated in the middle of the rear seat, glanced at the Warriors. Blade was behind the driver, a sergeant; Hickok was on the passenger side.
“Don’t be so hard on yourself, Nathan,” Plato advised Hickok, using the name bestowed on the gunfighter by his parents. Hickok, like most of the Family members, had chosen to adopt a new name on his sixteenth birthday, and he had selected the name of an ancient gunman he admired.
The Founder of the Family’s compound, the man responsible for spending millions of dollars to have the retreat constructed prior to World War Three, the man responsible for designating the site as the Home and dubbing his followers the Family, had instituted a special ceremony for all Family members. Upon turning sixteen, they were encouraged to research the vast Family library and pick any historical name they desired as their very own. The Founder had hoped this practice would insure that his descendants never lost sight of their antecedents. Later, the Family Elders had decided that any book, not just historical works, could serve as a source for the Naming ceremony, and Family members were even permitted to choose a name of their own devising. Blade had selected a new name predicated on his affinity for knives, while Nathan had taken the name of his childhood hero, James Butler Hickok. Over the years the gunman had lived up to his name, repeatedly exhibiting an infallible marksmanship. All of these thoughts went through Plato’s mind as he gazed at the sullen gunfighter.
“I must not be gettin’ enough practice,” Hickok said.
“You practice more than anyone I know,” Blade remarked, instantly regretting his lack of tact when his friend frowned and sighed.
“Then I’m gettin’ old,” Hickok declared.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Plato admonished. “You’re only thirty.”
Hickok studied his hands. “Then I must be losin’ my touch. And if I can’t hit what I aim at, then I ain’t much use as a Warrior.”
“This isn’t like you,” Blade said. “You’d better snap out of it before we reach Anaheim, because I need you in top form for the summit meeting.”
“Top form?” Hickok responded, and snorted.
Plato elected to change the topic. “This limousine is truly luxurious. We’re receiving the red-carpet treatment.”
“A limo. An army escort. Governor Melnick is pulling out all the stops,” Blade noted, his features saddening. “I feel sorry for Melnick. We should have stayed in L.A.”
“Governor Melnick insisted we leave for Anaheim,” Plato reminded him. “I believe he was afraid of another assassination attempt.”
“I have to admire the man’s fortitude,” Blade commented. “He wants to conduct the summit as planned. If something happened to Jenny, I don’t know if I could go on with business as usual.”
“We’ve come too far to turn back now,” Plato mentioned. “Months of meticulous arranging and negotiating have gone into the preparation for this summit. Melnick knows we can’t cancel the meeting.” He paused, pondering for a moment. “Why would someone want to kill Governor Melnick? Except for the Raiders and other misfits General Owens told us about on the flight here, there isn’t any organized opposition to the Free State government.”
“So far as we know,” Blade said. “And we’ve had to rely on government officials for our information.”
“Do you suspect they have lied to us?” Plato inquired.
“No,” Blade replied. “And I don’t think Melnick was the only target.”
“What?” Plato said. “Why?”
“Because the first shot was meant for you,” Blade stated. “Don’t you remember? Sharon Melnick was about to shake your hand, and she stepped between the terminal and you, probably just as the sniper fired.”