Thor glanced from Lynx to the Doktor, his sloping brow furrowed.
“This conversation is terminated,” the Doktor said brusquely. “Thor, finish him off.”
Thor hesitated.
The Doktor’s left arm moved under his cape.
Thor suddenly clutched at the metal collar around his squat neck, his powerful body arching, as a jolting surge of electricity jarred his senses.
The Doktor’s left hand emerged from under his cape, his fingers grasping an odd black box about six inches in length and four inches wide.
There were a number of silver toggle switches and blinking lights on the upper surface of the black box.
Thor dropped his sledgehammer and fell to his knees, his lips curled back from his prominent teeth, his entire frame quaking.
“When I give an order,” the Doktor said, “I expect it to be obeyed.”
Lynx was staring at the black box. It had to be one of the portable control units the Doktor was known to secret on his person. Without it, the Doktor would be unable to activate the transistorized electronic circuitry in the collars. Without it, the Doktor would not be able to compel his genetic aberrations to passively submit to his commands.
A crackling sound arose from the metal collar as Thor continued to tremble.
Lynx was thankful his own collar had been removed weeks before, shortly before the Warrior known as Yama had rescued him from the Citadel.
The Doktor was concentrating on Thor, watching his “associate” struggle to resist the collar.
There would never be a better opportunity.
Lynx voiced a strange trilling sound as he launched himself from the cab of the half-track and sprang at the Doktor. His maneuver caught the Doktor unaware. He swung his right arm, knocking the control box from the Doktor’s hand, and lunged for the Doktor’s throat.
The madman was endowed with incredible reflexes. His right arm swept upward, the barrel of his 45 connecting with Lynx’s forehead and sending him sprawling.
Lynx tumbled to the earth, rolling with the blow, and bounded to his feet, his claws clenched, ready to pounce again.
The Doktor was pointing the 45 at Lynx’s head. “Before I conclude this fiasco, there is a question you will answer.”
“Eat dirt!” Lynx retorted.
“What have you done with the rest of the thermos?” the Doktor demanded.
Lynx did a double take before he understood: the Doktor must believe that Yama and he had stolen several of the thermonuclear devices when they fled the Citadel. Truth was, they hadn’t, but there was no reason to let the Doktor know. Lynx grinned. “I’ll never tell.”
The Doktor’s eyes narrowed. “I need those thermos! What did you do with them?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Lynx rejoined.
The Doktor frowned. “I really didn’t expect you to volunteer the information, but that’s all right. I’ve already deduced their location and have sent a force to retrieve them.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Lynx saw Thor stand and rub his bullish neck.
The Doktor caught the movement too. “Are you ready to do my bidding?” he asked Thor.
Thor nodded.
“Then kill Lynx!” the Doktor directed. “Now!”
Thor reclaimed his sledgehammer and moved around the front of the half-track. He looked at Lynx, his features softening. “I’m going to smash you to a pulp for getting the Doktor mad at me!” So saying, he raised the sledgehammer above his head.
Chapter Twenty-Four
The thump of Geronimo’s body on the balcony next to his own caused Hickok to glance to his right. He saw the bundle of dynamite, its fuse sparkling, drop from his friend’s hand. The gunman’s reaction was instantaneous; his right hand flicked out and grabbed the charge and heaved it up and out.
Hickok threw his own torso on top of Geronimo’s, sheltering him—and none too soon.
The dynamite went off, shattering the windows in the house, cracking its foundation, obliterating the soldiers and the G.R.D.’s below, and ripping the balcony from its supports.
His eardrums stinging from the blast and the subsequent concussion, Hickok felt the balcony give way and plummet toward the turf. The floor of the balcony was still intact, and it absorbed the brunt of the brutal impact when they smacked onto the ground.
Both of the Warriors were bounced and jostled by the severe collision.
A cloud of dust was filling the air.
Hickok shook his head to clear his stunned senses. He gripped Geronimo’s shirt and hauled him over onto his back.
Geronimo’s left shoulder was all bloody, his eyes closed.
“Pard! Pard!” Hickok shouted in alarm. “Don’t die on me!” He slapped Geronimo’s right cheek. “Please don’t die!”
Geronimo’s eyes flicked open and a devilish grin creased his mouth.
“Why, Hickok, I didn’t know you cared!”
The gunman leaped to his feet. “You lousy Injun! I should of known you were faking it!”
Geronimo chuckled, despite his agony. “Wait until I tell Blade! The great Hickok got all misty because I suffered a little scratch!”
“Misty my butt!” Hickok leaned over and yanked Geronimo to his feet, careful not to aggravate the wound in his left shoulder. “I just didn’t want to have to tell your wife you got yourself killed because you can’t even throw a few sticks of dynamite without getting yourself shot!”
“And you could have done better?” Geronimo asked.
Hickok bent down and picked up the Henry and the FNC. “In my sleep,” he said when he straightened up.
Geronimo suddenly pressed his left arm against his side and winced.
“How bad is it, pard?” Hickok inquired.
“The collarbone may be broken,” Geronimo speculated.
“Here.” Hickok placed his left arm under Geronimo’s right armpit.
“Lean on me.”
They started to walk around the ruined house.
“Let me carry one of the guns,” Geronimo offered.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Hickok countered.
They could distinctly hear the din of gunfire and explosions coming from the north, and more shooting off in the east.
“I hope we get there before the party is over,” Hickok commented.
Geronimo glanced over his left shoulder, the movement eliciting a sharp twinge.
No one was behind them.
They hurried as rapidly as possible, given Geronimo’s condition.
“I hope Rikki doesn’t wait too much longer,” Geronimo mentioned at one point.
“Relax,” Hickok said. “Rikki won’t let anything happen to us.”
Geronimo nodded at his injured shoulder. “Oh? What do you call this?”
Hickok made a show of rolling his eyes. “Brother! If you’re gonna whine every time you get a teensy-weensy scratch—”
“Teensy-weensy?” Geronimo bristled. “If you were shot instead of me, you’d be screaming for your mommy right about now.”
“Is that a fact?”
“It certainly is,” Geronimo stated. “Only my superior Indian heritage enables me to bear up as nobly as I am.”
Hickok grimaced. “Only your superior Indian heritage makes you such a natural-born bull-shitter!”
“It takes one to know one,” was all Geronimo could think of to say in response.
They hastened in silence. The noise of conflict to the north had abated.
“We only have a block to go,” Geronimo announced after a few more minutes.
Both of them heard the voice call out, “Hickok!”
They stopped and glanced to the north.
Orson and Rudabaugh were coming toward them, supporting one another. Both appeared to be pretty shot up.
“Glad we found you,” Orson said as they approached, his relief reflected on his face.
“They’re after us,” Rudabaugh stated.