Move or die!
He looked up, squinting, as a shadow fell over his face.
A genetic mutation with the canine features of a coyote towered above him, a metallic club grasped in its bony fingers and uplifted for the coup de grace.
What transpired next seemed more like a dream than reality.
Hickok was suddenly aware of a tremendous clamor, of a deafening, confusing din swelling in volume, of constant gunfire.
The G.R.D. with the club glanced to one side and its mouth gaped open in astonishment.
Hickok saw a gleaming sword appear as if from thin air, swooping from above, and the coyote literally lost his head as he was decapitated by the stroke. One second he was intact, and the next his head was flying off trailed by a crimson spray while his body swayed for a moment, then keeled over backwards.
Hickok’s senses were clearing. He became aware of a horde of horsemen filling the town square and engaging the soldiers and the G.R.D.’s in savage combat.
Another shadow obscured the sun.
It was a short, agile man dressed in black, astride a brown stallion, a bloody katana held in his right hand. He slid from the horse and landed beside the gunman.
“Are you okay?” he shouted over the racket.
Before Hickok could respond, a soldier with a bayonet affixed to the barrel of his M-16 tried to spear the man in black from the rear. The man twirled around, his katana a streaking blur, and the trooper’s head was split open from his forehead to his chin. He was dead before he hit the earth.
“Are you okay?” the man repeated. “It’s me, Rikki.”
Hickok rose to his feet. He was about to reply when a wave of vertigo engulfed him and everything went dark.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Blade halted a few feet inside the front door of the command post, puzzled.
The Doktor was nowhere in sight.
But that was impossible! He had only been a couple of yards ahead!
So where…?
The Warrior cautiously moved toward the first door to his left, the door to the communications room. He peered around the jamb, then froze.
The Doktor was serenely standing about three feet inside the doorway.
“Don’t be shy,” he said, and laughed.
Blade, wary of a trick, edged into the room. The Doktor didn’t appear to be armed. What was he up to now?
The Doktor’s left hand was hanging loosely at his side, but his right was curled into a fist. He chortled and unfurled his fingers. A silvery ball plummeted to the floor and split open upon impact, releasing a stream of odoriferous white smoke.
Blade recoiled in alarm, suspecting the smoke was a form of deadly gas.
The smoke formed a small cloud within the blink of an eye, completely enshrouding the Doktor.
How could the cloud be toxic if the Doktor was immersed in it?
Blade took a step toward the cloud. It must be a wily ruse of some sort.
Maybe there was a secret passage and the fiend was escaping under cover of the smoke.
The Doktor hurtled from the cloud and crashed into the unprepared Warrior, sending him flying from the communications room to slam against the far side of the hallway.
Blade’s chest was lanced by an acute spasm, but he ignored the agony and lashed out with his right leg, catching the Doktor on the left knee as he closed in.
There was a loud snap, and the Doktor nearly fell, but he recovered and lunged, his immensely strong fingers encircling the Warrior’s throat.
Blade grabbed the madman’s wrists and tried to pry the fingers from his neck.
“I’ve got you now!” the Doktor hissed, gloating.
Amazed by the Doktor’s display of physical force, Blade released the wrists. He drew back his right hand and, his index finger extended and rigid, drove the stiff digit into the Doktor’s left eye.
The Doktor howled and backed away down the hallway, his left hand shielding his injured organ.
Blade leaped, his arms clasping the Doktor around the waist and bearing him to the floor.
The Doktor’s right hand disappeared in a fold of his flowing cloak, emerging a second later with a small hypodermic syringe. A tiny red plastic tip covered the tip of the needle. With a flick of one finger, the Doktor removed the tip and stabbed the point at the Warrior’s left shoulder.
Blade detected the ploy out of the corner of his eye, twisting his body to avoid the syringe and rolling to his feet.
The Doktor did likewise, the needle held at chest height. His left eye was open but watering, a line of moisture flowing across his left cheek to his chin.
Blade assumed the horse stance and waited for the Doktor to make his move.
Instead, the demented scientist grinned. “You should see your face!” he exclaimed. “Judging by your expression, your hate for me is unbounded.”
Blade, his gaze on the syringe, refused to comment. Talking in the midst of hand-to-hand combat was ridiculous. Total concentration was required in life-or-death situations, and only someone as unhinged as the Doktor would babble inanely while so occupied.
“Why are you amusing yourself at my expense?” the Doktor asked. “I didn’t think you had it in you.”
What was the psychopath talking about? Blade didn’t reply. He waited for that syringe to move.
“Why else haven’t you used your knives?” the Doktor calmly inquired.
Despite his reservations. Blade found himself mulling the question.
Why hadn’t he resorted to the Bowies? Because he wanted to beat the Doktor with his bare fists? Or because he had forgotten about them in the heat of battle, which was utterly unlike him?
“Go ahead,” the Doktor said. “Draw your knives. I won’t go anywhere.”
Blade was thoroughly confused. What was up the Doktor’s sleeve? This was insane! There had to he an ulterior motive.
“Tell you what I’ll do,” the Doktor stated. “I’ll make it easy on you.” So saying, he tossed the hypodermic syringe to the floor.
Blade was stunned by the action. It was impossible to predict what a murderous lunatic like the Doktor would do next. Why did he throw away the syringe?
The Doktor, smiling, extended his arms, palms up, toward the perplexed Warrior. “See? There’s nothing to be afraid of. Use your knives and finish it. I’m tired of living.”
Unnerved, Blade debated the wisest move. They were at a stalemate; there was no way the Doktor could get past him to the door, and it appeared unlikely he could best his crafty adversary without a weapon.
“Go ahead,” the Doktor repeated, goading him. “What are you waiting for?”
Blade reached a decision. He was tired of these damn games! The Doktor was standing about two feet in front of him. All he had to do was whip out the Bowies and, as he had practiced so many times over the years, sweep the big knives up and out, flinging them point first into the Doktor’s torso.
“Well?” the Doktor baited him.
When it came to drawing his Bowies, Blade was almost as fast as Hickok was with his cherished Colts. His hands flew to the handles and the gleaming blades leaped clear of their scabbards. His arms began to swing upward and outward, the razor tips elevating. He was all set to release the handles and let the Bowies fly when the Doktor made his move.
The Doktor’s left hand dropped at a 90-degree angle to his forearm and a tiny metallic dart shot from under his sleeve trailing a thin wire behind it.
Blade believed the miniature dart was meant for him, so for the briefest fraction of a second he was relieved when the dart struck the blade on his right Bowie. But instead of striking the steel and being deflected to the floor, the dart stuck to the Bowie.
What transpired next was totally unforeseen.
Blade felt a terrific jolt of… something… lance up his right arm and course through his entire body. The shock to his system was staggering. It was as if he had been kicked in the chest by a bucking bronc. He was lifted from his feet and flung almost to the front door, crashing to the floor on his back and lying there with his breath caught in his throat. His limbs were trembling uncontrollably, although his mind seemed perfectly lucid.