“We should be there before nightfall,” Locklin announced.
Hickok gazed at the afternoon sun. “We should have gone in this morning.”
Locklin heard the comment and slowed to hike alongside the Warriors.
“Trying to enter the city in broad daylight would be suicide.”
“I hope this plan of yours works,” Hickok said.
The rebel leader’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t you like me?”
“Why would you say that?” Hickok responded.
“You’ve been so critical of every decision I’ve made,” Locklin mentioned. “You didn’t like the idea of leaving Chastity with Scarlet and Jane, and you griped about my plan to wait until an hour before the Civil Council meeting to enter Atlanta.”
“It’s nothin’ personal,” Hickok assured him. “I’m worried about my pard, is all.”
“If your friend, Blade, is still alive, we’ll find him,” Locklin promised.
“If Blade isn’t alive, the Peers will regret the day they were born,” Hickok said.
They reached a field.
Locklin double-checked to insure the sky was clear of planes before giving the signal to advance.
“I’ve been meanin’ to ask you something,” Hickok said as they started to cross.
“What is it?” Locklin responded.
“We have this gigantic library at our Home. When I was knee high to a whippoorwill, I spent many an hour readin’ all kinds of books. Westerns were my favorite, but I read other kinds. And one of them was about this gent who lived centuries ago in England. He was famous for robbin’ from the rich and givin’ to the poor. Like you, he was partial to the bow and arrow. Like you, he wore green all the time. And like you, he had a band of—what were they called?— happy hunters who would follow him anywhere.” Hickok hooked his thumbs in his gunbelt. “Any connection?”
Locklin had listened with a smile spreading over his countenance. “You surprise me. Very few people know about Robin Hood.”
“Then there is a connection?”
“I came across a book on him and decided to emulate his style,” Locklin detailed. “Robin Hood was a master of the hit-and-run, a true guerrilla fighter. I patterned my band after him, and I gave each of them a code name based on the book. The Peers don’t know who some of us are, and there’s no reason to make their identification of us an easy job. Many of us have relatives living in the city, and to protect them we screen our true identities.”
“What’s your real name?” Hickok asked.
“Matthew. Matthew Brody.”
Hickok looked over his left shoulder at the one they called Big John.
“And him?”
“His real name is Harold Cridlebaugh.”
“I should’ve known,” the gunman said.
“Speaking of questions,” Rikki interjected, “there is an issue we haven’t discussed yet.”
“What is it?” Locklin responded.
“What will happen if you slay the Peers?”
“The people of Atlanta will finally be free,” Locklin said. “There will be celebrating in the streets.”
“Will there?”
“I don’t follow you,” Locklin stated.
“Is your small band representative of the populace of Atlanta?” Rikki probed. “Do you speak for a majority of the people, or are you in the minority? If you kill the Peers, what next? Will the people rise up to support you? Will new Peers arise? How will the Storm Police react? Will they stand idly by, or will they be actively involved in the redistribution of power?” He paused. “What will happen?”
Locklin pursed his lips and gazed absently at the ground. “I honestly don’t know,” he commented at length. “There are many people who resent the Peers and want a new government, but there are also many citizens satisfied with the status quo. I don’t know what will happen.”
“Those Storm galoots could pose a problem for you,” Hickok remarked.
“How will you deal with them? Killin’ the Peers won’t solve a thing if the Storm Police don’t side with you.”
“I’ve heard a rumor that the chief of the Storm Police, a man named Skinner, resents the Peers and wants them disposed of,” Locklin said.
“Rumors do not a revolution make,” Rikki philosophized.
“We can’t worry about the Storm Police now,” Locklin declared. “First things first. First, the Peers. We’ll tend to the Storm Police when the time comes.”
“I hope you know what you’re doing,” Hickok said.
They finished traversing the field in contemplative silence, then hiked into another stretch of forest.
“I’d like to hear the plan again,” Hickok mentioned.
“We’ve already gone over our strategy twice,” Locklin responded.
“Humor me.”
The rebel leader sighed and scratched his beard. “The Civil Council meets in the Civil Directorate once a week at nine P.M. Their meeting chamber is located on the tenth floor of the Directorate. All we have to do is wait until eight, enter the city through the storm drains, and reach the Civil Directorate without being spotted. There should be a service elevator we can take to the tenth floor. Very few guards should be on duty because the Peers won’t be expecting any trouble.”
“It’s awful risky,” Hickok remarked.
“Do you have a better idea?” Locklin retorted. “If you want to save your friend, pray this works.”
They marched westward as the sun dipped toward the horizon.
Splendid tints of red, orange, and pink lent a grandeur to the sunset.
“I hope Chastity is okay,” Hickok commented at one point.
As the band drew ever nearer to the sprawling metropolis, they proceeded with heightened caution. Their green apparel enabled them to blend into the landscape, and they stealthily approached to within a hundred yards of the wall. Locklin gestured, and his followers instantly fanned out in a skirmish line from north to south. Putting his finger over his lips, Locklin led the two Warriors to a cluster of thick brush 70 yards from the city. He crouched and peered at the rampart.
“I count three guards,” he said.
“Four,” Rikki corrected him. “See the one to the right?”
Locklin looked and nodded. “You have good eyes.”
“But his nose is too big,” Hickok quipped.
“Where are the storm drains?” Rikki inquired.
“You can’t see them from here,” Locklin said. “There are two of them at the base of the wall, hidden in those tall weeds.”
“What about those coyotes on the wall?” Hickok asked.
Locklin consulted a watch on his left wrist. “My archers are already in position. In five minutes they’ll take the guards out.”
The gunman scrutinized the western horizon. “It won’t be dark for another half hour, at least.”
“It’s July,” Locklin said. “It doesn’t get dark until nine. But it will be on the dim side. Dusk usually is,” he concluded wryly.
The light was gradually fading as the sun began to sink out of sight.
Hickok checked the magazine in the Uzi, and saw Rikki doing the same.
On the wall, oblivious to the presence of the rebels, the guards went about their business. Two were engaged in conversation, while the remaining pair were conducting slow patrols of the rampart, one moving to the north, one to the south. All four were armed with AR-15s.
The gunman watched the tableau unfold, and he felt a degree of admiration for the skill the rebels displayed. With unerring accuracy, four arrows were released at the same moment and sped true to the respective target. Four shafts penetrated four hearts, and four forms sprawled onto the rampart.
“Now,” Locklin whispered, then held his right fist aloft. His band converged on the wall in an orderly, quiet dash.