Next Marcus gave an FNC Auto Rifle to Geronimo. Then he seized the Heckler and Koch Model KH 94 he’d selected from the many automatics available in the armory, and cradled it in his arms. Once a semiautomatic, the HK 94 had been converted to full-auto capability by the Family Gunsmiths, whose job it was to insure every weapon in the armory worked properly.
“We could use a rocket or the flamethrower on the barricade,” Geronimo suggested.
“I want to save the rockets and the incendiary fuel for later. We might need ’em,” Hickok said.
“How about if we ram it?” Marcus proposed.
Both Hickok and Geronimo glanced at the man in brown and slowly shook their heads.
“Why not?” Marcus asked.
“For all we know, there could be explosives planted in there,” Hickok noted. “If we ram it, we might be blown to kingdom come. It’s not likely, I’ll admit, but we can’t take the chance. The SEAL is tough, but dynamite or a grenade would damage it.”
“We have to push those trees aside,” Geronimo stated.
Hickok nodded. “The SEAL could do it. Someone has to go out there and check those trees before we try, though.” He frowned. “I’ll go.”
“You can’t go,” Geronimo said. “We can’t risk anything happening to you. You’ve had the most experience driving the SEAL. I’ll go.”
“Let me go,” Marcus interjected, but neither of his fellow Warriors paid attention.
Hickok looked at Geronimo. “You know they’ll be waiting for you.”
“I know,” Geronimo said.
“Let me go check,” Marcus said.
“I want you to stay here,” the gunman told Marcus.
“Give me one good reason.”
“I said so.”
“That’s not good enough,” Marcus stated testily. “I have just as much right as Geronimo does to go out there.”
“Geronimo has more experience,” Hickok said.
“So? Didn’t you bring me along on this run so I could get experience for myself?”
“I reckon I did.”
“How am I supposed to get the experience I need if you keep me cooped up in the SEAL?”
“You can watch us.”
“Come on, Hickok,” Marcus urged. “I don’t need a babysitter. Let me prove I’m reliable.”
Annoyed, Hickok gazed at the barricade. Marcus had a point. The man deserved a chance to show how good he was. “Okay. I’ll compromise. Both of you will go. I’ll cover you with the SEAL.”
“Try not to run us over,” Geronimo said, and opened his door.
“Try not to get your butt shot off,” Hickok said.
Geronimo grinned. “I didn’t know you cared.”
“I don’t. I just don’t want you to lose whatever it is you use for brains.”
With the utmost caution Geronimo slid to the pitted, cracked asphalt.
He crouched below the door, scanning the barricade and the woods, his entire body tense.
Marcus climbed between the bucket seats and went to follow Geronimo.
“Be careful,” Hickok said.
“I won’t let you down,” Marcus replied. “I’m not a kid, .Hickok. I don’t need a mother hen watching over me all the time.”
“I know that or I wouldn’t have brought you along,” the gunman stated.
“And if you ever call me a mother hen again, I’ll shoot your toes off.” He smiled sweetly.
Marcus gripped the HK 94 and jumped to the ground beside Geronimo, who promptly swung the door shut. The muted whine of the SEAL’S engine seemed extraordinarily loud to Marcus.
“You take the left side. I’ll take the right,” Geronimo instructed him.
Together they straightened and stepped around the front of the transport, then advanced slowly toward the barricade, their automatic rifles leveled, their eyes alertly probing the vegetation.
An unnatural stillness pervaded the forest. Nothing moved, not even an insect. The birds were hushed.
Marcus walked along the left side of the highway, his body tingling with expectation. He licked his dry lips and willed himself to stay calm. If his excitement got the better of him, he’d become careless. He prided himself on his ability to remain cool and collected at all times, even in the direst crisis, and here was a golden opportunity to put his self-control to the ultimate test. Hickok would stop treating him as a brainless novice if he proved his dependability.
Wait!
What was he doing?
Marcus almost stopped, startled by the realization he was thinking. He was letting his mind be distracted by internal musing when he should be totally focused on the external situation. Peeved at his lack of discipline, he made his mind a blank, sublimating his conscious thought, concentrating on the road, the barricade, and the woods. The road, the barricade, and the woods. The road, the barricade, and—
Something moved in the woods.
Marcus continued to advance, pretending he hadn’t noticed the movement, his finger caressing the trigger of the HK 94. He glanced at Geronimo, who appeared to be unaware of the movement in the trees.
From the rear came the sound of the SEAL’s huge tires crunching on the asphalt as Hickok followed them.
A twig snapped off to the left.
Marcus gazed at the barricade, now 20 yards distant. The tangled branches jutting from the downed trees formed an ideal curtain of green for any enemies who might be lying in concealment. Even as he watched, one of the limbs quivered, its leaves fluttering, as if someone had bumped it. For a second he felt exposed and vulnerable, knowing that he was the proverbial sitting duck, but he shook off the feeling and stepped forward.
Ten more yards were covered without incident.
Marcus glanced at Geronimo, who still seemed to be oblivious to the ambushers; he was walking along nonchalantly instead of being wary, which astounded Marcus. He knew Geronimo was rated as one of the best Warriors, and he couldn’t comprehend why the Indian wasn’t more concerned about the trap. Unless, he reasoned, Geronimo’s attitude was a ruse, a method of lulling their adversaries into complacency, a means of allowing the Warriors to get closer to the barricade without drawing fire.
Another limb shook for a moment, then subsided.
Five yards separated the Warriors from the fallen trees.
And suddenly a dozen forms rose from hiding at the barricade, while from the forest on both sides of the road poured 30 or 40 shrieking, bloodthirsty figures.
Chapter Nine
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Berwin stepped quickly to the doorway and saw Jennings in Doctor Milton’s grasp. The kindly physician’s features were contorted in fury, and he was shaking the janitor violently.
“Answer me, damn you!” Milton barked.
Jennings’s eyes were wide, his face a mask of terror. The broom had dropped to the floor. “Sweeping!” he replied fearfully. “I was just sweeping!”
“We don’t require your services today, you dolt!” Milton hissed. “Who gave you permission?” He suddenly became aware of Berwin’s presence and immediately added, “Don’t say a word yet. We’ll get to the bottom of this shortly.” With a visible effort he composed his raging emotions and released the janitor. “Pick up your broom.”
Jennings promptly obeyed.
“Is there a problem?” Berwin asked. “The man was just cleaning my room.”
Doctor Milton cleared his throat and studied the giant’s countenance.
“Was that all?”
“What do you mean?” Berwin responded, intentionally sounding puzzled by the question.
“This is a special floor. When we have patients such as yourself, our nurses attend to the cleaning chores. We don’t want our patients inadvertently disturbed. The janitors are only permitted on this floor when we don’t have patients,” Milton explained.