Blade nodded. “The only fox I want to have fun with is my wife. We are loyal to one another because we love each other.”
“Loyalty?” Terza said angrily. “Who the hell cares about loyalty?”
“Loyal couples are growing couples,” Blade stated. “Without loyalty, love withers and dies.”
“What the hell are you? Some kind of poet?” Terza shook her head in wonder.
“Sounds like a real wimp to me,” Cardew commented.
“What’s it going to be?” Blade demanded. “Will you release Lex?”
Terza holstered her Comanches. “Sure. But remember one thing. I can have her strung up again if you give me any grief.”
“I have given my word,” Blade reminded her.
“Your word don’t mean diddly to me,” Terza said. She raised her face to the two Knights on the balcony. “Cut her down! Then chain her on the wall next to lover boy!” She grinned at Blade. “Satisfied?”
“Ask your questions,” Blade said.
“Not here,” Terza said. She glanced at Cardew. “I want you to bring him to my room after Lex is chained. I’ll be waiting.” She wheeled and stalked from the chamber.
Cardew walked up to Blade and winked conspiratorially. “Ain’t you the lucky one!”
“What do you mean?” Blade inquired.
“Don’t play innocent with me!” Cardew nudged the Warrior in the ribs.
“I think Terza wants you for herself. You should be flattered.”
“Wants me?” Blade repeated, puzzled. “But I just told her I already have a mate.”
“Terza could care less about your mate,” Cardew disclosed. “If she decides she wants a man, she ups and takes him.”
“And the man doesn’t have any say in the matter?” Blade queried.
“A man can’t refuse a woman,” Cardew said. “That’s the law.”
“Not where I come from,” Blade informed him.
“You ain’t there now, are you?” Cardew teased the Warrior. “You’re here. And what Terza says, goes. If you give her any lip, you’ll never see your wife again. No man has ever refused her. Am I getting through to you yet, asshole?”
“Loud and clear,” Blade responded. He watched the Knights lowering Lex to the ground. How were they going to get out of this fix? Would Terza want to be alone with him? If so, would it be to his advantage to escape while Rikki and Lex were still being held? Terza might execute them out of sheer spite. He closed his eyes and sighed. At least Hickok was free. He hoped he could rely on the gunman’s customary impatience. Let’s see.
Hickok had agreed to stay with the SEAL for three days. But would the gunfighter wait that long? Highly unlikely. One day, definitely. Two, possibly. But never for three. Hickok would come looking for them, but not for another day and a half, minimum.
A lot could happen in a day and a half.
Blade opened his eyes and stared at Cardew’s leering expression.
Yes, sir.
A whole lot.
And none of it good.
Chapter Eleven
“Not now, honey,” Hickok mumbled. “I’m plumb tuckered out.” He rolled over and started to fall asleep again, but Sherry wouldn’t leave him alone. She was insistently shaking his right shoulder. Funny thing about wives. Before the marriage, they were all over your body and couldn’t seem to get enough. Then it was “I do,” and “Whoa, there, buckaroo!”
“Not tonight! I’ve got a headache!” Except when they were in the mood.
Then the man had best be able to get it up, or it was cold stares and leftovers until the woman decided the man had repented enough for another go. Contrary critters, those females! Sherry was shaking harder now.
Hickok eased onto his back and opened his eyes.
Uh-oh.
It wasn’t Sherry standing over him. It was three men, all wearing brown uniforms with red stars on their collars and other insignia.
Hickok suddenly remembered everything in a rush, and he automatically reached for his Colts. But his fingers closed on empty holsters.
They’d taken his Pythons!
One of the men, a burly man with sagging cheeks, a protruding chin, and bright blue eyes, held the Pythons aloft in his right hand. “Are these what you are looking for?” he asked in clipped, precise English.
Hickok started to rise, but the other two men had already drawn automatics from holsters on their right hips.
“Please,” said the first man, evidently an officer, “don’t do anything foolish. We have no intention of harming you.”
“Then what am I doin’ here?” Hickock demanded. “And where the blazes am I?” He rose on his elbows and scanned his surroundings, finding himself on a metal table in a well-lit room. Four overhead lights provided ample illumination. A row of equipment-medical equipment, if he guessed right—was lined up along one of the walls.
“We will ask the questions,” said the burly officer. “What is your name?”
“Annie Oakley.”
The officer’s blue eyes narrowed. “That is a woman’s name.”
“Would you believe Calamity Jane?”
“Another woman’s name,” the burly officer remarked. “What kind of game are you playing?”
“Poker,” Hickock said.
One of the other men began speaking to the burly officer in a foreign tongue.
Hickok listened intently, but couldn’t make hide nor hair of their babble.
“Ahhh. I see,” the burly officer said in English. “Lieutenant Voroshilov informs me you refer to a period in American history hundreds of years ago. Is this not true?”
Hickock glanced at Lieutenant Voroshilov, a youthful officer, in his 30s, with green eyes and crew-cut blond hair. “Don’t tell me. Voroshilov is partial to readin’ about the Old West!”
The burly officer shook his head. “Not exactly. But Lieutenant Voroshilov does have what you call a…” He paused for a moment.
“Photographic memory. He read a book once about the history of cowboys and Indians, or some such silliness, and never forgot what he read.”
“Photographic memory, huh?” Hickok said. “Then he should have smarts enough to know who you jokers are and where the dickens I am.”
Burly Butt smiled. “Please forgive my rudeness. I should have introduced myself. I am General Malenkov.”
“Malenkov. Voroshilov. With names like that, it’s a cinch I ain’t in the Civilized Zone,” Hickok quipped, alluding to the area in the Midwest and Rocky Mountain region occupied by the remnant of the U.S. Government after World War III.
“Are you from the Civilized Zone?” General Malenkov asked.
“Didn’t you ever hear about what curiosity did to the cat?” Hickok countered.
General Malenkov’s facial muscles tightened. “I have tried to be polite, but you will not cooperate. If you will not supply the information I need willingly, then I will use other methods.”
“Give it your best shot,” Hickok taunted him.
General Malenkov smiled. “I will.” He barked a series of orders at Lieutenant Voroshilov. That worthy wheeled and stalked to the row of medical equipment. The third, unnamed, soldier kept his pistol trained on the man in buckskins.
“What are you aimin’ to do?” Hickok inquired nonchalantly.
“We will inject you with a substance our chemists developed for recalcitrant subjects,” General Malenkov answered. “What’s it do?”
“It is a truth serum,” General Malenkov explained. “Once injected, you will divulge everything we want to know.”
Hickok watched Voroshilov remove a hypodermic needle from a glass cabinet. He didn’t like this one bit. It didn’t take a genius to figure out who these bozos were. He’d attended the history classes in the Family school, and he knew about the Russians and the part they’d played in the Big Blast. Who else could these clowns be?