Currently the light shone green. He watched it intently, hoping for a change.
When the truck still had half the block to go, the traffic light blinked to yellow, then red, and all the vehicles crawled to a stop.
Yawning again, the driver of the four-wheeler braked his machine a few feet from the center of the bed.
Thank you, Yama thought, and crawled a foot to the left, bringing himself directly over his target. There was no time to lose; the light would change at any second. He slid outward, using his wrists to propel his body over the edge, and dropped down with his legs spread wide to land on the cushioned seat behind the driver.
The man involuntarily jumped when his vehicle bounced and glanced over his right shoulder. He had black hair and brown eyes that widened in amazement. “What the hell! Where did you come from?”
“Never mind,” Yama said. He became aware of other drivers gaping at him.
“Never mind?” the driver repeated. “Mister, I don’t know who you are, but you’d better get off my vehicle this instant.”
“Unfortunately, I can’t comply,” Yama informed him, and surreptiously drew his survival knife. He pressed the point into the guy’s shirt and lowered his voice. “Do you want to die?”
Blinking, the man looked down and gulped. “No. Of course not,” he answered weakly.
“Whether you live or not depends on how well you cooperate.”
“What is it you want?”
“At the intersection take a right.”
“No problem. Just don’t kill me. Please.”
Yama saw the light go green and he nodded. “Pull out and pay close attention to your driving. I don’t want to attract the interest of the authorities.”
The driver ran his eyes over the Warrior’s outfit, then faced front and accelerated as the traffic flow resumed. He darted into the far right lane and hung a right at the junction.
Looking back, Yama saw no sign of pursuit. The jeep and troop transport were proceeding toward the Central Core.
“Who are you?” the driver asked over his shoulder.
“My name is unimportant.”
“Where are you from?”
“You ask too many questions.”
“Sorry.”
They cruised into a business district. A variety of shops and large stores lined both sides of the street and there were more pedestrians than anywhere else. The traffic was thick and noisy.
“Are you in the military?” Yama inquired in the man’s left ear.
“No,” the driver replied. “Why would you think that?”
“Your uniform.”
The man chuckled. “I work for S.P.D.”
“Which is?”
“Speedy Parcel Delivery.”
“You deliver packages?”
“Packages, mail, postcards, everything. S.P.D. is the biggest parcel delivery service in the city. You’ve probably seen our pink trucks driving all over the place.”
“No,” Yama said. He spied an alley not far off.
The driver fidgeted. “You don’t know about S.P.D.? Then you must not be from Technic City.”
“I’m not.” Yama tapped the man on the shoulder and pointed at the alley. “Drive in there.”
“I can’t. My permit doesn’t include alley privileges.”
Yama dug the knife in a shade deeper. “It does now. When I give you an order, follow it.”
“Yes, sir,” the Technic responded. He slowed, used his turn signal, and when several pedestrians paused to grant him access, complied with the big man’s request.
The alley connected one block with another. Halfway down it, on the right-hand side, were two huge trash bins spaced ten feet apart.
“Pull in between those,” Yama directed.
Deftly manipulating the handlebars and shifting down, the driver brought the four-wheeler to an abrupt stop, nearly crashing into the wall in his nervousness.
“Turn off your machine.”
The man promptly obeyed.
Yama slid off the seat and checked the alley to see if anyone had trailed them. Satisfied he had temporarily eluded detection, he sheathed the knife and motioned for the Technic to stand.
“What are you planning to do with me?” the man asked, and elevated his arms without being told.
The Warrior studied his prisoner’s delivery uniform intently. It appeared to be several sizes too short for his frame but would serve to conceal him in a crowd. “Are you wearing underwear?”
Gasping, the Technic placed a hand to his throat. “I knew it! You’re a pervert!”
“What?”
“I know all about your kind. There have been five or six reports on the news in the past year alone about the sick atrocities people like you commit.”
“You’re an idiot. Take off your uniform.”
“Do what?”
Yama drew the Smith and Wesson. “I won’t repeat myself again. Take off your uniform and be quick about it.”
His hands shaking, the Technic removed his shirt, then his shoes and pants, exposing a white T-shirt and underwear. He crossed his hands over his crotch and turned sideways. “Now what?”
“Close your eyes.”
“Oh, no,” the man whimpered. He did as requested, his entire body trembling. “Please don’t kill me. Please. Please. Please.”
Yama stepped in front of him. “When you revive, you might benefit from looking up the word ‘courage’ in a dictionary.”
“Huh?”
The Warrior planted his left fist on the tip of the guy’s chin, not even bothering to use all of his prodigious might.
The tap sent the Technic stumbling back into the wall, his arms sagging at his sides. He sank to the ground, a ludicrous grin creasing his face, blood trickling from his lower lip.
Sighing, Yama began to pick up the man’s shirt when the loud rumbling of a large engine alerted him to the fact a vehicle had just entered the alley.
CHAPTER NINE
The force of the shaft slamming into him caused Blade to jerk to the right and nearly fall. He grunted, gritted his teeth, and crouched, staring at his shoulder to find an arrow protruding from his leather vest.
Geronimo also halted. He squeezed off a short burst, the FNC shattering the stillness, the barrel pointing to the southeast.
Pain engulfing his shoulder, Blade gripped the Commando in his left hand and tried to spot their attackers. He glimpsed an indistinct figure dashing off through the trees dozens of yards off. “Take cover,” he stated, and moved toward a pine tree on his right.
Backpedaling, Geronimo swept the FNC from side to side, ready to cut loose at the first hint of hostility. No more arrows were fired. He stayed close to the giant until they were screened by the pines, then squatted and slid around to inspect his friend’s wound. “The tip is sticking out about two inches.”
“I know,” Blade said, doubling over. He could feel blood dampening his skin all the way down to his belt.
“Do you want to take it out now or wait?”
“Hold the tip steady,” Blade responded, placing the Commando on the ground. He gripped the thin wooden shaft with his left hand.
“Are you sure you don’t want to wait?” Geronimo cautioned. “The bleeding might get worse if you remove it.”
“Can’t be helped,” Blade said, resisting waves of torment that washed over his mind. “We’ve got to go after them. They could know what happened to Nathan.”
“You’re the boss,” Geronimo said, holding tight. “I’m ready when you are.”
Licking his lips, Blade tensed his left arm, the huge muscles bulging, and abruptly bent his wrist, snapping the arrow in half. The movement aggravated the torment and he almost cried out. Inhaling, he said softly, “Your turn.”
“Brace yourself,” Geronimo advised, leaning the FNC against his leg. He wrapped both hands around the shaft as best he could, then heaved, extracting the arrow smoothly.