A blond guy drew a pistol and pointed it at the Warrior’s head. “Let go of him!” he barked.
“Where are my weapons?” Yama inquired.
“Screw your weapons. Let go of Falcone,” the guy repeated, and the others brought their own firearms to bear.
Yama started to slide from the table, still retaining his hold on the now furiously resisting Falcone. The man battered at Yama’s arm, but the blows were barely felt.
“Don’t move!” the blond guy cried. “We’ll shoot.”
“Be my guest,” Yama said calmly, placing his feet on the tile floor. He straightened and squared his wide shoulders as more people in blue converged on him, forming a ring three or four deep. Beyond them spread a spacious chamber with lavender walls and a vaulted orange ceiling, comfortably furnished with four plush sofas and twice as many chairs.
“Let go of him!” a woman demanded.
“Where are my weapons?” Yama repeated, scanning their angry faces, noting an even mix of sexes and a range of ages from the late teens to the early sixties.
A white-haired man pushed through the ring, calling out, “Don’t shoot.
Don’t anyone shoot.” He halted in front of the Warrior and looked fearlessly up into the big man’s eyes. “Please don’t kill him.”
“Where are my weapons?”
“We can’t give them to you.”
“You have no choice.”
The man did a double take. “How do you propose to obtain them?
You’ll be dead before you take a step.”
Yama let the corners of his mouth curl upwards and saw the chilling effect it had. “I can not die.”
“What?” the white-haired man responded.
“You have until I count to ten to return my weapons. If you haven’t done so, then the Resistance Movement will come to an abrupt, inglorious end.”
“You know who we are?”
“One,” Yama said.
“How do we know we can trust you?” the man asked.
“Two.”
One of the men spoke up. “He’s bluffing.”
“Three.”
“I don’t think he is,” someone else said.
“Four.”
Falcone had both hands on the fingers squeezing his neck and was striving to pry them off. He sputtered, his knees sagging, and motioned wildly at the white-haired rebel.
“Five.”
The blond guy took a step forward. “Let me blow this jerk away.”
“Six.”
“No!” the white-haired man declared.
“Seven.”
Some of them tightened their grips on their weapons in expectation of firing.
“Eight,” Yama said, holding Falcone upright with one arm and easing his grip just a bit so the man wouldn’t die on him.
Nervously glancing from the Warrior to Falcone, the white-haired man gnawed on his lower lip.
“Nine.”
“We’ll do it!” the white-haired man exclaimed. “We’ll give you your weapons.”
Yama stopped counting and released Falcone. The rebel tottered, and would have fallen if others hadn’t caught him. “I’m waiting.”
“Get his weapons,” the white-haired man directed.
“But Roy—” the blond guy began.
“Do it!” Roy snapped.
There was a commotion at the back of the band and two men came forward bearing the Warrior’s personal arsenal, including all of his spare magazines, clips, and boxes of ammo, which they promptly deposited on the table.
Yama wasted no time in replacing the Browning, Magnum, scimitar, and survival knife in their respective holsters and sheaths. He picked up the Wilkinson, verified the magazine was still empty, and inserted a new one. The rest of the ammunition he crammed into his pockets. Then, nodding in satisfaction, he faced the rebels.
Falcone, supported by two men, rubbed his sore neck and rasped out, “Who are you?”
Smiling, Yama looked at him. “Think of me as the Angel of Death.”
“Why are you here?”
“I’m going to help you topple the Technic government.”
The blond guy snorted. “Oh? Just you and us, huh? And when are we supposed to accomplish this miracle?”
Yama glanced to the left at a window and noticed the stars in the sky.
“At the first crack of dawn.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The Minister stood in his office staring out one of the tinted glass windows at the myriad lights of the metropolis, his hands behind his back.
A knock sounded and he called out, “Enter.”
“It’s me, sir,” Ramis announced.
The Minister saw his subordinate’s reddish reflection in the pane as Ramis walked up behind him. “What is the latest projection?”
“Major Langella says the gas-dispersal systems will be fully operational within three days,” Ramis reported.
“I had hoped it would be sooner,” the Minister remarked, pursing his lips.
“He told me they must triple-check the buildings for leaks. Should any of the gas escape and kill bystanders, someone might suspect the truth about the inoculation program. It would ruin the whole operation.”
“I know,” the Minister reluctantly agreed. “And considering the scope of the project, there’s no room for mistakes. Tell the major to do his usual thorough job, but urge him to complete the installations within two days if at all possible.”
“Yes, sir,” Ramis said, and turned to go.
“Oh. One more thing.”
“Sir?”
“I wanted to compliment you on the excellent job you did with the Schonfeld tape. Not even an expert will be able to tell that those spools were doctored.”
“Thank you, Excellency,” Ramis said. “But if I may be so bold, I still believe you’re taking a great risk if you formally accuse him of treason.
He’s one of the most patriotic officers in our military.”
The Minister sighed. “I appreciate the risk, my friend, but this entire enterprise is fraught with risks. Selective genocide has seldom been attempted on such a massive scale. Exterminating a million and a half men between the ages of eighteen and thirty-five is any politician’s worst nightmare. Simply working out the logistics has given me numerous headaches.”
“Which reminds me, sir. All the press releases concerning the phony disease have been prepared for the media and are awaiting your approval.”
“Good.”
“We have a dozen physicians ready to authenticate the releases by calling a news conference and announcing the results of their so-called five-year study.”
Turning, the Minister regarded his assistant intently. “I want your personal opinion, Ramis.”
“Excellency?”
“Do you think it will work?”
“Of course, sir.”
“Be specific.”
Ramis pondered for a moment. “Very well. Since you’ve asked, I’ll tell you that I firmly believe your devious scheme in brilliant. The problem confronting you was monumental, yet you selected an infallible way out.
Sure, all the computer projections indicate there will be widespread revolt in Technic City in seventeen years, or possibly somewhat sooner. But you were astute enough to determine that the prediction only held true if the population growth continued at its present rate and there were no changes in our social order.”
A wry smile creased the Minister’s countenance. “You should be specific more often, my friend. Your insights are commendable.”
“Will that be all?”
“Yes,” the Minister said. Then he thought of one last item after all. “No. Not quite. What time is my appointment with the scientists from the Bioengineering Department?”
“Eight A.M. They were quite excited at the prospect of providing a personal demonstration.”
“And they’re actually bringing their Cy-Hounds here?”
“Yes, sir. I felt it more appropriate than for you to pay them a visit.”