“Cynthia and Cochise.”
“What about them?” Hickok questioned. “Do they want you to quit?”
“No.”
“Then what?” Hickok asked impatiently.
“What happens to them if I’m slain?”
Blade stared into the rearview mirror at Geronimo’s reflection, regarding his friend’s troubled expression. “The possibility of being killed in the line of duty is an occupational hazard of our profession.”
“I know.”
“But?” Blade prompted.
“But do I have the right to expose my family to the same hazard?”
Geronimo queried. His shoulders slumped. “I never told you this, but Cynthia was a nervous wreck when I returned from our run to Nevada.
She hardly slept a wink the whole time we were gone. Cochise was even worse. He started having nightmares, and he would wake up in the middle of the night screaming my name. He’s still having nightmares occasionally, and he’s scared of his own shadow.”
“Have you discussed the situation with them?” Blade inquired.
“Of course. Cynthia admits that she’s excessively worried about the likelihood of my being killed. She can’t help herself. And as far as Cochise is concerned, what do you say to a three-year-old? How do I explain my extended absences?” Geronimo wanted to know, his tone betraying his profound inner turmoil.
“They’ll come around eventually,” Hickok said.
“I’m not so sure,” Geronimo replied.
“Have you mentioned resigning to Cynthia?” Blade questioned.
“Yes.”
“And?”
“And she doesn’t want me to resign on account of them.”
“The lady has brains,” Hickok stated. “You should listen to her.”
“I am, with my heart.”
“Have you made your final decision yet?” Blade asked.
Geronimo shook his head. “No. I’m leaning toward resigning, though.”
“Good. Then I’ve got time to help you see the light, pard. When we get back, I’ll talk to your missus too,” Hickok proposed.
“This is personal, Nathan,” Geronimo said, using the name bestowed on the gunman by his parents. “I’ll handle it.”
“Fine. Be that way,” Hickok said.
“No offense meant,” Geronimo commented.
“None taken,” Hickok said, his tone contradicting his words.
They drove on in an uncomfortable silence for several minutes. Finally Hickok turned and stared at Geronimo.
“I think you’ll be makin’ the biggest mistake of your life if you resign.”
“Why?”
“You’ll be miserable if you step down,” the gunman predicted. “What else would you do?”
“I’m considering becoming a Tiller,” Geronimo divulged.
The gunman shook his head. “Never happen. You like excitement and adventure. Sittin’ around watching plants grow would bore you to tears.”
“I could become a Hunter,” Geronimo proposed. “I like hunting and trapping, and providing meat for the Family is a worthy occupation.”
“In that case, you might as well stay a Warrior.”
“What do you mean?”
“The Hunters go up against mutants and wild critters every time they go out of the Home,” Hickok said. “You could be killed just as easily.”
“But the Hunters don’t venture as far from the Home as we do,” Geronimo argued. “The Hunters don’t usually take on cannibals or professional assassins or insane power-mongers. I’d be safer as a Hunter.”
“If you want to play it safe, become a Weaver.”
“I never expected bitterness from you,” Geronimo told the gunman.
“I’m not bitter. I’m just ticked off,” Hickok asserted.
“We’ve got company,” Blade announced abruptly.
Hickok straightened and grabbed the AR-15. “Where?”
“Behind us, about three quarters of a mile.” Blade informed them.
Hickok looked out the rear of the SEAL, his blue eyes widening slightly as he spied a large, green, single-rotor helicopter. “How long has that contraption been there?”
“I just noticed it,” Blade said.
“Russian?”
“It must be,” Blade deduced, “but I haven’t seen any markings.”
“Who else would have a helicopter in this area?” Geronimo queried.
“No one, to my knowledge,” Blade responded. He glanced at the side mirror repeatedly as the SEAL covered another mile, expecting the chopper to draw closer rapidly. Instead, the craft kept its distance.
“Why is it hangin’ back?” Hickok asked.
“Who knows?” Blade said.
A rusted sign appeared at the side of the highway: WATSEKA 1 MILE.
“Will we go through the town?” Geronimo inquired.
“We’ll bypass Watseka,” Blade replied. He preferred to avoid cities and towns whenever possible. Prior experience had taught him that the inhabitants of urban centers were invariably hostile, and although most of the dwellers in the Outlands were poorly armed and ill-equipped to cause any serious damage to the SEAL, he wanted to avoid unnecessary confrontations and delays.
“Look!” Hickok suddenly declared, pointing at the sky to the east.
Blade glanced up and tensed.
A second helicopter was less than a half mile distant and heading directly toward the transport.
Chapter Five
“They’ve got us hemmed in,” Hickok said.
Blade braked the SEAL, peering intently at the oncoming chopper, striving to identify the model. His knowledge of aircraft was relatively limited, and he resolved to brush up on the various types of helicopters by studying the appropriate books in the Family library at the first opportunity.
“The copter behind us is closing in,” Geronimo disclosed.
A quick check of the side mirror confirmed the helicopters were working in tandem.
“The old squeeze play,” Hickok remarked.
Blade reached toward the silver toggles, then hesitated.
“What are you waitin’ for?” Hickok demanded. “Sic the Stinger on one of them.”
“We don’t know if they’re hostile,” Blade said.
“Better safe than sorry,” the gunman noted.
The chopper to the east was swooping at the SEAL, its rotor blades shimmering in the sunlight.
“We’re sittin’ ducks if we stay put,” Hickok cautioned.
Blade wrenched the steering wheel to the left and pressed on the accelerator, intending to drive the transport into the shelter of the woods.
Even as he did, there was a puff of smoke and a brief burst of flame shot from under the helicopter in front of the SEAL.
“They’ve fired a rocket!” Geronimo exclaimed.
Forty feet from the SEAL a section of Highway 24 exploded, showering dirt, dust, and chunks of asphalt in all directions. The transport swayed but stayed on course, bouncing as it left the roadway and sped toward the nearest trees.
Blade pressed the toggle labeled with an S. He knew a panel in the roof above him was opening, and he felt the SEAL lurch as the heat-seeking, surface-to-air missile was launched.
“I can see it!” Hickok cried, his face pressed to the windshield.
Blade glanced to the right, and he was able to glimpse the glistening Stinger as the missile arced toward the helicopter to the east. The next moment he was forced to devote his full attention to driving. The SEAL
entered the forest, narrowly missing a towering oak tree. He skillfully manipulated the steering wheel, threading a path among the tree trunks, the transport flattening the underbrush in its path.
“One down!” Hickok exclaimed.
A resounding blast flared in the eastern sky, and a cloud of smoke and fire engulfed the second helicopter.
Blade slammed on the brakes and craned his neck. He could see the crumpled chopper, a gaping, ragged hole in its side, plummeting earthward, its rotor blades twisted, spewing black smoke. The helicopter crashed into the trees less than 300 yards off, and a column of fire and smoke erupted toward the heavens.