“On the twenty-fifth floor.”
“Then that’s where we’re going,” Blade declared. He stopped suddenly, staring at the oval metal object clutched in the hand of a dead Russian officer.
“What is it?” Lyle asked nervously, his view obstructed by the giant’s body.
“Hand grenade,” Blade answered, and leaned down, rummaging through the officer’s pockets. He found two more grenades, and stuffed all three into his own pants. “Let’s go.”
They hastened into the elevator and the Warrior pressed the button for the 25th floor.
Lyle leaned against the rear wall as the car rose, grinning and shaking his head. “I just can’t believe this is really happening.”
“Believe it.”
“You have no idea of the hell I’ve been through. The commander here, a bastard by the name of Stoljarov, used electroshock torture to persuade me to teach the Soviets about the Hurricane.”
“I gathered as much.”
“I’ve been holding back,” Lyle said. “They don’t know as much as they think they do.”
“Can you fly the Hurricane?” Blade queried.
“No problem.”
“You may get your chance,” Blade said.
Without warning the elevator jerked to a sharp stop, nearly causing both men to lose their balance, and the lights went out.
“What’s happening?” Lyle asked.
Blade looked at the control panel, which was also unlit, and scowled.
“We’re stuck on about the tenth floor.”
“Why?”
“Three guesses,” Blade replied.
A booming voice addressed them from the other side of the door.
“Attention, you in the elevator! We have cut your power and demand your immediate surrender!”
“What do we do?” the pilot whispered.
Blade slung the Commando over his right arm and fished the grenades from his pockets. “Take one,” he directed, handing it over. “Don’t pull the pin until I give the word.”
“Did you hear me?” the voice outside barked.
“I heard you,” Blade responded.
“Then you will lay any weapons on the floor and raise your arms over your head. We will open the door at the count of three. If you have not complied, you will be shot.”
Blade leaned toward the captain. “They’ll need to restore the power to the elevator to open the door. Get set.”
“One!” the Russian called out gruffly.
“They don’t know there are two of us in here,” Blade mentioned. “Are they in for a surprise. Stand to the left of the door.”
“Two!”
Blade stepped to the right, inserting a finger into the circular ring of each grenade.
“Three!” the voice shouted.
“Now!” Blade whispered, and jerked both pins out.
The lights came on abruptly, and a second later the door started to slide open.
Blade knew the timing was critical. At the instant there was just enough space for the grenade to fit through the opening, he nodded at Lyle. They tossed their grenades into the corridor in unison, and Blade immediately stabbed the button for the 25th floor.
“Grenades!” someone in the hall screeched. “Grenades!”
Blade flattened against the side of the elevator, his eyes riveted to the door. Would it open all the way or swing shut? Would one of the Russians fire into the elevator, or were the troopers all too busy scrambling for cover? Would the elevator withstand the explosion, or would they be crushed to death or plummet to the bottom of the shaft? All of these thoughts raced through his mind, and then the door was closing again and the elevator started upward. If the grenades were typical, there would be a ten-second delay between the pulling of the pins and the detonation. At least five seconds had already elapsed, and he mentally ticked off the remaining five as the elevator rose rapidly, passing the 11th floor and almost reaching the 12th.
The blast was tremendous.
The elevator bounced and swayed as if it were being shaken by an invisible giant. Blade and Lyle Stuart were buffeted from side to side, smacking into the walls repeatedly, jouncing every which way. The elevator heaved and tilted, falling and rising, before finally stabilizing, coming to rest in an upright position with the lights still on.
Lyle was on his back in the right-hand corner. He gazed in wonder at the door and the lights. “We’re alive!” he breathed. “We’ve alive!”
But they weren’t moving.
Blade wound up near the rear, his hands against the wall. He stepped to the panel and punched the button for the 25th floor several times. “Come on!” he prompted. “Don’t fail us now!”
With a grinding lurch, the elevator resumed its ascent.
“We did it!” Lyle said, rising to his feet unsteadily.
Blade unslung the Commando and faced the door. “We’re not out of the woods yet.”
Chapter Twenty
Hickok could scarcely credit his own eyes.
The mutant surging out of the sewer was an enormous, repulsive, leechlike creature with glistening greenish-brown skin divided into segmented rings and a huge, disk-shaped maw. Slimy refuse sprayed in all directions as the mutant broke the surface and reared like a striking cobra.
“No!” Elmer cried, fear lending speed to his legs.
Hickok slowed, the right Python streaking from under his shirt. He snapped off three shots from the hip, and all three hit home, drilling into the mutant’s body. The booming of the Colt was deafening.
Stung by the slugs, the leech veered past the Warrior and bore down on the bum.
“Elmer!” Hickok yelled. “Look out!” He sprinted forward, attempting to reach Elmer’s side before the leech attacked.
The mutant got there first.
Elmer’s feet were pumping frantically when his right heel made contact with a wad of slippery sewage on the walkway and he fell, his arms swinging wildly, landing on his buttocks.
Hickok saw the leech angle down and in, its huge mouth fastening on Elmer’s face, choking off his strangled scream, the disk covering Elmer from his hairline to his chin.
“Try me!” Hickok cried, thumbing the hammer twice, each shot smacking into the center of the creature’s thick body.
Oblivious to its wounds, the leech whipped its body backward, dragging Elmer with it, his arms and legs thrashing, causing the lighter to flicker out and plunging the tunnel into dank darkness. The mutant’s inky bulk was barely visible as it dived into the sewage, its mouth gripping Elmer’s face with the power of a vise, hauling the flailing bum under the surface.
“Elmer!” Hickok shouted, taking several paces and halting, shocked by the sudden demise of his newfound friend. Except for a faint swishing, the tunnel was quiet. Goose bumps broke out all over his body as he gazed at the foul, black stream.
Dear Spirit!
Elmer was gone!
And the gunman realized he could well be next. Without the feeble light cast by the lighter, he was shrouded in gloom. If another leech should come after him, he’d have scant warning. And as it was, the Pythons were ineffective against the bloodsucking worms. He replaced the right Colt under his shirt.
There was only one thing to do.
Head for the hills.
So to speak.
Hickok hastened along the tunnel, staying as close to the wall as he could, straining his ears to hear the telltale swishing of the leeches.
How many yards before he reached the access tunnel?
The gunman frowned, thinking of Elmer, wishing he could have saved the poor man. He’d only known Elmer for a short while, but he’d grown to like the old-timer. His failure to protect his newfound companion distressed him terribly. As a Warrior, his whole life was devoted to safeguarding others, whether they belonged to the Family or not. Rarely had he let those he was protecting down, making Elmer’s death all the harder to take. The man had tried to help him, had saved him from the Russians, and he had flopped when Elmer needed him the most. There was no one else he could blame. The responsibility belonged to him.