And the Soviets.
Elmer would still be alive if not for the Russian superweapon. Without the development of the L.R.F., the Warriors would not have traveled to Cincinnati, and Elmer would not have offered to help.
Yes, sir.
Any way Hickok considered the circumstances, the ultimate blame had to be shared with the Commies, and the longer he dwelled on Elmer’s horrid end, the angrier he became. He covered 30 yards immersed in cogitation.
What was that?
Hickok drew up short as an indistinct swishing sounded from the rear.
He looked back, the hair at the nape of his neck prickling.
Another leech!
Or maybe the same mutant returning for a second helping!
The gunman turned and raced recklessly on the cement. Never again would he wear someone else’s footwear! The boots he’d taken from one of the dead troopers fit too tightly, cramping his feet, slowing him down. He could hear the swishing growing louder, and he sensed the leech was after him. His eyes detected a break in the tunnel ahead, a lighter shading near the top, and he ran for all he was worth.
The swishing seemed to be right on his heels.
Hickok reached the patch of feeble light and glanced up, perceiving the outline of a manhole cover and the metal rungs leading upward. There was a hiss almost in his ear, and he leaped into the air, his outstretched fingers catching on a rung as something nipped at his right foot. He banged against the side, then climbed quickly, applying his right shoulder to the lid and heaving. The cover slid partially aside, and he grabbed the edge with his right hand and shoved.
There was a commotion in the sewer below.
The gunman clambered from the hole and rolled to the right, and he heard a heavy body slap the rim and then a loud splash. Inhaling the fresh air deep into his lungs, Hickok rose to his knees, finding himself in the middle of a deserted, narrow side street.
He’d made it!
But his relief was fleeting. The gunman stood and proceeded to load the spent chambers in his right Python.
So much for the leeches.
Now he had a score to settle with the Russians.
But wasn’t that the way it always was? There were always scores to settle. A death for a death. Tit for tat. And there were always those innocents who wound up caught in the crossfire.
The thought gave him pause.
Chapter Twenty-one
The Butcher reached out and patted the top of the laser. “Perhaps I should start with one of your ears,” he said, and grinned.
Geronimo looked at the small hole through which the laser beam would be fired, and tensed. The two soldiers had his stocky body bent at the waist, with his shoulders and head above the tabletop. His arms were twisted up and back, and his sockets ached terribly.
“Move his head to the left,” General Stoljarov ordered.
The tall trooper gripped Geronimo’s chin in his right hand and pushed, but Geronimo jerked his head away.
“Not like that, imbecile!” the Butcher snapped. “Move his entire body.”
By increasing the pressure on his arms to compel compliance, the soldiers sidled their captive to the left.
“Now hold his head steady,” Stoljarov instructed.
Again the tall trooper grasped the Warrior’s chin.
General Stoljarov leaned down, gauging the alignment, and motioned at the tall guard. “Your body is too close to his ear. You’re in my line of fire.”
The trooper stepped back, arching his spine to ensure his abdomen was out of the beam’s projected path.
“So what will it be?” the Butcher asked Geronimo. “Will you sketch the complete layout of the Home for me?”
“Give me a pencil—” Geronimo said.
General Stoljarov smiled in triumph.
“—and I’ll shove it up your ass,” Geronimo finished.
The Butcher frowned, his eyes narrowing. “Very well. You have brought this on yourself. I’ve heard many stories about how brave the Warriors are supposed to be. Now let’s put your bravery to the test.” He adjusted the dials, then smirked. “This will hurt you more than it will me.”
Geronimo focused on the second dial, the one the Butcher would turn to activate the laser. He must make his move the moment before the dial was rotated. His best hope lay in grabbing the AK-47 propped against the right side of the table, and first he had to break free of the guards. The trooper on the left stood in a firm stance and would be difficult to dislodge, hut the tall soldier on the right was standing awkwardly.
Geronimo tensed his legs, his eyes on the laser.
“After I burn a hole in your ear, I think I’ll work on your forehead,” General Stoljarov said.
Geronimo said nothing.
“Have you ever smelled burning flesh?” the Butcher asked, and touched the second dial.
Concentrate on those fingers! Geronimo told himself. He saw the fingertips grip the dial and start to turn, and he threw himself to the left, against the shorter trooper, while yanking his right arm downward, feeling as if he tore every muscle in his arm. The unexpected tactic took the tall guard by surprise and he was pulled off balance, directly in line with the laser at the distant the red beam flared.
The tall soldier uttered a petrified shriek as the beam seared into his groin, flaming through his pants and underwear and scorching his gonads. He released Geronimo and stumbled backwards, automatically lowering his hands over his genitals, and cried out when the laser burned off two of his fingers.
Geronimo wrenched his right arm loose and pivoted, driving his fist into the short guard’s stomach, then extended his right thumb and spiked it straight up, burying the digit in the fleshy folds of the man’s throat. The hold on his left arm slackened, and he dove for the floor, tearing his left arm from the trooper’s grasp, and scrambled to the right side of the table.
He surged erect, his hands closing on the AK-47 and sweeping the gun to his right shoulder.
The tall Russian was staring down at himself in terror as the laser penetrated his body, while the short soldier gurgled and wheezed, his features livid. Only the Butcher saw the Warrior grab the weapon, and he reacted by taking hold of the laser and attempting to swivel the device at the Indian.
Geronimo shot Stoljarov first, smiling as he squeezed the trigger, seeing the Butcher’s head dissolve into chunks and pieces of flesh and hair. He spun, the next rounds slamming into the short soldier’s chest and flinging him against the wall.
Bubbling blood out his mouth, the tall Russian was sinking slowly to the floor, the red beam slicing his torso up the center, splitting him in half.
Shooting him would be a waste of ammunition, Geronimo decided, and ran for the door, skirting the dying soldier. He entered the Control Room, heading for the elevator, and shot a pair of technicians on a console to his right, then a third man in red seated at a computer to his left.
“Look out!” a woman yelled.
“Get down!” bellowed another.
Geronimo advanced toward the elevator, shooting any technicians foolish enough to show themselves, and when he was within ten yards of the elevator door he began firing at the equipment, reducing a bank of complicated instruments and panels to smoldering, sparking ruins.
“No! Don’t!”
Geronimo stopped, staring at the skinny man with the wire-rimmed glasses coming toward him down an aisle on the right.
“You don’t realize what you’re doing!” Leonid Grineva declared. “This is a work of a lifetime!”