Gabe took hold of his father’s brawny hand. “It sure is nice having you at the Home. I missed you when you were away all the time.”
The corners of Blade’s mouth curled downward, and he sighed and stared at the azure sky. He felt the same way. The past five and a half months had been the happiest he’d experienced in years. Being able to spend precious days with his wife and son had rejuvenated him, had improved his disposition 100 percent. He wasn’t susceptible to as many bouts of temperamental moodiness. Life held meaning again. The seemingly endless cycle of taking on one enemy after another, of battling each and every threat to the Family and the Federation, had been broken.
Except for the fight against the Union the previous month, he’d savored five and a half months of relative peace and tranquility. And he didn’t want the idyllic interlude to end.
Was it only January of last year that he became the head of the Freedom Force? he asked himself. So much had happened since then—so many close friends had lost their lives. Friends who had relied upon him, upon his judgment and ability. What sort of insanity had induced him to try and hold down two posts entailing supremely critical responsibilities simultaneously? He must be an idiot. Unbidden memories flooded his mind.
He owed his first post to the wealthy survivalist who had founded the 30-acre compound in northwestern Minnesota prior to World War Three.
Kurt Carpenter had expended millions of dollars to have the retreat constructed to his specifications. A 20-foot-high brick wall afforded the first line of defense against the bands of scavengers and raiders who roamed the land, pillaging and slaying at will. Barbed wire crowned the wall, and an inner moat flowing along the base of all four sections served as yet another fortification as well as supplying the water for Carpenter’s descendants. The Founder, as Carpenter became known, had dubbed his compound the Home and named his followers the Family.
In a world deranged by a cataclysm of unprecedented proportions, the Home was an oasis of sanity. In a land where civilization had regressed to the level of barbarism prevalent in the Dark Ages, the Family exalted the highest ideals of spiritual brotherhood. Encompassed as they were by hostile elements, the Family would soon perish were it not for the special, elite class of diligently trained men and women whose primary duty was to safeguard the Home and protect the Family, a class known far and wide as the Warriors. Time and again the Warriors had eliminated threats to the Family’s welfare, and in the process the 18 members of the unique fighting group had acquired a respected reputation as formidable adversaries.
The Family had encountered other organized factions devoted to preserving some semblance of prewar culture. Two of the factions were also located in northern Minnesota: the Clan to the west of the Home and the Moles to the east. In the Dakota Territory dwelt the rugged horsemen known as the Cavalry. In Montana the Flathead Indians ruled. A large section of the Midwest was now called the Civilized Zone. And on the West Coast the Free State of California was one of the few states to retain its administrative integrity after the war. Together these seven factions formed a mutual-defense league designated the Freedom Federation.
Naturally, when the leaders of the Federation had decided to form a strike force to deal with any and all menaces, they’d asked Blade to head their brainchild, the Freedom Force.
Which posed a major problem.
Because Blade was already the head of the Warriors.
He chided himself for stupidly agreeing to perform both jobs when his intuition had warned him that he might be biting off more than he could chew. For almost a year he’d commuted between the Home and the Freedom Force facility situated near Los Angeles. For almost a year he’d been lucky to spend more than a week out of each month with his wife and son. For almost a year he’d pushed himself to the limit, ranging from Florida all the way to Alaska on missions against Family or Federation foes.
The toll on his personal life had been devastating. His wife had pleaded with him to devote more time to his family. Both Jenny and Gabe had felt neglected, and they had been profoundly upset by his prolonged absences.
The strain on his emotional state had grown with each assignment.
Finally, after battling a marauding band of pirates in Canada, and after three members of the Force had died, he’d decided to disband the Freedom Force for a year so he could remain at the Home and give every spare moment to his wife and son. Unless an emergency arose, he didn’t want to be bothered by the Federation leadership.
That had occurred six months ago. The Federation had managed to get by without calling on his services once, and he hoped six more months would elapse before they would call on him again.
Blade squeezed his son’s hand and smiled. “You don’t have to worry. I have no intention of leaving again for quite a while.”
“Mommy has been happier with you home,” Gabe mentioned.
“I know,” Blade said, thinking of the many tender moments Jenny and he had shared during the past six months, more than in the four years before combined.
“Mommy says you may go to California again,” Gabe said, his tone reflecting his anxiety at the prospect.
“Six months from now I may have to go,” Blade said. “But we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”
“I hope you don’t,” Gabe said.
“You and me both,” Blade said.
“I hope you stay too,” Geronimo chimed in.
“Why’s that?” Blade asked over his left shoulder.
“Because Hickok is in charge of the Warriors when you’re away from the Home, and having him in charge is like playing Simon Says with a simpleton,” Geronimo said.
“Says who?” the gunfighter demanded.
“Practically everybody.”
Blade grinned. “Don’t you worry either,” he said to Geronimo. “I’m not going anywhere anytime soon.”
Hickok started to speak, but before he could utter a syllable the very ground seemed to quake as, with a deafening, thundering roar, a gleaming silver jet streaked in low over the Home, flying at treetop level, swooping directly over the gunfighter and his friends.
“It’s one of the Federation Hurricanes!” Ringo cried.
Blade watched the aircraft arc into the blue sky with a sinking sensation in his stomach.
Chapter Three
She stood outside the cabin doorway, her green eyes on the Hurricane circling above the Home, absently brushing at her blonde bangs with her right hand, worry etched in her features. In her left hand she clutched the white towel she had been using to wipe the dishes. A yellow blouse and blue pants hugged her shapely form.
“Mommy! A Hurricane!” came a yell from her right.
Struggling to compose herself, she turned, facing her husband and son, forcing a smile. “It certainly is,” she said enthusiastically.
“Can we go up for a ride?”
“Not today, Gabe,” she told him.
“Awwww, Mom. Why not?” Gabe asked, hurrying the last ten yards to the cabin.
“Someone must be here on official business,” she explained. “They probably won’t have the time to take us up.”
“We could ask,” Gabe suggested.
“You heard your mother,” Blade said, halting three feet away and gazing at the craft.
“But Dad—” Gabe began.
“Don’t argue,” Blade said. He stared into his wife’s eyes, reading the anguish they conveyed, and glanced over his right shoulder. Hickok, Ringo, Geronimo, and Cochise were angling to the south, heading for their respective cabins.
“Hey, Jenny!” Geronimo called, and waved.
“Hi,” Jenny said, acknowledging the greeting, her eyes locked on her husband.
“Go inside and wash your hands for lunch,” Blade instructed his son.