He felt the short hairs at the nape of his neck tingle, and he wondered if one of the bikers on the side of the road would shoot him before he could whirl to confront them. He saw two scavengers hurled to the asphalt, their torsos perforated and gushing crimson, then three, four, five of them were dead or dying, leaving a tall biker who was taking a bead on his chest with a rifle. Blade started to throw himself to the left, knowing the man would fire before he could leap out of the way.
Several rounds suddenly bored into the scavenger’s forehead and catapulted him backwards.
Blade spun, crouching as he did, sweeping the Commando at the nine bikers to the left of the highway, but someone had already beaten him to them.
Samson had both his steely arms sticking out of the window on the driver’s side, and in each malletlike hand he held a Bushmaster Auto Pistol. At a range of ten yards he had emptied both 30-shot magazines into the scavengers on his side of the road. Two of them had managed to get off wild shots that struck the SEAL and ricocheted off. Now six of the nine were prone on the ground, their motorcycles lying beside them or under them, while two others had fallen to their knees and were aiming at the Nazarite.
Blade disposed of the duo with a short burst, then scanned the field for the last of the nine. Twenty yards to the north, and rapidly gaining speed, was a wounded biker who weaved unsteadily, struggling to control the handlebars on his machine. Blade took three quick, long strides, pressed the stock to his right shoulder, and stitched a straight pattern of red dots down the middle of the scavenger’s back.
The biker flung his arms wide and toppled from his cycle, which continued to wobble for a good ten yards before it crashed onto its side.
Blade pivoted, anxious about the four bikers on the right side of the highway. Two of the four were sprawled on the grass, and the remaining pair were fleeing for their lives, their engines revved to the maximum, racing to the south.
Yama materialized at the edge of Highway 46, the Wilkinson slung over his left shoulder. He drew the Smith and Wesson and clasped the gun in his right hand while bracing his wrist with his left. Exercising deliberate care, he sighted on the lead biker and fired. The gun boomed, and 30 yards away the scavenger tumbled to the turf, flipping off the back of his bike and landing on his head. His cycle veered toward the last biker, causing the man to angle sharply to the right. Yama aimed and slowly squeezed the trigger, and he displayed no emotion when his shot caught the man between the shoulder blades. Both the biker and the bike fell over.
Blade surveyed the carnage, verifying that all of the scavengers were out of commission. Some were groaning or whining pitiably, but none were in any condition to continue the fight. He walked over to Yama and motioned at the slain leader. “What the hell did you think you were doing?”
“Eliminating the enemy before they could eliminate us,” Yama responded stiffly. He began to reload the Smith and Wesson.
“I didn’t give the signal to open fire,” Blade said angrily.
“I jumped the gun.”
“You’re damn right you did. And do you know why?”
Yama studiously avoided his friend’s gaze. He palmed a spent cartridge and shrugged. “I felt it was necessary.”
“And I feel it’s necessary to put you on report. If you don’t shape up, you’ll find yourself in front of a Review Board when we return to the Home.”
Yama looked down at the ground.
“I want you to check each and every biker. Put every one who isn’t dead out of his misery,” Blade ordered.
“Right away,” Yama said softly, and walked off.
Blade sighed and moved toward the SEAL, annoyed at himself. He’d brought Yama along against his better judgment, and he shouldn’t have.
He knew how devastated Yama had been after her death. So how could he blame the man for doing what he would have done under the same circumstances?
Samson stepped into view next to the right front tire, holding his Bushmaster Auto Rifle, his features downcast.
“Did you see what happened?” Blade asked.
“I saw.”
“We were lucky the scavengers were sloppy. Yama’s blunder would have cost us dearly if they’d been real pros. So cheer up. It could have been a lot worse.”
“It is,” Samson said.
“What?” Blade responded, and from the look in Samson’s eyes he immediately perceived the Nazarite’s meaning. “Oh, no.”
“I’m afraid so,” Samson stated.
Blade hurried to the window on the passenger side and peered inside, sadness overcoming him. He slapped the SEAL in frustration.
A bullet had struck Andrew Wolski on the bridge of the nose and drilled through his cranium, splattering blood and brains over the console and the dash. He lay on his back on the console, his lifeless eyes fixed on the roof, his mouth hanging slack and his tongue protruding.
Dear Spirit, no!
Blade closed his eyes and bowed his head. Not him! The farmer had gone to so much effort to locate the Family, to secure aid for his wife and daughter, and now Andy would never see them again in this life. He heard footsteps and glanced up.
“He didn’t duck as you told him to do,” Samson said, coming to the window. “He tried to fight and shot one of them. Then he got hit.”
“We’ll have to bury him here,” Blade stated. “I’m not about to leave his body for the buzzards and the mutants. He deserves a proper burial.”
Scowling, he slung the Commando over his left arm.
Samson nodded, then reached up and rubbed his right hand on his neck. When he removed the hand, blood streaked his fingers.
“You were hit too,” Blade declared. He bent closer and examined the Nazarite’s neck. A bullet had carved a fine groove, just breaking the skin, and a trickle of blood seeped from the torn flesh.
“It’s just a scratch,” Samson responded. “The shot that killed Andy went clear through him and struck me. If I’d been several more inches to the right, I’d be lying in there with him.”
“Get the first-aid kit and I’ll clean it for you,” Blade offered.
“I’m fine. Really.”
“What is this? Doesn’t anyone here know how to listen? Go get the damn first-aid kit.”
“Yes, sir,” Samson replied, and extended his right arm to grab the door handle. He hesitated, realizing he would have to crawl over Andrew to reach the storage section, then headed for the other side. “Be back in a jiffy.”
Blade heard the burp of Yama’s Wilkinson. He walked to the front of the transport and watched the man in blue finish off the scavengers. What now? he asked himself. Should they turn around and return to the Home?
Did Wolski’s death have any bearing on their mission? No, he decided.
Even though rescuing Sandra and Nadine had been Andrew’s overriding concern, and even though Blade would do everything in his power to locate and save them, of more critical consequence to the Family were the Technic activities in Green Bay. If the Technics were up to their usual dirty tricks, they had to be stopped. Proceeding with the mission was imperative.
Which left him with the problem of what to do about Yama.
Blade observed the man in blue walk over to a prone scavenger who had a half-dozen bullet holes in his back, but who was still alive, moaning and sobbing. Yama placed the Wilkinson barrel against the base of the biker’s skull and fired. The scavenger convulsed for a few seconds, then lay still.
With methodical precision, Yama continued on his circuit.
What a shame.
Blade had always rated the man in blue as one of the best Warriors and considered Yama to be extremely dependable. But after the death of the Technic woman, Yama had changed. Not outwardly, not in any obvious manner, but to his close friends the change had been noticeable, a slight lessening of his zest for life. Where before Yama had thrown himself into his craft with a fiery passion, after Alicia Farrow’s death he had seemed to lose some of his emotional zeal. He went through all the motions, practiced as diligently as ever, but some of his inner spark had burned out.