“Look!” Samson cried, and pointed at Highway 54.
Blade almost missed the sight. He stopped yawning and stared ahead, and there was a young woman attired in jeans and a torn brown blouse dashing across the road from south to north, her long brunette hair flying.
He stuck his head out and yelled, “Hey! We won’t hurt you!” But she had already crossed the road and vanished in the forest.
“Do we go after her?” Samson inquired.
“One of us does,” Blade said as he applied the brakes. “Yama, go get her. We’ll wait for you. Don’t take long. I want to question her and take off right away for Green Bay.”
“Roger,” Yama responded, scooping up the Wilkinson from the seat.
The instant the SEAL stopped, he was out of the door and racing in pursuit of the woman. In seconds the undergrowth swallowed him up.
“Shouldn’t we go with him?” Samson asked.
“I don’t want to leave the SEAL unattended on the highway,” Blade replied. “Yama can handle her.”
The Nazarite studied the giant for a moment. “Very shrewd, if I do say so myself.”
“What are you talking about?”
“By letting Yama go after her alone, you’re demonstrating to him that you have confidence in his ability. And by giving him something to do, you’re helping him to get his mind off his problems,” Samson said. “I never quite realized how tactful you are.”
“I try.”
They waited expectantly for their silver-haired friend to return.
“I never got around to thanking you properly for bringing me on this mission,” Samson commented after a bit.
“You’re welcome.”
“Why me, Blade?”
“Haven’t you heard? I’ve implemented a new policy. I plan to take Warriors who don’t have extensive combat experience on more assignments in the future.”
Samson draped his left arm on the console. “I know about the policy you implemented after your return from Boston. But are you sure there wasn’t another reason you brought me along on this particular mission?”
Blade glanced at the Nazarite. He hadn’t bothered to tell Samson his ulterior motive because he had wanted to avoid possibly embarrassing Yama. And too, he’d never expected Samson to ascertain the truth. He had to remind himself that underneath all those bulging muscles was a mind as keen as his own. “There was another reason,” he confessed.
“I figured as much.”
“I was hoping you would help keep an eye on Yama.”
Samson stared at the point where Yama had entered the forest. “Why didn’t you come right out and tell me?”
“I should have. I apologize,” Blade said. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, his eyes glued to the forest. Yama should be returning soon, he told himself. He knew how fast Yama could move, and he doubted the woman they’d seen would be able to outdistance the fleet-footed Warrior. In just a few minutes Yama would be back with the woman in tow.
The time seemed to drag by.
“Maybe I should go look for him?” Samson proposed five minutes later.
“No.”
“What if he’s in trouble?”
“Yama can take care of himself. Besides, we’d hear gunfire if he ran into any serious opposition.”
“You hope.”
The corners of Blade’s mouth curved down and he scanned the woods for any movement. All he saw was a robin and a butterfly. His impatience mounted as the minutes ticked past. He wondered if he had made another mistake, and if he should drive the SEAL into the forest, camouflaging the transport with broken limbs and brush, then search for Yama. Engrossed in his deliberations, he didn’t hear the approaching vehicle until Samson suddenly poked him in the shoulder.
“Behind us!”
Blade turned, his gray eyes widening when he saw the four soldiers wearing dark green uniforms who were riding in a topless jeep. He recognized those distinctive uniforms instantly.
Technics!
Only 30 yards away and closing rapidly!
Chapter Eight
Yama raced through the forest with all the swiftness and stealth of a mountain lion, effortlessly vaulting obstacles in his path such as downed trees and small boulders. He ran around a thicket and glimpsed the woman far ahead, angling to the east. Her speed impressed him. She moved as someone who was accustomed to the terrain. He sped after her, his legs pumping.
The brunette came to the crest of a low rise and paused to look over her right shoulder. She spotted the man in blue and promptly plunged ahead.
Yama held the Wilkinson in his left hand. He could feel the scimitar swaying on his thigh. A pine tree loomed in front of him and he swung past it on the right. When he reached the rise, he stopped, getting his bearings.
Still fleeing with the surefootedness of a deer, the brunette was heading in the direction of several structures visible through the trees.
Yama sped after her. Those were the same buildings partly observable from the highway. He speculated that she might be making for her home, where she could elicit the aid of her family. The trees thinned the farther he went, and in a minute they gave way entirely to a wide field. Beyond the field were a farmhouse, a red barn, and a shed.
The woman had already covered three fourths of the distance.
Boy, could she ever move!
With a flat stretch in front of him, Yama went all out. Of all the Warriors, only Rikki-Tikki-Tavi, Blade and Spartacus— once—had ever bested him in a foot race. And had they been with him there, they would have been hard-pressed to match his lightning pace. With his arms and legs flying, he seemed to flow over the ground, and he quickly narrowed the brunette’s lead.
She came to the edge of the meticulously trimmed yard and looked at her pursuer again, then bolted for the three-story white farmhouse. To the north of the house stood the barn. The brown shed was situated between the two, only a dozen yards from the rear of the farmhouse.
No one else was in sight.
Yama gripped the Wilkinson with both hands and scrutinized the buildings carefully. He was approaching from the south-west, and the house, shed, and barn all fronted to the south. A gravel drive led from the farmhouse toward the highway.
The brunette ran to the front of the farmhouse and dashed inside.
Wary of being shot at from one of the windows, Yama slowed, his eyes flicking from pane to pane, the Wilkinson trained upward. He crossed the yard quickly, puzzled by the lack of activity in the house. If there were people living inside, surely one of them would challenge him. Or were they hiding, afraid he would slay them? He stayed far enough from the farm-house to keep every window on the side he approached within his field of view.
No one appeared.
The front door hung slightly open. He started toward it, then stopped abruptly when he spied the black form lying in the grass 15 yards to the east of the home. A hairy leg, resembling a bent stick, projected a foot and a half into the air.
A dog?
Yama cautiously advanced toward the form, his eyes narrowing when he saw the blood-spattered body clearly. The canine turned out to be a dead collie, its head transformed into a crimson pulp. Right away he remembered the dead horses, and he wondered if there might be a correlation. But why would anyone go around beating horses and dogs to death? And if the animals had been slain by whoever—or whatever—had killed those three people in the wagon, why were only the people torn apart?
A muffled crash sounded inside the farmhouse.
Pivoting, Yama darted to the entrance and kicked the door wide. He scanned a long hallway, then eased over the threshold with his back pressed firmly against the right-hand wall. There were three doorways on the right, two on the left, and he went from one to the other, searching the rooms he found: a living room, a dining room, a spacious kitchen in which a wood-burning stove squatted in the middle of the tiled floor, and a sewing room containing an antique sewing machine. When he opened the last door on the right, his finger caressing the Wilkinson’s trigger, he smiled at the sight of a narrow flight of stairs leading to the upper floors.