If the Hounds were there, they were well hidden.
Fingering the trigger of the M-10, Blade covered five yards. With his attention focused on the fender and the low structures, he missed the motion in a tree to his right.
But Hickok didn’t.
“It’s a trap!” the gunman bellowed, and the .50 boomed.
Blade dove for the asphalt, scuffing his elbows and knees in the process.
He looked to the right in time to behold the machine gun’s heavy slugs rip through the foliage of an oak tree. Leaves and limbs were torn to pieces, and surpassing the blasting of the .50 was the rising scream of a falling Hound.
The sniper slammed into the ground with a crunch, his M-16 clattering onto the road.
An engine roared to life, and the fender protruding past the second structure swept into view attached to a jeep filled with four Hounds. Three of them were armed with automatic rifles, and they cut loose at the half-track.
Blade pressed the M-10 to his right shoulder and fired, elevating the barrel to compensate for the range. He saw his rounds tear into the jeep’s grill, and the vehicle swerved as the driver briefly lost control.
The three Hounds shifted their weapons, aiming at the giant.
Blade rolled to the right, then rose to his knees, ejecting the spent magazine and inserting another. The main disadvantage to an M-10 was its high cyclic rate. At up to 1150 rounds per second, the M-10 could empty a 30-round magazine in one and a half seconds. Insuring every shot counted was imperative.
Again the jeep swerved, toward the Warrior.
His lips a compressed line. Blade raised the barrel and sent half a magazine into the jeep’s windshield.
Glass cracked and splintered, and the driver threw his arms in the air and slumped down. Unguided, the jeep veered sharply to the left. One of the Hounds in the rear tried to grip the wheel, his body sprawled over the top of the front seat and the dead driver, but his frantic lunge was for naught. The jeep careened into a tree with a tremendous crash, then flipped onto its side, spilling the Hounds. One man in black was flipped, headfirst, into a nearby trunk, his skull splitting with the ease of a rotten puffball. The other two landed intact, rising to a crouch and aiming at the giant.
Blade flattened both with a quick burst.
For a second there was lull, the only sound the hissing from the jeep’s ruptured radiator. And then all hell broke loose.
Three jeeps and a truck, a troop transport, hurtled from concealment behind the four low structures. The truck rumbled across the highway and halted, becoming a makeshift roadblock. Hounds jumped from the bed and fanned out, forming a skirmish line, as the three jeeps sped toward the half-track.
Blade knew he’d be cut to ribbons out in the open. He dashed to the right side of the road, firing the last of the rounds in his magazine, and darted for cover in the shelter of an oak. With a deft flip of his left hand he discarded the empty clip and slapped in another. He glanced at the halftrack, his eyes widening as the motorized behemoth was shifted into gear and driven forward.
Bonnie was driving!
He took a stride, seeing the bewildered expression on Hickok’s face.
There was no sign of Clyde and Chastity. Bonnie’s countenance was a mask of grim determination as she hunched over the steering wheel. He was about to try and intercept the half-track, but the ground at his feet suddenly sprayed over his boots and he was compelled to flatten against the oak.
The three jeeps were now abreast and closing on the halftrack at top speed, the Hounds shooting indiscriminately.
Blade could hear the metallic smacking of the rounds peppering the cab. He expected Bonnie to swerve to minimize the target she presented to the Hounds. Swerving would be the smart thing to do to save her skin.
Instead, Bonnie held the half-track on a straight course, and Blade realized she was holding the armored vehicle steady so Hickok could fire accurately.
And fire he did.
The .50-caliber machine gun raked the highway from left to right, its heavy slugs tearing into the three jeeps, causing one to explode in flames when the fuel tank was struck. Out of control, with all four Hounds in the vehicle ablaze, the stricken jeep angled into the path of the jeep occupying the middle of the highway. The collision spun the second jeep around, and three Hounds slammed onto the cracked asphalt. Out of commission, smoke billowing from its ruined engine, the second jeep drifted to a stop five yards from the first, which was now a crippled inferno.
Leaving the third and last jeep. The driver weaved back and forth, his three companions blasting away, and slanted to the edge of the highway, intending to pass the half-track on the driver’s side. His purpose was clear; he wanted to give his companions an unobstructed shot at Bonnie.
Blade sighted the M-10, but before he could squeeze the trigger an unexpected development turned the tide.
Clyde appeared at the half-track windshield, the bazooka on his right shoulder and pointed at the approaching jeep.
In order to avoid obliteration, the driver reacted instinctively, jerking the steering wheel and sending the jeep into a screeching skid. Thrown off balance, the three with automatic rifles clutched at anything for support.
They were unable to train their weapons on the half-track as the jeep swept past. The driver skillfully whipped the jeep in a tight U-turn for a second run.
Hickok had other ideas. He popped up at the tailgate, a Python in each hand, and the Colts boomed four times in rapid succession. With each shot a Hound toppled from the jeep—except for the driver, who stiffened, arched his back, and died.
Blade heard the grinding of gears and looked at the troop transport.
Some of the Hounds were clambering onto the bed as the driver endeavored to move the truck from the halftrack’s path. Other, braver Hounds were firing at the on-rushing colossus.
Hickok mowed the exposed Hounds down with a sweep of the .50, then pivoted and leveled the machine gun at the truck, punching holes in the cab and the canvas covering the bed. The transport driver thrashed and sank from view, and agonized shrieks of the dying arose from the bed. The gunman sent round after round into the truck, reducing the canvas to shreds, as the half-track braked. Only when the ammunition was exhausted did the gunfighter stop.
The half-track, its engine sputtering and coughing, was less than ten yards from the transport.
Hefting the M-10, Blade sprinted forward.
Hickok was surveying the carnage, insuring the Hounds were finished.
He looked at Blade as his friend drew near. “Where the blazes were you? Takin’ a leak?” So saying, he jumped to the ground.
Blade ignored the quip and stepped to the cab. “Is everyone all right?”he asked, pulling the passenger door open.
Clyde was leaning on the dash with his left hand and braced the bazooka with his right. His face was ashen, and he licked his lips as he gazed at the Warrior. “It wasn’t loaded,” he said weakly. “I was bluffing.”
“You did fine,” Blade said, complimenting him.
Beside Clyde, just scrambling up from the floor, was Chastity. “Where’s my daddy?” she inquired fearfully.
“Right here, princess,” said the gunman, moving closer to the seat.
Chastity climbed over Clyde’s lap and leaped into the gunman’s arms.
Blade stared at Bonnie. She was sagging on the steering wheel, sweat beading her forehead. “How about you?”
“I’m hunky-dory,” Bonnie replied in a caustic tone.
“Where’d you learn to drive?” Blade queried.
Bonnie looked at him. “We found an antique clunker once in drivable shape. It lasted about four months, as I recall. We siphoned gas from an underground tank at a run-down station. The gas smelled terrible and the car ran like sh—” She checked herself. “Crud. But we had fun tooling around. Genius, here, got the car running.” She nodded at her brother.