Giorgio walked up to the youth. “Open your eyes, punk!”
Ted’s eyes didn’t open. He trembled, breathing deeply.
Scowling, Giorgio hauled off and kicked the youth in the ribs.
Ted involuntarily cried out, tucking his right elbow against his side, his anguished brown eyes opening wide.
“That’s better,” Giorgio growled. He leaned down. “Listen up, punk, because I don’t want you to forget any of this. Are you listening?”
Ted nodded vigorously.
“Good,” Giorgio smirked. “When you see the Warriors, you tell them Anthony Pucci sends his regards. You got that?”
Tears rimming his eyes, Ted nodded.
“And I want you to give Blade a message,” Giorgio directed. “I want you tell Blade we’ll be waiting for him and the other Warriors. If Mindy’s mom, Helen, wants to see her daughter again, then the Warriors must come to Las Vegas. They have one month. That’s all. Just one month. If they don’t show up by then, we whack the girl. Got that?”
Ted gulped and nodded.
“Tell Blade the girl will be waiting for them at the Golden Crown Casino. Remember that name. The Golden Crown Casino. Think you can remember that?”
Ted nodded yet again, then uttered a single word, his voice strained, his features in torment. “Why?”
Giorgio straightened. “Wouldn’t you like to know,” he said, and kicked the youth on the chin.
Ted’s head snapped back, his teeth crunching together, and he went limp.
Someone snickered to Giorgio’s rear.
“That’s showing him, Boss!” Manzo said excitedly.
Giorgio turned.
Manzo stood three feet away, a Springfield Armory MIA rifle held loosely along his right side, idly gazing at the blood spurting from Ted’s ruptured kneecaps.
“Thanks for reminding me,” Giorgio said.
Manzo looked up. “About what?”
“This,” Giorgio stated, and shot Manzo in the stomach. He kept firing until all 25 rounds in the clip were expended, even after Manzo was down, and he grinned as he watched Manzo’s body flopping and convulsing as it was hit again and again and again.
Ozzi was laughing.
“A good button man should be seen and not heard,” Giorgio said, addressing the corpse contemptuously, then stalked to the jeep. “Let’s hit the road,” he announced. “We have a long ride ahead of us.”
“What about Manzo’s piece?” Ozzi asked.
“Leave it,” Giorgio barked. “We don’t need it.” He slid into the jeep and glanced back at Mindy. “My plan worked like a charm.”
Sacks took his seat behind the wheel. “I never doubted you for a minute, Boss,” he said.
Giorgio ran his eyes up and down Mindy’s attractive figure, then snickered. “Yes, sir! The trip back to Vegas is going to be a hell of a lot more interesting than the one coming out. Too bad Manzo won’t be around to get a piece of the action.” He cackled at his joke.
CHAPTER ONE
The giant stood on the rampart above the drawbridge situated in the center of the west wall of the Home and surveyed the cleared field beyond.
His massive arms were folded across his huge chest, his muscles, even at rest, bulging in stark relief. He was wearing a black leather vest, green fatigue pants, and black combat boots. Around his waist was strapped a matched set of Bowies, one big knife on each hip. A comma of dark hair dangled over his brooding gray eyes.
He was worried.
What was he supposed to do?
The strain of living a dual life was beginning to take its toll, not on him but his marriage. His wife was miserable, and he couldn’t bear to see her upset. Jenny and his son Gabe mattered more to him than anyone else in the world. He wanted to see them both happy, but Jenny could never be content with the status quo. And he couldn’t blame her for her attitude because he was the reason for it. Or rather, his job was.
His two jobs.
He hadn’t foreseen how difficult the task would be to juggle two positions at the same time. On the one hand, he was the head of the Warriors, pledged to safeguard the Family from any and all threats. And on the other hand, he was in charge of the Freedom Force, the elite tactical squad based in California. The Force, as it was known, had been the brainchild of the leaders of the Freedom Federation, the league of seven widespread factions devoted to preserving the fragments of civilization, to establishing order after 105 years of relative chaos. All thanks to the holocaust of World War Three.
Initially, he had moved Jenny and Gabe to California, to Los Angeles.
But Jenny hated the city life; After so many years of togetherness and tranquility at the Home, she found the hustle and bustle of one of the few remaining major metropolises to be a constant source of anxiety. She also didn’t like the fact he was seldom home, which essentially left her alone in a vast city of strangers.
The way he saw his problem, there were several choices. He could quit the Force or stop being the top Warrior, allowing him to spend more precious time with his wife and son. Or he could convince Jenny to return to the Home and continue his monthly trip to the compound, flying from LA to Minnesota on board one of the two VTOLs California possessed. The remarkable jets, with their vertical-take-off-and-landing capability, were utilized as a regular shuttle and courier service between the various Federation Factions. The aircraft were a godsend. What with the Family, the Clan, and the Moles in northern Minnesota, the Flathead Indians in Montana, the Cavalry in the Dakota Territory, the Civilized Zone in the Midwest, and the former state of California all comprising the Freedom Federation, they needed a means of traversing great distances rapidly and safely. Traveling overland between the factions was extremely dangerous; the barbaric Outlands were populated by savage bands of men and mutants.
So what should he…
There was a commotion on the rampart to his right, and he twisted to find another Warrior jogging toward him. The newcomer was a lanky man dressed in buckskins, with long blond hair and a sweeping blond mustache, keen blue eyes, and a pair of pearl-handled Colt Python revolvers snug in their respective holsters.
“Hey, pard!” the gunman called out.
“What is it?” the giant asked, lowering his arms.
“Take a gander, Blade,” the gunman directed, pointing to the west.
“What do you reckon that’s all about?”
Blade gazed westward. The Family diligently kept the fields surrounding their walled compound stripped of all vegetation for 150 yards to discourage any hostile attack. The 20-foot-high brick walls topped with sharp barbed wire afforded an excellent view of all approaches. No one could cross the fields without being seen. Just past the fields the dense forest began, unbroken for miles and miles except for the crude dirt road the Family and the Clan had constructed running from the Home to Highway 59.
And there on the road, barreling toward the Home at a reckless speed, stirring up a cloud of dust in the process, was an old flatbed truck.
Blade’s eyes narrowed. He recognized that truck. The Clan had received the vehicle in trade with the Civilized Zone. All seven Federation factions now engaged in periodic trade and barter sessions. The Family often traded vegetables, venison jerky, buckskin clothing sewn together by the Weavers, and other items for commodities the other factions owned in abundance.
“That hombre is going like a bat out of hell,” the gunfighter commented in his typical Western idiom.
“This could be trouble,” Blade mentioned.
“Do you want me to sound the alarm?” the gunman asked.
Blade reflected for a moment. Why should he arouse the Family and interrupt whatever the rest of the Warriors were doing without justification? The Warriors in Beta Triad were probably still sleeping; Rikki, Yama, and Teucer had been on wall duty during the night, and it was only midmorning. “No, Hickok,” Blade said. “We won’t get everybody all excited until we know what’s going on.”