Blade fired first.
The pair with machine guns were both stitched across the chest, their bodies propelled backwards to collapse on the hall floor.
Blade pivoted and lowered the Commando barrel to bag the trigger man with the Marlin.
The mobster possessed incredible reflexes. He had dropped the Marlin and sprang toward the giant in a flying tackle as his two associates were mowed down.
Blade never got off a shot. He felt strong arms encircle his legs below the knees and he was knocked backwards, losing his balance and falling, landing hard on his back.
The mobster, a powerful man with dark hair and green eyes, wearing a gray suit, released the giant’s legs and lunged, grasping the Commando.
Blade tried to jerk the Commando free, and for several seconds the two men thrashed on the landing, wrestling for control of the gun.
The mobster broke the deadlock by kneeing the giant in the nuts.
A spasm of pain caused Blade to bend forward, his privates twinging, as the man in gray rolled to the left. He saw the mobster’s right hand vanish under the gray jacket and reappear holding a 14-inch survival knife. With a monumental effort, his teeth gritting, perspiration beading his forehead, Blade heaved to his feet.
Not expecting the giant to recover so quickly, the mobster had not immediately pressed his advantage. Now he crouched, the survival knife gleaming, his wary eyes on the Commando barrel which was pointing directly at him.
Blade took a deep breath, feeling his privates returning to normal. He noted the look of defiance in the mobster’s eyes, and he admired the man’s courage.
Several seconds elapsed.
Already perplexed by the giant’s hesitation in shooting, the mobster was positively stupefied when the giant unexpectedly placed the Commando on the landing and drew the right Bowie.
“Are you any good with that toothpick of yours?” Blade asked, baiting him.
For an answer, the mobster came in fast and low, swinging the survival knife in a glistening arc.
Blade blocked the blow with a swipe of his Bowie, the two knives clanging as they struck. He backpedaled to avoid another swing, his movements slightly awkward due to lingering discomfort in his groin.
The mobster, noticing, pressed his attack.
Blade parried and evaded a skillful series of feints and jabs. He allowed himself to be forced to the railing, letting the mobster’s confidence grow.
Overconfidence bred carelessness, an adage proven time and again.
Like now.
Believing he was the superior knifeman, the mobster tried to end the fray quickly by feinting a stab at the giant’s stomach, expecting the giant to counter by lowering the Bowie and leaving his neck exposed. So the mobster feinted, then arced his survival knife upward at the giant’s throat.
Only the giant wasn’t there.
Blade had lowered the Bowie to protect his stomach, but he had also shifted to the right at the same instant. As the mobster’s arm swept the survival knife up, leaving the trigger man’s midriff completely unprotected, Blade drove his Bowie into the man’s abdomen to the hilt, then twisted.
With a strangled wheeze, the mobster stiffened and started to sag.
His enormous arms bulging, Blade used both hands to slice the Bowie from the mobster’s stomach to the sternum. He yanked the Bowie out and stepped aside.
The mobster’s eyes were wide and unfocused. His intestines and organs were bulging through the abdominal wound. He tottered forward into the railing and clutched at the top rail for support, but he couldn’t seem to get a grip on it. Slowly, so slowly, he limply sagged over the top rail, his arms flailing weakly. With a pathetic whimper he pitched over the railing.
Blade wiped his Bowie on his pants and faced the stairs leading upward. He stopped and retrieved the Commando.
Geronimo was sitting on the step below the bend, the Browning in his lap, his legs drawn inward, staunching the flow of blood from his injured left thigh with a strip of cloth torn from his shirt. He grinned. “It’s nice to see you haven’t lost your touch.”
Blade dashed up the stairs. “Can you walk?”
“I can hobble,” Geronimo responded. “But I won’t be running any marathons for a while.”
“Maybe Helen can…” Blade began, then stopped, his eyes narrowing and searching the stairs above. “Where is Helen?”
Geronimo jerked his right thumb upward. “She went after Mindy.”
“What?”
“She took off for the third floor while you were using that mobster for carving practice,” Geronimo explained.
“Damn!” Blade snapped in annoyance. “She’s not supposed to make a move without any orders.”
“She’s a woman, isn’t she?” Geronimo remarked.
“What does that have to do with anything?” Blade demanded.
Geronimo chuckled. “How can you be married and ask such a ridiculous question?” he rejoined.
“We’ve got to go after her,” Blade stated. “Here. I’ll give you a hand.” He extended his right arm.
“No,” Geronimo said. “I’ll slow you down. Go on alone. I’ll wait here.”
“You’re coming with me,” Blade declared, “and that’s final!”
“Fine by me,” Geronimo agreed, taking Blade’s arm and rising. He stared at his friend for a moment, then grinned. “Has anyone ever told you that your cheeks twitch when you’re mad?”
CHAPTER TWENTY
“Don Giorgio!” Ozzi blurted out.
Don Giorgio entered the chamber, Sacks right behind him. The Don carried his Weaver Arms Nighthawk in his left hand. Sacks was armed with a pump shotgun.
Giorgio gazed at Ozzi’s face. “What the hell happened to you? You look like you lost a collision with a cement truck.”
Ozzi wagged his Bushmaster at the Warrior on the floor. “Hickok,” he said simply.
Giorgio frowned as he looked at the Warrior. “Is he dead?”
“No,” Ozzi said. “Just unconscious.”
“Then we’ll finish the son of a bitch off before we leave,” the Don stated.
He shifted his attention to Mindy. “I want her alive.”
“I want to waste her!” Ozzi protested.
“We need her alive,” Don Giorgio reiterated. “She’s our ticket out of here. Don Pucci’s men are in the casino. They’ll be here before too long.
We’re leaving while the leaving is good.”
“Where will we go, boss?” Sacks inquired.
“I have hideouts Pucci doesn’t know about,” Don Giorgio replied. “He hasn’t won yet! I’ll reorganize and throw everything I have at him.”
“Where can Kenney be?” Sacks asked.
“We’ll worry about him later,” Giorgio said. “Right now, I need to grab my papers from my safe. You two stay put.” He walked to a door on the left side of the chamber and went into the next room.
Ozzi glanced at Sacks. “I want the honor of snuffing the Warrior.”
Sacks shrugged. “Suit yourself. He means nothing to me.”
Mindy gazed from one hit man to the other. “You two are despicable!”
“Listen to who’s talking!” Ozzi retorted.
“I hope I’m around when Blade catches up with you,” Mindy taunted Ozzi. “I want to see the look on your face.”
“Shut up!” Ozzi barked.
Mindy’s loathing and resentment supplanted her caution. “Big, tough man, huh?”
“I said shut up!” Ozzi growled.
“We have babies at the Home who are more manly than you’ll ever be!” she mocked him.
Ozzi took a step toward her, scowling in fury. “Keep it up, bitch!”
“Ozz!” Sacks said. “The Don needs her alive.”
“But he didn’t say I couldn’t rearrange her face a bit,” Ozzi hissed. He jabbed the Bushmaster stock at her face.