“Come on.”
“What’s your plan?” Ferret inquired, complying.
“We’ll play it by ear.”
“That’s a terrific plan,” Ferret snapped. “Alexander the Great would be proud of you.”
“Do you have a better idea?” Blade asked. He vaulted a log in his path and bore to the south.
“Yeah. We should have gone after Lynx.”
“How? They had us cut off.”
“We could have mowed the bastards down,” Ferret proposed.
“Or they might have mowed us down,” Blade countered. “We can’t help Lynx if we’re dead.”
“Good point, yes,” Gremlin said.
Blade moved rapidly, repeatedly looking to their rear to check for signs of pursuit. His mind whirled with dozens of questions. Who were those guys in black? Why had those men attacked without warning? What connection did they have with the party who had sent the plea for aid?
Were they the reason the message had been sent?
“Does this happen on all your missions?” Ferret inquired.
“What?”
“Does everything usually go wrong right off the bat? I mean, we’re not here an hour and we’ve got some jerks we don’t even know trying to riddle us with holes.”
The Warrior went around a thicket and started up a low knoll. “Yeah,” he said, staring behind them yet again. “You’ve heard of Murphy’s Law, I take it?”
“Who hasn’t?”
“I bet you didn’t know that Murphy is my second cousin.”
Ferret grinned. “No, I didn’t. That explains a lot.”
“Excuse Gremlin, yes?” the humanoid interjected. “Gremlin thought Murphy is make-believe, no?”
“He is,” Blade said.
“Then how—?” Gremlin began, and fell silent when a loud whistle sounded from 20 or 30 yards to the north.
Blade reached the crest of the knoll and halted. He squatted in the cover of a verdant bush and scanned their back trail. The hybrids did likewise, one on either side.
“I can hear them,” Ferret disclosed.
“Gremlin too, yes!” Gremlin staled.
“They’re well north of us and heading in the wrong direction,” Ferret detailed, his head cocked to the right as he listened intently.
“Dumbbells, no?” Gremlin commented, and snickered.
“There must be dozens of them,” Blade said, calculating the odds and planning their strategy. “We need to know who they are and why they’re trying to kill us.”
Ferret smiled in anticipation. “We capture one?”
“We capture one,” Blade confirmed. “You two lead the way. Your hearing is superior to mine. If we can snatch a straggler, we’ll persuade him to give us information.”
“What if he doesn’t want to cooperate, yes?” Gremlin asked.
Blade’s voice became hard, almost raspy. “He’ll cooperate.”
“Let’s get cracking,” Ferret suggested. “For all we know Lynx could be in their hands by now.”
“Lynx never let himself be captured, no,” Gremlin averred.
“He let himself be captured by the Doktor, didn’t he?” Ferret responded.
“Yes,” Gremlin acknowledged.
“And he got himself caught by the Superiors, didn’t he?”
Gremlin gazed to the north. “Let’s get cracking, yes?”
Blade let the others advance several yards before he fell in. He reflected on Gremlin’s peculiar mode of speech, a consequence of operations the Doktor had performed on the humanoid’s brain. The sagacious Family leader, Plato, believed the Doktor had been conducting experiments on the area of the brain called the cerebral cortex, the part concerned with such complex mental processes as speech and thought. Somehow, the Doktor’s tampering had altered Gremlin’s ability to use proper syntax in his verbal communications. Periodically the condition went into a degree of remission and Gremlin would speak in an almost-normal manner. At other times, and for no apparent reason whatsoever, Gremlin’s speech would deteriorate dramatically.
Ferret led them to the northwest at a cautious pace, his short, wiry body navigating the rough terrain with deceptive ease, a fluidity of motion only Lynx or another bestial hybrid could hope to match.
Gremlin, while able to proceed with consummate stealth, lacked the acrobatic finesse of his diminutive friend.
Compared to them, and even with years of experience under his belt, Blade felt like a novice in the art of silent stalking. He’d never admit as much to them, and he resolved to improve until he was their virtual equal.
The forest presented a dense web of luxuriant vegetation of every type and description. Insects buzzed and flitted from plant to plant. The earlier gunfire had caused the wildlife to fall collectively silent, and the quietude of the birds and larger animals lent an eerie, somber quality to the landscape.
Blade used the opportunity to replace the partially expended magazine in the Thompson with a full one. The 30-round detachable box-type magazines were easy to eject and insert, and he drove the fresh one home with a forceful slap. The rugged performance of the Thompson had impressed him so far. Perhaps, if the gun continued to live up to its prewar reputation, he would consider using it on other missions. He liked the heavily ribbed barrel and the wooden buttstock. To an average man the submachine gun might be a bit heavy; to someone of his massive size the Thompson had the weight of a toy.
Several oak trees appeared 50 feet ahead of them. Ferret suddenly flattened and motioned for them to do the same.
Blade dropped and saw the reason.
A thin black man, garbed in the dapper black uniform, stepped into sight from behind one of the trees and surveyed his surroundings. He clutched an Ingram MAC10 submachine gun fitted with a two-position shoulder piece and a webstrap.
The Warrior trained the Thompson on the man, just in case they were spotted. But his concern proved unfounded as the man in black rotated to the north and stood there studying the woods. Why did they wear those mirrored sunglasses? Blade mused. To conceal their eyes so an enemy would never know in which direction they were actually looking? If so, whoever they worked for must be very clever.
Ferret laid his AR-15 down and gestured at Gremlin, and together they crawled toward the man in black.
Blade could do nothing but wait. He admired the skill the pair displayed, a testimony to the fact they had been created to function as perfect assassins. He scrutinized the trees on all sides, puzzled by the presence of just one foe. Where were the rest? Were there other men stationed at regular intervals?
The black man coughed lightly and cradled the MAC 10 under his right arm. He stretched, arching his back, and turned in a complete circle.
The hybrids froze in unison, their bodies flush with the ground, blending in with the grass and brush.
Evidently satisfied that he wasn’t in any danger, the man leaned against a trunk and stared idly to the west. He yawned and shook his head vigorously.
Blade noted the last act with interest. Had the ambushers been awake for an extended period, waiting for someone in particular, or had they been there waiting to see if anyone would show up in response to the distress call? The trap had been thorough, and probably Lynx heading east along the trail had caused them to close in prematurely.
Ferret and Gremlin were within 30 feet of the trees.
The Warrior felt a twinge of pain in his left side. Some months back he had been shot and sustained a terrible wound, and any strenuous exertion still aggravated it. The discomfort made him think of his precious Jenny.
She had extracted the bullet herself, doing a superb job even though she had to improvise and use a screwdriver for a probe. In another four or five months he should be as good as new.
Thinking about the wound also brought to mind all the other injuries he had sustained since becoming a Warrior. At the rate he was going, what with all the bullet holes, cut and slash marks, teeth and claw imprints, and sundry other scars, he’d be lucky to have a square inch of unmarred skin by the time he retired from the Warrior ranks. If he lived that long.