Fabiana took a step toward her brother. “Gar! Don’t!”
“Butt out, sis!” Gar barked. “This doesn’t concern you.”
“The hell is doesn’t!” Fab retorted angrily. “He saved my life!”
“I saw it,” Gar said. “But it doesn’t change things.”
“It changes everything!” Fab snapped. “Can’t you see that?”
“I can see what’s happened to you,” Gar replied. “I can see you’re head over heels for this clown. So you don’t have a say in this, sis. This guy is going to Tiger, whether you like it or not.” He paused. “I’m sorry, but I’m doing this for the both of us.”
Seven of the Sharks approached, their weapons at hand.
“What’s it going to be, little man?” Gar demanded. “You can drop your sword or you can die. It’s up to you.”
Fab looked at the Warrior with tears in her eyes. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
Rikki shrugged and lowered the katana to the pavement. He removed the scabbard and placed it next to the sword, then stood.
“Now step away from the sword,” Gar directed.
Rikki moved several paces to the left.
Gar glanced at his sister. “You like this guy so much, I’ll let you carry his sword. But I’m warning you. If he gets his hands on it, no matter how much you like him, sister or no sister, I’ll blow him away. Understood?”
Fabiana nodded.
“Okay. Pick it up,” Gar said.
Fabiana bent down, set her shotgun on the ground, then slid the katana into the scabbard and straightened with the scabbard in her right hand and the shotgun in her left.
Gar spied a tall Shark nearby. “Simms! Find out how many we lost, how many are injured. We’ve got to get the hell out of here! Move your ass!”
Simms hastened off.
Fab hefted the scabbard, staring at the hilt of the sword. “Why?” she asked.
“Why what?” Gar replied innocently, scanning the bodies on the bridge.
“Why did you let me have the sword?” Fab inquired.
“Why not?” Gar rejoined.
“That’s not a reason,” Fab noted.
Gar shrugged. “What’s the difference who has it? We might be attacked again, and I wanted you to have it in case lover boy gets in trouble,” he said quietly, so only Fab and Rikki could hear.
“But you just said you’d shoot him if he lays his hands on it,” Fab stated.
Gar glanced at his sister. “You do what you’ve got to do,” he told her gravely, his tone implying an ulterior meaning. “I’ll do what I have to do.”
Fab gazed at Rikki, then at her brother. “You know what I’ll do if need be.”
Gar sighed. “I was afraid you’d say that.”
“You wouldn’t stop me?” Fab asked.
“You’re my sister,” Gar declared bluntly.
Rikki wasn’t certain he understood every nuance, but he believed he had acquired one, and possible two, newfound friends. “I thank both of you,” he said.
“For what?” Gar queried irritably.
“For being true to the Spirit within you,” Rikki said.
Gar looked at Rikki in amazement. “I don’t know what you’re babbling about.”
“I thank you anyway,” Rikki reiterated.
“Don’t thank us!” Gar snapped. “You haven’t met Tiger yet. And you may not be so grateful after you’ve met him.”
“Why not?” Rikki inquired.
Gar stared into the Warrior’s eyes. “Because you might be dead.”
Chapter Fourteen
What was that awful smell?
Hickok opened his eyes, and for several seconds he wondered if he was alive or dead. Everything was black. There wasn’t a glimmer of light anywhere.
So he couldn’t be dead.
Hickok shifted his eyes to the right and the left. The Elders had always claimed that those who experienced the translation of death, those who passed on to the higher mansions, were always aware of a light upon awakening. Since he couldn’t see a light, he was alive.
But where was he?
Hickok took stock. He was on his back, lying on a hard surface. A rank, fishy odor assaulted his nostrils. His chest ached and his buckskins were damp. Worst of all, his Pythons were gone! He ran his hands over his soggy clothing, checking his holsters, his belt, and the floor in his immedicate vicinity, but the Colts were definitely gone.
Some low-down varmint was going to pay!
There was a protracted moan from his left.
Hickok twisted onto his left side, probing the darkness. He reached out with his right arm and his hand brushed against soft fabric. His fingers traced the outline of a peculiar, pliant mound under the material, a mound with a rounded tip in the center. He…
Mound?
Rounded tip?
Like someone who had just touched a scorching coal, the gunman retracted his hand.
But not in time.
“Is that you, Hickok?” a feminine voice demanded.
Hickok balked at responding, embarrassed to his core.
“It’d better be you!” the voice declared. “Or I’m in deep shit!”
“It’s me,” Hickok admitted.
“I knew it!” Hedy exclaimed. “I knew you were the type to cop a feel the first chance you got!”
“But I wasn’t—” Hickok began, trying to defend his action.
“Pervert!” Hedy snapped indignantly.
Why bother? Hickok asked himself. She’d never believe him.
“At least you didn’t grope me downstairs,” Hedy was saying.
Hickok sighed. If there was any one lesson he’d learned during his marriage, it was this: never argue with a woman. A man will lose every time.
“What are you? A tit man?” Hedy queried sarcastically.
“Watch your mouth!” Hickok warned her.
Hedy made a sputtering sound. “What a hypocrite! Mr. Roaming Hands wants me to watch my mouth!”
“I didn’t mean to touch you there,” Hickok said.
“Oh, sure!” Hedy snickered.
“I didn’t,” Hickok insisted. “It was an accident. As soon as I realized what I was doing, I stopped. I didn’t mean to touch your… you know.”
There was a moment of silence.
“Why?” Hedy asked. “What’s wrong with my boobs? Aren’t they big enough for you?”
When would he ever learn? Hickok shook his head and sat up. He could distinguish Hedy doing the same.
“Where the hell are we?” Hedy inquired.
“I don’t know,” Hickok replied.
“Wait!” Hedy cried. “Do you smell it?”
“The fishy odor?” Hickok responded.
“Yeah. I know where we’re at!” Hedy stated, her voice rising in fear.
“Oh, God!”
“Where are we?” Hickok wanted to know.
A wooden door in front of them was abruptly yanked wide and light flooded over them.
“I can answer your question,” asserted someone in a raspy, sibilant tone.
Hickok shielded his eyes with his right hand, blinking rapidly in an effort to adjust to the bright glare.
There was an intake of breath from Hedy.
Hickok squinted upward, distinguishing details, his mouth slackening at the figure he beheld.
“So you are Hickok?” the figure asked, smirking. “I see you’ve accepted my invitation.”
“Manta!” Hickok blurted out.
“Of course,” the mutant replied.
Hickok did a double take. He’d seen a lot of mutants during his lifetime, but nothing like this one!
Manta was a hybrid of humanoid and aquatic features. He stood about six feet four and was broad through the shoulders, trim at the waist, and possessed stocky, powerful legs. And that was the extent of his human aspects. His entire body was covered with greenish scales, even his hands and feet, both of which were webbed. Long nails tapered from his fingers.