“Some do. Some don’t.”
“Why do the Helots tolerate being inferior citizens? There are close to three thousand of them, you said, and only nine hundred Spartans. Why don’t the Helots demand better treatment or rise in revolt?”
Erica snickered. “You don’t know the Spartans very well, do you?”
“I’ve never met them,” Blade confessed.
“Well, once you do you’ll understand. The Spartans live for war. They’re the best fighters on the planet. If the Helots ever rise in revolt, the Spartans will crush them just like they crush their enemies, like they crushed the early insurrections.”
“There have been rebellions?” Blade inquired in surprise, his gaze on the mirror again, neglecting to watch the highway.
At that moment Teucer pointed at something up ahead and yelled, “Look out!”
CHAPTER THREE
Blade faced front, expecting to see another genetic deviate. Instead, stepping onto the highway from the forest to the west was a thin man wearing scruffy clothing, a lever-action rifle pressed to his right shoulder.
Approximately 40 yards separated the SEAL from the rifleman.
“Oh, no!” Erica Johnson cried.
The thin man aimed at the van’s windshield and fired.
Despite knowing the transport was bulletproof, Blade flinched when the round struck, the resounding smack and the shrill whine of the ricochet startlingly loud. He tramped on the gas and slanted toward the rifleman;
“Let’s teach this guy some manners,” he commented.
The man had levered another bullet into the chamber and was taking aim again.
“Don’t hurt him!” Erica declared. “Please!”
“Why not?” Blade demanded, and saw the man shoot. He heard a piercing screech as the slug was deflected and kept his foot down, “I know him.”
“Is he always this friendly to strangers?” Blade asked.
“Please! Slow down!”
The giant ignored her. He glanced at Rikki and said, “Get ready,” then closed on the rifleman.
“Please!” Erica pleaded.
Exercising commendable self-control, the thin man managed to get off one more shot. He stood in the highway until almost the last instant, working the lever, then leaped to the side.
Which served as Blade’s cue. He applied his right foot to the brake and held onto the wheel with all of his strength to prevent the SEAL from swerving. Out of the corner of his eye he glimpsed Rikki opening the passenger door, a small silver object in the martial artist’s hand. A moment later the man in black vaulted from the vehicle.
Blade glanced in the mirror and witnessed the brief confrontation. The rifleman never stood a chance.
In a fluid, acrobatic movement Rikki landed and rolled, sweeping erect as the thin man tried to get a bead on him. His right arm flashed downward and the glittering metal object, a seven-pointed shuriken, whizzed through the air and ripped into the rifleman’s left forearm. The man uttered an agonized expletive, dropped the rifle, and held his wounded arm next to his chest, gaping at the imbedded throwing star and blood seeping from the laceration.
The SEAL came to a halt. Blade shifted and killed the engine, then turned. “Teucer, give me the Commando.”
About to leap, out, the bowman nodded and shifted so he could reach back to the rear storage, where their provisions were piled, and grab the Commando Arms Carbine. “Here,” he said, and gave the weapon to the giant.
Blade slid out, working the cocking handle and verifying the 90-shot magazine was securely in place. Somewhat resembling the ancient Thompsons, the Commando had been modified by the Family Gunsmiths to function on full automatic. Although rather heavy as submachine guns went, in his massive arms the Commando was as light as the proverbial feather. He strolled around the SEAL.
Rikki-Tikki-Tavi was standing close to the rifleman, the katana out and pointed at the man’s chest.
The thin man was doing a marvelous imitation of a tree.
“Who are you?” Blade demanded, cradling the Commando in his right arm.
“I can answer that,” volunteered Erica to his rear, “his same is Rick Grennell. He’s a neighbor of ours.”
“A real friendly sort, I take it?”
Johnson didn’t respond.
The giant walked to within a yard of the man. He noticed blatant fear in Grennell’s eyes and his estimation of the rifleman lowered.
Teucer and the woman joined them.
“Erica!” Grennell exclaimed. “How did these bastards capture you?”
“I’m not their prisoner, Rick.”
“You’re not?”
“No. These men saved me from a mutation. They were giving me a ride to the farm.”
Grennell looked at each of the Warriors in evident perplexity. “They were?”
“Why did you shoot at us?” Blade inquired.
“I heard Erica scream and was coming after her. When your vehicle came into view, I naturally assumed you must be responsible. I figured you had harmed her.”
“What were you doing in this area?” Blade asked.
“Hunting.”
“Did you know Erica was nearby?”
“I didn’t.”
“Then how did you know she was the one who screamed?”
Grennell blinked a few times. “I, uh, I’ve known her since we were kids.
I’d know her voice anywhere.”
“Do tell,” Blade said, and nodded at the man’s arm. “We’ll bandage that for you.”
“No. it’s not necessary,” Grennell responded. “I’ll walk home and let my sister take care of it.”
“We insist,” Blade stated, and turned to Rikki. “Would you get the medicine bag from the SEAL?”
“Certainly.” The martial artist returned the katana to its scabbard and ran off.
Grennell winced and stared at his arm. “What is this thing?”
“A shuriken,” Blade said.
“Never heard of it. The damn thing flew too fast to follow. Where did the runt learn to throw like that?”
“He’s practiced for years,” Blade revealed. “And I wouldn’t call him a runt to his face if I were you.”
“Why not? Will he kick my ass?” Grennell replied caustically.
“No,” Blade said softly. “I will.”
Teucer picked up the rifle. “This is a Martin 30-30,” he commented.
“Where did you find the gun, Rick?” Erica asked. “You know as well as I do that owning a firearm is an offense punishable by death. Our Spartan masters don’t permit Helots to own guns.”
“It’s been in my family for generations. Usually we keep it hidden in the root cellar and only take it out on very special occasions.”
“And you were hunting with it?” Erica asked, her tone conveying marked doubt.
“We wanted some venison,” Grennell said.
Blade regarded the man coldly. Although he lacked proof, he suspected Grennell was completely untrustworthy. An indefinable aura of deception and menace lurked just below the man’s superficial exterior. He noticed the way Grennell’s shifty dark eyes lingered on Erica’s form, and he deduced a possible motive for the man’s behavior and presence. The thought angered him. “You say this guy is a neighbor of yours?” he asked the woman.
“Yeah. His family lives four miles southwest of us.”
“How trustworthy is he?”
“In what respect?”
“If we were to let him go, would he run to the Spartans and inform them about us?”
Erica glanced at the thin man, her brow knit. “I don’t think so.”
“You know I wouldn’t,” Grennell asserted.
“But there is a reward for any information about strangers,” Erica divulged. “Any Helot who tells the Spartans will receive an extra food ration for a year.”
“Now there’s incentive if ever I heard it,” Teucer joked.