Wobbly, his hands limp at his sides, the Fryer nozzle dangling by its hose from the tanks, the Terminator was on his last legs.
Blade didn’t care. He slugged the man twice, a right and a left, and the Terminator, out on his feet, toppled over, falling forward instead of backwards. Blade caught the man in his arms, and he was about to toss the assassin aside when a cold voice dictated otherwise.
“Don’t move, asshole!” barked someone to his rear.
Blade froze, supporting the Terminator by the armpits.
“I want to see the look on your puss when I squeeze the trigger,” the person declared. “So when I tell you to turn around, do it very, very carefully. If you understand, nod.”
The Warrior nodded.
“Good. Now turn around, real slow.”
Holding onto the Terminator, Blade pivoted.
“You should have finished me off.”
“I know,” Blade said. “There wasn’t time. I was getting to you next.”
The Terminator with the broken left arm was six feet away, his broken limb bent at an unnatural angle, his hand hanging useless next to his waist. In his right hand was his Fryer nozzle, his finger on the trigger. “I’ll enjoy watching you burn, you son of a bitch.”
“What about your friend here?” Blade asked, hefting the unconscious form.
“Put Johnston down,” the Terminator directed.
Blade deposited the silver figure on the floor.
“Now step back,” the first Terminator ordered.
His mind racing, Blade took a stride backwards. Unless he thought fast, he would be burnt to a crisp. There was no way he could pull his Bowies before the Terminator fired. He needed a diversion. But what? Glisson was dead and couldn’t be of any help.
Or could he?
Blade recalled the conversation he’d overheard between the two executioners. They mentioned having heard screams, but they didn’t know who was doing the screaming. They didn’t know Glisson was dead.
He had a chance, then, to outwit the one in front of him, but to do so meant relying upon the oldest trick in the book.
“Are you ready to die, you suck-egg bastard?” the Terminator taunted him.
“Not yet,” Blade responded, glancing quickly over the Terminator’s left shoulder and widening his eyes, pretending to have seen someone. He immediately adopted a placid expression, as if he was hiding the fact.
The Terminator took the bait and glanced over his left shoulder, and out of the corner of his right eye he detected the giant coming at him. He started to face his enemy, cutting loose with the Fryer before his turn was completed, intending to consume the meddler with flames. He nearly succeeded.
Blade knew he couldn’t reach the Terminator before the man fired, and he also was aware he couldn’t clamber over the walls in time. Employing the Bowies was a dubious proposition; the Terminator might manage to squeeze off a burst of flame. His best bet was to interpose something—anything—between the Terminator and himself. And there was only one object available.
The unconscious Terminator.
Moving rapidly for a man of his size, Blade stooped, seized the insensate Terminator by the shoulders, and lifted, his muscles rippling. He was shoving his makeshift shield at the first Terminator when the Fryer nozzle spat red and orange, the flames striking the tanks on the back of the second Terminator. The result, to the Warrior, at least, was unexpected.
There was a tremendous explosion.
Blade felt a jarring concussion as he was lifted and catapulted backwards, tumbling end over end, his hands and arms tingling, his face blistered. Disoriented, he crashed to the floor and slid over 20 feet, thumping to a bone-rattling stop against a wall at the next junction. He wound up on his left side, stunned, staring at the vestige of a glowing fireball dissipating in the passage.
Dear Spirit!
He rose to his knees slowly, his ears ringing, realizing the tanks on the second Terminator must have exploded and the man’s body had screened his own.
But what about the first Terminator?
Blade stood and walked slowly along the seared hall, amazed to discover a small crater in the middle of the floor. Smoky tendrils wafted toward the ceiling. And beyond the crater was an indeterminate mass of charred…
something.
“What the hell was that?” called a deep voice.
“Did you see that blast?”
“Fan out! Find him!”
Blade climbed quickly onto the left-hand wall. He raised his head cautiously and surveyed the chamber.
Dozens of Storm Police were pouring through the door on the right side of the maze chamber, spreading into the maze, seeking him. But there was no indication of activity at the door on the left.
Perfect.
Still feeling slightly unsteady, Blade rose to a crouch and headed for the left wall. His sole purpose now was to escape from Atlanta and rejoin Hickok and Rikki. Glisson was gone. And there wasn’t any reason to locate Llewellyn Snow. If she had betrayed her sister-in-law, she would hardly welcome Leslie Snow’s child into her home. Besides, the Peers wanted Chastity exterminated. The Warriors would watch over the girl for the time being, until a suitable home could be found. He focused on the door in the center of the left wall, his teeth gritting in resolve.
No more pussyfooting around.
If anyone stood in his way, he’d slay them on the spot.
He crossed the maze without being spotted by the Storm Police and jumped to the floor near the door. In three bounds he was through the doorway and in a brightly lit stairwell. He peered upward, elated to discover the stairwell was empty. Grinning in anticipation of regaining his freedom, he ascended the stairs, taking four at a stride. A landing appeared with a door marked SUBLEVEL 5. He kept going. The next landing was SUBLEVEL 4. With renewed vigor, he passed landing after landing until he found the one he wanted.
GROUND LEVEL.
Blade tried the doorknob and it twisted in his grasp. With a smile creasing his features, he stepped boldly outside, into the night.
Only to find two figures rushing at him.
Chapter Twenty
“We won’t go down without a fight,” Locklin said, notching an arrow on his bow string.
“Do you ever use guns?” Hickok asked.
Locklin did a double take. “What difference does it make at a time like this?”
Hickok glanced at the two groups of approaching Storm Police.
“Answer me. Do you ever use guns?”
“Once in every blue moon,” Locklin answered. “Why?”
The gunman looked at Rikki. “Do you get my drift, pard?”
Rikki-Tikki-Tavi nodded.
“Are you with me?” Hickok queried.
“Need you ask?”
“Will one of you tell me what’s going on?” Locklin demanded.
“The Storm Police expect rebels to use bows,” Hickok said. “We might rattle them a mite with our irons.”
“All you have are a pair of Uzis and two revolvers,” Locklin noted.
Hickok nodded at the troopers in front of them, now about 50 yards distant. “They don’t know how many guns we have.” He paused. “I never should’ve left the M-16 with your man Scarlet.”
“You wanted him to be able to protect Chastity properly,” Rikki reminded the gunfighter.
“Cryin’ over spilt milk never helped anyone,” Hickok stated. “Are you ready?”
“Ready,” Rikki confirmed.
“What’s your plan?” Locklin inquired.
“Simple. We’ll charge the varmints.”
Locklin couldn’t seem to believe his ears. “We’re going to charge them?”
“Yep.”
“There are sixteen of us and dozens of them,” Locklin pointed out.