“We have company,” Rikki informed them.
Approaching from the southeast were more flashlights.
“Storm Police,” Locklin said.
“We stand and fight,” Hickok stated. “We don’t want them doggin’ us every step of the way.”
Locklin headed toward a row of trees nearby. “Take cover!” he commanded. “Don’t loose a shaft until I do.”
Hickok and Rikki ran for cover behind a large maple tree. The gunman leaned on the trunk and watched the shining beams, estimating the troopers were within 50 yards. “I’m gettin’ real tired of these cow chips.”
“They know they have the rebels cornered in the city,” Rikki observed, “and they will stop at nothing to eliminate the Freedom Fighters.”
“Not if I can help it,” Hickok vowed.
“What will we do if Blade is not in the Civil Directorate?” Rikki asked.
“We’ll grab one of the Peers and throttle Blade’s whereabouts out of him. Or her, if they have such female polecats.”
“You never have been one for subtlety.”
“Beatin’ around the bush is for the birds,” Hickok said. “Roll with the flow, I always say.”
“Can you translate that?”
“When I was eight, I learned one of the most important lessons of my life,” Hickok explained. “There was this bully by the name of Greer—”
“I remember him,” Rikki said, interrupting. “He was always picking fights with the younger children in our Family.”
“And he picked one with me,” Hickok detailed. “I got in a few licks, but he walloped me good. My mom couldn’t help but notice my swollen cheek and black eyes, so I had to tell her everything. She told me to go to Greer and offer my hand in friendship. She said that Greer would respond if I was sincere. ‘Blessed are the peacemakers’ was the creed she lived by.”
“What happened?” Rikki whispered.
“I walked up to Greer, smilin’ and sincere, and informed him I wanted to be his good buddy.”
“What did Greer do?”
“What else? He busted me in the chops.” Hickok paused. “I tore into him, and the second time around I came out on top. Greer left me alone after that. I…” He stopped, gazing at the troopers.
The Storm Police were filing under an overhead park light. There were two dozen plus an officer, and all of them were armed with automatic weapons. Ten troopers in front were probing the vegetation with flashlights. Although 20-foot-high overhead lampposts were situated along the walkways, darkness enveloped most of Piedmont Park.
Hickok crouched and stared at the nearby trees. He had to hand it to the Freedom Fighters; he knew they were hiding there, but he couldn’t see hide nor hair of one of them. At that moment, to his amazement. Big John walked brazenly into the open and hailed the troopers.
“Hey, you murdering slime! Here’s what I think of you!” bellowed the big man, who then flipped them the finger, turned, and ran off.
Predictably, the Storm Police captain yelled, “Get him!” and the troopers raced in pursuit.
Hickok grinned at the success of the ruse. He saw the Storm Police pounding across the grass. The fleetest troopers were almost to the row of trees when the rebels stepped from cover and released their arrows.
Thirteen shafts sped true to their mark, and with their first volley the Freedom Fighters downed half of the police.
The remainder recovered quickly.
A precious second was wasted as the rebels pulled arrows from their quivers and notched the shafts to their bows, and six of the Freedom Fighters were stitched by trooper fire before they could pull their bow strings.
“Let’s join the fun,” Hickok said, and leaped from behind the tree. He perforated the nearest policeman with a burst from the Uzi. Pivoting, he shot another.
The rebels and the troopers were now intermixed and fighting hand to hand. Some of the Freedom Fighters were using knives, while bayonets were being wielded skillfully by many of the Storm Police. At such close range the troopers could not bring their automatic rifles into play, and the brutal battle was waged in terms of survival of the deadliest.
A tall trooper suddenly appeared out of the melee and charged the gunman.
Hickok glimpsed the policeman out of the corner of his eye and tried to turn, but a smashing blow from the trooper’s rifle stock on his chin knocked him to the ground, dazed. The Uzi fell from his fingers, and he looked up to see the Storm Policeman drawing a bayonet. He shook his head and tried to rise.
“I’m going to gut you like a fish,” the trooper gloated, stabbing the bayonet at the Warrior’s midsection.
But the bayonet never connected.
A gleaming streak of steel intercepted the trooper’s bayonet arm, slicing through the Storm Policeman’s wrist as easily as a hot knife through butter. The trooper’s eyes bulged and he straightened, screaming, as the steel blade arced into his neck, partially severing his throat. Blood spurted everywhere, and the trooper toppled backwards.
Hickok’s senses returned in a rush, and there was Rikki-Tikki-Tavi standing over him.
“Will you quit goofing off?” the martial artist quipped, his crimson-covered katana in his right hand. Before the gunman could respond, he whirled and waded into the conflict. A stroke of the katana ruptured a trooper’s abdomen, and a second swipe hacked off a policeman’s left arm.
Hickok shoved to his feet, and as he rose he heard a loud whomp-whomp-whomp from above. Puzzled, he craned his neck skyward, surprise registering on his features.
A large green helicopter was hovering over the swirling combatants, training a spotlight on the grim fight. On one side was an open sliding door, and perched in the doorway was a marksman in a Storm Police uniform, a rifle with an infrared scope pressed to his right shoulder.
Hickok saw the marksman fire, and one of the rebels fell as a high-caliber slug penetrated his skull.
The marksman sighted on another target, the helicopter poised 50 feet above the grass.
Embroiled in their savage contest, the Freedom Fighters were unaware of this new threat. Three more of the rebels were lying on the turf, their lifeblood seeping into the soil.
Hickok took two strides to the left to give himself a better shot and drew his right Python, his thumb cocking the hammer even as the Colt came clear of its holster. The Magnum boomed once, and the marksman reacted as if he had been slammed in the head by a sledgehammer.
Stiffening, the rifle dropping from his limp arms, the trooper pitched from the chopper.
With a whirring of its rotor, the helicopter banked and flew to the south.
What next? Hickok wondered, facing the fray. He saw Rikki slice open a trooper’s chest, the martial artist moving with superb precision and control. And as he scanned the battlefield, he spied a quartet of silvery forms coming from the west. The four were 30 yards distant and nearing the row of trees.
Why were they all silver?
Hickok suddenly recollected the Bubbleheads, and he dashed to a tree and pressed his back to the bole. He bolstered the right Python, counted to ten, and on ten strolled into view, his thumbs hooked in his gunbelt.
Twenty yards off the Bubbleheads stopped, leveling their flamethrower nozzles.
“Howdy, gents,” Hickok said, his hands seemingly invisible as both Pythons swept up and out. Each gun cracked twice, and with each retort a silvery figure was thrown backwards by the impact of a .357 slug striking his forehead. “Piece of cake,” the gunflghter commented, and turned.
The combat had ended.
Bodies sprawled in attitudes of violent death littered the landscape.
Groans and feeble cries filled the air. Puddles of blood splotched the grass.
Only four of the rebels still stood. Locklin was gazing at his fallen companions somberly. Big John, a jagged wound in his left shoulder, was wiping his knife on his left pants leg. The two other rebels were exhausted but uninjured.