“Your friends will be my prisoners within minutes,” General Thayer gloated. He motioned at one of the men.
“Yes, sir,” the man said, coming over, an HK-33 over his left arm.
“Carry this one to my jeep,” General Thayer instructed. “Stand guard over him while I tend to his friends.”
The man in black saluted. “Yes. sir. Right away.”
“Thank you, Sergeant Boynton.” With a curt nod, the general walked in the direction of the field.
“You, you, and you,” Sergeant Boynton said, pointing at three others.
“Carry this scumbag to the general’s jeep.”
Rikki was lifted and borne to the northwest. He heard a machine gun cut loose, and he closed his eyes and clenched his teeth, furious at himself.
Blade, Hickok, and Chastity were endangered because of his blunder. He should have perceived the trap. His lack of rest, his overtaxed vitality, was no excuse.
Sergeant Boynton, gazing at the Warrior’s face, laughed. “Don’t feel so bad, scumbag. The Hounds of Hades are invincible.”
With a supreme effort of sheer willpower, Rikki managed to speak.
“The Hounds of Hades?” he croaked.
“Nifty name, isn’t it?” Sergeant Boynton said. “The King came up with it. He wanted us to have a name that would strike fear into the hearts of our enemies. Those were his own words.” He chuckled. “The Hounds of Hades has a real ring.”
Rikki listened to the machine gun chatter, wishing the firing would stop. It did, and a few seconds later resumed.
“Where are you from?” Boynton asked.
The Warrior refused to respond.
“Suit yourself, turkey,” Sergeant Boynton stated with a shrug. “The King will get the info out of you. But you must not be from this area, or you’d know all about us. We have a heavy rep. Hell, we’ve even beaten Technic goons and Leather Knights a few times. We’re one hundred and twenty strong and growing.”
Rikki, perplexed by the sergeant’s comments, heard the machine gun abruptly cease. What had happened? Surely Blade, Hickok, and Chastity were alive? After all, the general had indicated he wanted them as prisoners. “Are you a professional mercenary?” he queried absently.
“No way, man,” Sergeant Boynton answered. “I was drifting from town to town, barely staying alive like everybody else, when I waltzed into Memphis and met the King. That was about three years ago. I was there at the beginning. Thayer—sorry—General Thayer trained us. He made us what we are today.”
“Kidnappers.”
“No, butt-head. An army.”
“An army of kidnappers,” Rikki said, relieved his vocal chords were functioning normally again.
“Are you pushing for a fat lip?” Sergeant Boynton demanded. “You’re the one who violated our territorial boundary. We’ll take you to the King and he’ll decide what to do with you. Thank your lucky stars you’re not a Technic or a Leather Knight. They’re usually executed immediately.”
Rikki knew about the Technics and the Leather Knights. The former were a society of autocratic technocrats in Chicago. The Leather Knights were a biker gang controlling St. Louis. Both had fought the Warriors. He opened his mouth to speak, but the booming of revolvers from the direction of the field arrested his attention. Hickok?
“Here we are,” Sergeant Boynton announced as they arrived at a clearing containing two parked jeeps.
The trio bearing the Warrior moved toward the nearest vehicle. One Hound held Rikki around the knees, the second around the waist, and the third supported his shoulders. They conveyed him to the rear of the topless jeep and unceremoniously dumped him in the back.
Rikki thudded against a spare tire and a gas can, landing on his back.
Sergeant Boynton leaned on the jeep. “It sounds like one of your pals is putting up a fight. Pretty stupid, if you ask me. Our half-track will make mincemeat out of him.”
“You don’t know my friend,” Rikki said.
“Get real. A handgun can’t stop a half-track,” Boynton declared, and laughed.
As if in confirmation of the noncom’s statement, from the southeast arose a ghastly shriek.
A child in anguish.
Chapter Three
With its .50-caliber machine gun blasting, the green halftrack clanked toward the two Warriors and the girl.
Hickok scooped Chastity into his arms and raced on Blade’s heels, heading for the cover of the woods at the opposite end of the field. He expected to be outdistanced easily by his friend; Blade’s stride was twice the average. Instead, the head Warrior intentionally slowed. “Keep going, pard!” Hickok shouted. “You can make it!”
“I’m not leaving you,” Blade said.
The gunman glanced over his right shoulder. For an antiquated armored vehicle with caterpillar treads on its rear wheels, the half-track was barreling toward them at a rapid clip. There was no way they could outrun the contraption. If any of them were to escape, then one had to make a sacrifice, take a risk. “Here!” he yelled, and shoved Chastity into Blade’s arms.
Taken unawares. Blade reflexively grabbed the girl. “What—!”
Hickok spun and sprinted at the half-track.
“Daddy!” Chastity wailed.
Blade halted. “Hickok!”
Ignoring them, the gunman was going all out, his arms and legs pumping.
Blade glanced at the half-track and saw the trooper or soldier in black manning the machine gun swivel the piece to cover the gunfighter. The initial bursts from the .50 had fallen short of the Warriors, and the first rounds aimed in Hickok’s direction also fell short by several yards stitching the earth and sending clumps of turf flying. Blade recognized the machine gunner had given Hickok a warning burst. Incredibly, the gunman paid it no heed.
“Daddy! No!” Chastity cried.
What the hell was Hickok doing? Blade dashed for the trees. Once Chastity was out of harm’s way, he could lend assistance to the gunfighter.
He looked over his left shoulder as he ran and watched the tableau unfold.
The machine gunner, apparently surprised by the gunman’s failure to stop, fired a hasty burst at the Warrior’s feet.
His eyes widening in horror, Blade inadvertently halted as Hickok went down. The gunman clutched at his chest and pitched onto his stomach.
“No!” Chastity screamed at the top of her lungs, the word coming out as a strangled screech.
The half-track swerved to bypass the prone Warrior, revealing eleven men in black following the vehicle with rifles and machine guns in their hands. Two of the squad jogged to Hickok and hoisted him by the arms.
The gunfighter’s head slumped on his chest.
“They killed my new daddy!” Chastity exclaimed.
Blade sped for the woods.
“Halt!” one of the men in black ordered.
Well-aimed rounds from the .50 were sent zinging over the giant’s head as additional incentive.
Blade drew up short.
“Go!” Chastity urged, kicking her legs.
“We can’t outrun a bullet,” Blade said.
The squad of men in black hastened nearer as the halftrack executed a wide U-turn, the driver positioning the vehicle between the giant and the woods, cutting off Blade’s retreat.
“My daddy,” Chastity stated sadly, sniffling.
“Don’t touch those knives,” the leader of the squad barked when he was ten feet off.
“Don’t harm the girl,” Blade said.
“Worry about your own hide, stranger,” the leader responded. “I’m Captain Ludvin of the Hounds of Hades. You are under arrest for trespassing in our territory.”