Rikki glanced at Blade. “Which do you prefer? The whistle or the hoot owl?”
“Blow a trumpet, why don’t you?” Blade answered.
Hickok and Rikki stared at the ground.
“I want you two bozos to remind me of something after we return to the Home,” Blade said.
“What’s that?” Hickok inquired.
“To bring Geronimo and Yama the next time I make a run,” Blade said, and eased forward.
Hickok leaned toward Rikki. “Don’t take it personal. He has these cranky moods now and then.” He grinned and tailed after his giant friend.
Blade checked the wall once again, then took a deep breath and bolted from under the willow’s limbs, racing across the open stretch, anticipating a verbal challenge or the blast of gunfire at any moment. Amazingly, he reached the wall to the right of the door without incident.
Hickok ran to the left of the door and flattened his back against the wall, his Henry in his hands.
So far, so good, Blade thought. He glanced at the vegetation, pleased Rikki was completely hidden. Now for the door. Gingerly, he reached for the brass knob and twisted it.
The door wasn’t locked!
Blade frowned as the door swung inward on well-oiled hinges. His intuition was nagging at his mind, but he couldn’t pinpoint the reason.
What could be wrong? Hickok was right. The Dragons didn’t know the Warriors were at Happy Acres. Still, his intuition blared.
Hickok was waiting.
Annoyed at his indecision, Blade slid inside, keeping his back to the wall, stepping to the right away from the doorway and pausing with the Paratrooper level.
The gunfighter came through the doorway, stepping to the left and standing in front of the door.
The Warriors found themselves in a 20-foot grassy space between the wall and a waist-high hedge. Beyond the hedge flourished the gardens, with an astounding array of diverse plant life; flowers, shrubs, herbs, and other ornamental greenery grew in profusion. The floodlights illuminated the gardens as brightly as if it were daylight.
Blade was about to take a step when he heard the metallic click. He tensed, glancing at Hickok, and for a second their eyes touched.
And over a dozen men in camouflage outfits, each armed with a machine gun or an automatic rifle, rose from concealment behind the hedge, their weapons pointing at the pair of Warriors.
Blade held his fire, knowing to do otherwise would be suicide, hoping the impetuous gunman would do the same.
He didn’t.
Hickok’s Henry boomed twice, and with each shot one of the gunmen was hurled backwards to drop from view. He managed a stride toward the doorway before the inevitable transpired.
The tallest of the men behind the hedge, an M-16 already pressed to his shoulder, fired once.
Hickok grunted as he was struck, the impact wrenching him to the right and bringing him down.
Blade turned toward the gunman.
“Don’t move!” barked the tall man. “Drop your gun!”
Blade hesitated, his gaze on Hickok. The gunfighter was sprawled face down, eyes closed, with a bullet hole rimmed by blood above his right shoulder blade, next to his backpack.
“Look above you, señor!” the tall man declared.
Blade gazed up at the wall, stunned to discover ten more men in camouflage clothing, ten more barrels centered on him.
“I will not tell you again!” the tall man stated. “Drop your weapon!”
Gritting his teeth in resentment at his stupidity, and shaken by what it had done to Hickok, Blade reluctantly released the Paratrooper.
“Excelente,” the tall man said.
The men in camouflage filed through a six-food-wide gap in the hedge, the tall one in the lead. He radiated an aura of power, of strength. His black hair was curly, and a dark mustache framed his upper lip. With a measured stride he crossed the grass.
Blade took a step toward Hickok.
In one light-footed bound, the tall man reached the giant’s side and pressed the barrel of his M-16 against Blade’s temple. “Are you prepared to die, señor?”
Chapter Twelve
Blade felt his abdominal muscles tighten into a knot. Immobile, his right arm outstretched in the act of reaching for the gunman, he forced himself to project an air of indifference to the tall man’s threat. “You won’t shoot me.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“If you’d wanted me dead,” Blade said, “I’d be dead by now. You wanted both of us alive.”
Chuckling, the man with the mustache lowered the M-16. “A man of courage and insight. I like that. Yes, we were under orders to take both of you alive. Your friend was most impetuoso, yes? And most tonto.”
“Tonto?”
“Foolish.”
Twelve hardened figures now hemmed in the Warrior.
Blade stared at the obviously professional squad, then up at the ten on the wall.
The man in charge noticed the giant’s gaze. “They were on the wall the whole time, lying flat next to the wire. You couldn’t see them from the ground. The top of the wall is a yard across.”
Blade frowned. “We walked right into it,” he said in self-reproach.
The tall man nodded. “We were waiting for you most of the night.” He paused and extended his right hand. “I am called El Gato. The Cat.”
Surprised at Cat’s seemingly authentic friendliness, Blade shook. “I must examine my friend.”
“We will take care of him, señor,” Cat said. He motioned to two of his men, and the pair promptly slung their weapons over their shoulders and lifted the gunfighter by the arms. “Take him to the infirmary,” he ordered.
“You have an infirmary here?” Blade asked.
“Si,” Cat replied. “Mr. Paolucci provides for all of our needs. There are accidents from time to time, snakebites and such, and occasional sickness.
We need a doctor on the premises. The medicos in the city are too far away.”
The pair of guards lifted Hickok by the arms and draped him between them. They hurried to the north.
“And now, Señor Blade,” Cat said, “I will have your Bowies.”
Blade’s mouth slackened in astonishment.
Cat laughed. “Si. I know your name.”
“But how?” Blade blurted.
“Sefior Paolucci will explain everything to you,” Cat stated. “But first—”
He looked up at the men on the wall. “Gehret.”
A stocky man with blond hair and an Uzi snapped to attention. “Yes, sir?”
“Take eight men with you and go find the third one,” Cat directed. “The one in black. Leave Webster on the wall.”
Gehret saluted. “Yes, sir.”
El Gato gestured at the Bowies. “And now, Blade, your knives. Don’t forget the gun behind your back, the derringer, and the backpack.” He raised his left hand and his men sighted on the Warrior.
Inwardly seething, Blade nonetheless smiled placidly. El Gato was a pro; he’d detected the Browning and the derringer’s outline easily. The Warrior removed the backpack, Cat snapped his fingers, and one of the guards stepped forward to take the gear.
“Your men are well trained,” Blade remarked.
“Yes,” Cat agreed. “But they are not my men. They are the Director’s men, Mr. Paolucci’s men. I am but a captain.”
“Mr. Paolucci has his own little army,” Blade deduced.
“He needs one,” Cat said, nodding toward the break in the hedge. “After you.”
Blade walked into the gardens.
“Go straight,” Cat declared, staying on the giant’s right.
The lush collection of plants was more impressive close up. Every conceivable variety appeared to be represented.