Blade glanced over his right shoulder. Gehret and eight others were descending the wall using a narrow flight of stairs 20 feet to the east of the south door.
“They will have your friend in custody within fifteen minutes,” Cat predicted.
“I wouldn’t count on it,” Blade responded.
“Mr. Paolucci hires only the best mercenaries,” Cat stated. “Your friend in black is as good as captured.”
“You don’t know my friend,” Blade said. “I hope your men are expendable.”
Cat laughed. “I like you, gringo.”
“Oh?” Blade commented skeptically. He followed a worn path to the north, inhaling the heady fragrance of the myriad of flowers.
“I am sincere, señor,” Cat insisted. “Call it professional courtesy, from one man of reputation to another.”
“I have a reputation?”
“You are playing games with me,” Cat said. “The fame of the Warriors has spread far and wide. We have even heard of you here.”
Blade’s brow creased in confusion. What else did Cat know?
Cat observed the giant’s expression and chuckled. “So many questions, eh?”
“This is an unexpected development,” Blade admitted.
“Be patient. Mr. Paolucci will answer everything. He has been looking forward to your arrival.”
Blade caught sight of buildings. A large red barn appeared to the east, and to the north loomed a four-story, sprawling, magnificent house with a portico supported by marble columns. “Where is the infirmary?” he asked.
Cat pointed to the west.
Blade gazed in that direction and discovered another structure, the barracks Barbish had told them about, a low wooden building with several doors and a green roof. Of course, the Dealer had conveniently lied about the size of the guard contingent. A large sign imprinted in red with the word INFIRMARY was attached above the northernmost door. The door was open, and the two guards responsible for conveying Hickok were standing outside, conversing.
“They will bring word as soon as your friend has been examined,” Cat said. “What is his name anyway?”
“Hickok.”
“So that was Hickok?” Cat remarked. “I did not expect him to be so rash.”
“You’ve heard of Hickok too?”
“Si.”
“How many Warriors do you know by name?”
Cat Grinned. “Mr. Paolucci has talked about four of you by name.
Hickok, an Indian named Geronimo, the hombre they call the Dispenser of Death—Yama, and yourself.” He paused. “There was an unconfirmed report concerning a small man in black, but his name was unknown.”
“Where did this report come from?”
“You must ask Mr. Paolucci.”
Blade looked over his left shoulder at the mercenaries. One was carrying his Bowies, the Browning, and the derringer, and a second was bearing the Paratrooper, the Henry, and the backpack.
“They say you are quite skilled with your knives,” Cat commented.
Blade said nothing.
“Perhaps we will have the chance to test your mettle,” Cat stated. “You and I, eh? Mano a mano. One on one.”
“You sound like you’d enjoy it.”
“Si, Blade. I would,” Cat confessed. “There is very little action at Happy Acres.” He spoke the last two words contemptuously. “A man of my expertise, my caliber, needs challenges. Without action, what use are the talents we have? When Mr. Paolucci told us you were coming, I was overjoyed. This is the first action I’ve seen in two years. No one else would have the cojones to take on the Dragons. You have my respect, amigo.”
Blade stared into Cat’s dark eyes, only four inches lower than his own.
He perceived that the mercenary was sincere.
“Yes,” Cat went on. “I will be glad when my contract is up. Another six months and I can return to Colombia.”
“You’re from South America?”
“Si. Why do you sound so surprised?”
“I suppose I expected you to be from Miami.”
Cat snorted. “That sewer? Give me the green hills of Colombia any day!”
“How did South America fare during the war?”
“There were not any nuclear strikes on South American soil,” Cat replied. “But most of the governments fell apart. The winds brought a lot of radiation, and there was much sickness and death.”
“And now?”
“Colombia is ruled by the Cartel,” Cat disclosed. His eyes narrowed as he gazed ahead.
Blade faced the house.
A man was awaiting them on the bottom step of the portico, a stately individual attired in an immaculate white suit and matching shoes. His hair was black, tinged with gray at the ears. Frank blue eyes watched the Warrior approach. The man’s face was leonine in aspect. Here was a man accustomed to giving orders and being obeyed. Here was a man of power.
Cat stepped in front of the Warrior and saluted. “Here he is, Mr. Paolucci. Just as you wanted.”
Paolucci raked Blade from head to toe with a critical gaze. “I heard shooting.”
“Hickok tried to resist. He’s in the infirmary,” Cat detailed.
“And the third one?”
“Sergeant Gehret is out after him as we speak,” Cat said.
Paolucci smiled at El Gato. “Well done.” He walked up to the Warrior and offered his right hand. “I am delighted to make your acquaintance, Blade. My name is Arlo Paolucci.”
Blade shook the Director’s hand. “I know.”
“Ahhh. Yes. Tom Barbish. Where is Mr. Barbish? I expected him to arrive with you.”
Blade slashed his right forefinger across his throat.
“Really? You?”
“No,” Blade said. “I can’t claim the credit. A mutant made a snack out of your Dealer friend.”
“Barbish was a business associate,” Paolucci said. “Not a close friend.
His betrayal necessitated his termination, and I’m happy the mutant has saved me the trouble.” He moved to the east, nodding at a white table ringed by four white chairs. “Why don’t we take a seat and continue our discussion in a civilized vein?”
El Gato nodded at the men toting the weapons, and the duo hurried to the table and deposited their loads. At a jerk of Cat’s right arm, the mercenaries fanned out around the table.
“Simply a precaution, you understand,” Paolucci said to the Warrior.
Blade nodded. He took a chair on the south side of the table.
The Director stepped to the chair on the opposite side. As he sat down, a petite, dark-haired woman in a white blouse, white skirt, and a white apron hastened to him.
“Refreshments, señor?”
“Yes, Maria,” Paolucci said. He looked at Blade. “What would you like? We have tea, coffee, milk, fruit juice, water, or any liquor you can name.”
“Do you have raspberry juice?” Blade asked.
Paolucci looked at Maria, who shook her head. The Director’s mouth curled downward. “I apologize for the oversight.”
“No big deal,” Blade said. “Raspberry juice is my favorite, but I can live with grape juice, if you have any.”
“We do, señor,” Maria assured him.
Paolucci waved his right hand, and Maria took off for the house at a run.
“Are you always up at this time of the night?” Blade inquired.
The Director smiled. “My business activities demand unusual hours.
But no, I would have been asleep tonight, if it wasn’t for your arrival. I wanted to be up, to greet you in person, to bid you welcome.”
“How kind of you,” Blade said sarcastically.
“There’s no need to be nasty,” Paolucci stated. “Crudity from a man of your stature insults both of us.”